Look at Me by Anita Brookner Read Free Book Online Page A

lead one to suppose that this phenomenon exists. And I have always been susceptible to such appearances. Once I followed a girl in the street simply because she looked so lucky that I could not tear myself away from her. Apart from her youth and her beauty, she had the sort of assurance that promised well for her, as if her expectations were so high, so naturally high, that she had set a standard for herself that others would be encouraged to reach. She seemed to await the best of everything, and I remember staring at her as if she had descended from another planet. Being an observer in these matters does not always help one. Sometimes the scenes and people one observes impart their own message of exclusion. And yet the fascination of the rare perfect example persists, and it demands that one lay down one’s pen and stalk it, study it, dissect it, learn it, love it. That was how I felt when I first saw Alix with Nick. I knew that I could never learn enough about them, but also that I might never understand what I learned. Therefore I watched them with particular care.
    After that first impression of royal expectation, of perfect balance of forces, of mutual satisfaction, came a second impression, equally strong, and, to me, much more persuasive. At some level of my consciousness I recognized that they were impervious, that one could not damage them, that they would not founder through shock or deteriorate through neglect. They could not be hurt, except possibly by each other, and they were so clearly in accord that there was no division between them and thus no likelihood of a wound being inflicted. They were allies, partners, accomplices, moving at the same speed, liking and disliking the same things, possessing the same reserves. One could, if one wanted to,treat them roughly (though this was inconceivable); one would, in turn, want to be treated gently, for their greater strength was never in any doubt. The only danger to be feared from them was that they might find one insufficiently amusing, that they might be bored, that they might pass one over. It occurred to me that children might feel this way about superior parents, although I had never had such feelings about my own who were modest gentle people, greatly concerned for each other’s tranquillity. With my sharp tongue I had had to be very careful not to hurt them, and they, of course, had never hurt me. But I had never had to try hard to please or divert or entertain them, either, and I think I longed to use my sharp tongue and to be restless and critical and amusing, even if it was at other people’s expense. To me in those days it seemed like freedom not to have to care for anybody’s feelings if I didn’t want to. I hated every reminder that the world was old and shaky, that human beings were vulnerable, that everyone was, more or less, dying. I had lived with all this for far too long.
    I needed to know that not everyone carries a wound and that this wound bleeds intermittently throughout life. I needed to be taught that life can put on a good turn of speed and bowl one along with it. I needed to learn, from experts, that pure egotism that had always escaped me, for the little I had managed to build up, and which had so far only gone into my writing, was quickly vanquished by the sight of that tremulousness, that lost look in the eye, that
disappointment
that seemed to haunt me, to get in my way, even to obtrude on my consciousness, when I was busy building up my resources of selfishness. I had only to see the dry, dyed hairs thickening in Mrs Halloran’s comb as she prepared herself for her evening visit to the Feathers, or Dr Simek buttoning his old-fashioned gloves at the wrist, or to remember Nancy’s stern but trusting blue eyes looking upat me, for the whole edifice to crumble. And this process would go on, despite my injunction to myself to ignore it. It would erupt in the form of images, which is appropriate, I suppose, since I deal with them all