David R. Williamsի "Twilight in the Spaces Between" վեպը կարդացի պատահաբար, բայց արդյունքում հասկացա, որ այն գուցե առավել կարևոր բան կարող է ասել ժամանակակից մարդուն Մարդու, նրա պրոբլեմի մասին, քան դասական գրականության շատ նմուշներ: Այստեղ մարդկային միայնակ, լքված կեցությունն է` իր գոյաբանական ապրումների ու տվայտանքների մեջ, մարդկային էքզիստենցիալ կեցությունը` իր դրամատիզմով, իր անսահման մարդկայնությամբ, իր անսահման միայնակությամբ, մեկուսացվածությամբ: ԱՄՆ-ի ամենախիստ ու ամենադաժան բանտերից մեկի կալանավորների նամակների ձևով գրված այս վեպը իմ կարդացած ամենահավաստի ու ամենաճշմարտացի գործերից է` մարդու, իրական մարդու, հակասական մարդու, բարդ ու պարզ մարդու, ցածր ու բարձր մարդու մասին:
Էպիստոլյար ժանրով գրված այս վեպը այնքան ճշմարտացի է ու դաժանորեն իրական, որ բանտային պայմանները վեր են ածվում գեղարվեստական պայմանականության, այս բանտը մարդկային կյանքն է, աշխարհը և նրանում` մարդիկ: Իսկապես, չկա ավելի ցածր բան, քան մարդը, ու չկա ավելի բարձր բան, քան մարդը: Այս ցածրի ու բարձրի մասին է այս վեպը, այս ցածրի ու բարձրի կակաֆոնիայով է շնչում նրա յուրաքանչյուր տողը, որը, ի վերջո, դառնում է սիմֆոնիա, մարդկային, ամբողջական մարդկայինի սիմֆոնիա... Ecce Homo. Տեսեք մարդուն:
David R. Williams
Twilight in the Spaces Between
Հատվածներ
Entry. Andrea Ramsey’s Dreambook (Undated)
“There are no futures. There are only streams of endless possibilities that collapse into one present as we rush head long into them. But even the present is an illusion, slipping from our grasp as we reach for it, becoming the past. It is only the past that truly exists. The past that scars our minds with memory. With reverberations that dictate our lives. With traces that haunt our eyes till death”.
North Dakota, Winter, Now
Dear Mother
This is the last time I shall write you. You know the reasons why and so there is no need for me to repeat them here. I never was much for writing anyway. I will not call, as you know I abhor that obnoxious symbol of modernity they call the telephone. I will not email, as you have no computer. I am not really writing this. They do not let me have pencils…
“Super Max”, the U.S. Maximum Facility at Bottineau, North Dakota, is considered to be the most
secure prison in the world. It is the “end of the line” for America’s most heinous criminals; criminals whose deeds are the fuel that drives lurid, true crime paperbacks and tabloid cover stories, crimes that open nightly news programs, images that will infect the minds of the morbid for decades to come.
…it is quiet and cool in my cell. I lie on my cot and close my eyes and I dream that I am with you, that I am holding you. That I am kissing your sweet, sweet face. Kissing away your tears. Kissing away your sorrow. Kissing away your fears. Protecting you as I have always done and always will. I miss Papa. Has he wandered far this time? He will come back. He always does. I miss the stern Niobe. I miss the twins. But most of all, I miss the little one, our darkling sparrow. So frail, so bone thin, so lost in her own shadows. Especially now that I am not there. And of course I miss the woman I would make my wife…
Super Max is a one hundred and sixty million dollar, state-of-the-art, high-tech fortress of steel,
concrete, and barbed wire. Those who come here, come for life. Even death does not bring freedom. The prison has its own cemetery and that is where its dead are buried. A measure that prevents thrill-seekers from turning their graves into shrines, and souvenir hunters from digging up the remains. For there are those who consider the inmates of Super Max, to be gods. Or the
flesh and blood incarnations of Satan himself.
…Time is very different here mother. In Twilight the winters are mild and calm. Here, the wind howls so loudly I can hear it through the thick walls. It sounds like a chorus of the damned, pleading for salvation. Here, it is neither day nor night. Here, a single light shines down from a caged recess high above me. The level of the light never changes. It never goes out.
There is no clock. There is no calendar. I measure time in weekly sessions. Outside my door I can hear the sound of guards walking. Most often alone, but sometimes in pairs. When they walk in pairs, I know that when they return, they will have become a trio. Usually they are accompanied only by silence. But sometimes, depending on who they are escorting, there is idle chatter or strange babbling, like a preacher speaking in tongues. At times there is cursing. Rarely, but it does happen, there is scuffling and screaming. When the two pairs stop outside my door I listen to the
locks being released and mark off another week. Another week away from you and those I love and must protect.
At Super Max, inmates are confined to their cells for a minimum of 22 hours of every day. They are allowed one half hour personal time to shower and shave with a cream hair remover, half an hour to exercise or take a book from the library, one hour to dictate letters to loved ones. They are not allowed to write, they are not allowed to have pens, pencils or even crayons - a Crayola through the eardrum is as lethal as a screwdriver, and really, all in all, more satisfying.
You asked, again, if you could visit. Mother, your health would not withstand the trip. It is too far and too dismal. I could not tolerate seeing you, without being able to touch you. I could not tolerate you seeing me in restraints. I could not tolerate having you watch them lead me away, as they did that day in the courtroom. Nobody comes here to visit, Mother. No one save the lawyers and the psychologists ever make the journey. You would sink into misery the moment your
kind eyes beheld what they have done to the earth around the prison. I only saw it once, when they brought me in, but it is still clearly etched in my mind. They take you down a long dirt road that rambles through mile after mile of desolate flat lands. Not a single tree stands. There is no grass. There are no shrubs. There is only dead earth, sprayed every month with a deforestation chemical first used in Vietnam and perfected since…
Driving toward Super Max, even before the prisonitself is visible, one can see the 25-foot fences
crowned with twisted loops of razor wire that move in a slow spiral, encasing the prison in a framework nautilus shell. They see five guard towers and the guards with their high-powered rifles, outfitted with night vision scopes. They see the walls of Super Max reinforced with seven layers of steel and cement. To enter, one must pass through a series of detectors. Hands are stamped with a secret code in ultraviolet dye. Retinas are scanned. No one goes anywhere without
an armed guard at their side. Not even the lawyers are left alone with their clients. They are assigned guards whom congress has granted authority to be present throughout, ordered to hear nothing and remember less.
…Mother, how much more can I tell you about her? I know that you will love her when you meet her. I have tried to describe her to you before, but words fail beyond what I have already written. She reminds me so much of you. She is tall and slender and beautiful. Her eyes are kind and her skin is soft. But underneath there is a core of steel that would break, long before it would
bend. You will understand when you meet her. And again, when you do, you will love her as I love her…
There are 142 cells in Super Max. Each cell measures six feet wide by eight feet long by twelve
feet high. Furnishings are stark. There is a cot. There is no sink or toilet. If the inmate of a cell wishes to urinate or defecate, he must call a guard and wait. If said inmate decides not to wait, he can use the drain in the center of the floor. The cell will not be cleaned for 24 hours.
Every cell in Super Max is occupied.
Clive Euxideos existed in cell 47. It was his world and had been for nearly five years. The walls
bore the markings of previous inmates, but not of him. Clive did not make his mark on walls. Clive made his mark on flesh. He has been, it could be said, a model prisoner. He takes his daily shower and shave. He uses his exercise time. He eats his meals peacefully and returns the plastic trays without incident. He makes the weekly walk to and from his session without trouble. He only speaks when spoken to, and as he is seldom spoken to outside of session, he seldom speaks.
Clive believes that it is good, not to have to speak. It is good to be locked up for 22 hours of every day. The solitude gives him time to think.
And think he does.
He thinks about the world outside the walls. He thinks of his family. He thinks about the worthless
flotsam of society that walks the land and how they should not. Clive sees himself as an avenging angel, scouring the dark lands without, granting life to those who deserve it, taking life from those who do not. To date, Clive has taken life from many who did not deserve that precious gift. They had been doctors and lawyers, trailer park trash and street corner scum. In no case had he stalked them. There was no need. They found him. They found him in bars and night clubs. They found him through television news broadcasts and newspaper headlines. They found him in movie theatres and concert halls. He’d rid the world of a lawyer who’d secured the release of a child molester, a doctor who’d gotten away with a hit and run that killed a young boy, a crackdealing
pimp who’d used a pipe to cave in the right side of one his whore’s faces and the woman refused to testify against him. He’d also taken out a man whose pasley tie clashed with his chocolate brown suit and a woman whose constant cell phone yammering through a screening of “The Bicycle Thief” marked her as a philistine of the most loutish order.
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