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- KurzbeschreibungWhen Emma Sasha Silver loses her eyesight in a nightmare accident, she must relearn everything from walking across the street to recognizing her own sisters to imagining colors. One of seven children, Emma used to be the invisible kid, but now it seems everyone is watching her. And just as she's about to start high school and try to recover her friendships and former life, one of her classmates is found dead in an apparent suicide. Fifteen and blind, Emma has to untangle what happened and why-in order to see for herself what makes life worth living.
Unflinching in its portrayal of Emma's darkest days, yet full of hope and humor, Rachel DeWoskin's brilliant Blind is one of those rare books that utterly absorbs the reader into the life and experience of another.
- AutorRachel DeWoskin
- VerlagPenguin LCC US
- Seiten416 Seiten
- Gewicht421 g
- LeseprobeThis excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof
Copyright © 2014 by Rachel DeWoskin
Bring me the flower that leads us out
where blond transparencies rise
and life evaporates as essence.
Bring me the sunflower crazed with light.
Eugenio Montale, 1948
Translation, W. Arrowsmith, 1994
Going blind is a little bit like growing up.
Maybe because the older you get, the more you have to close your eyes partway. From the time I was tiny, if I thought the words, When I die, I'll be dead forever, I could actually under- stand, in my bone marrow, what forever meant. It was like falling into something textureless, silent, unscented, absolutely blank. And never stopping the fall. I grasped that terror early, and had just started forgetting it when my accident happened. Now I remember again. So I might not be "sighted" anymore, but maybe I'm not that much blinder than anyone else, just a different kind of blind.
If you're me, then you see that we're all only a half- second disaster, mistake, or choice away from being changed forever. Or finished. If you're not me-like my sisters and brother and parents-then maybe you don't see that. At least not in the same way. Maybe you don't think about for- ever in the dark. Or what it means to feel colors, to relearn
Sarah, Leah, Naomi, Jenna, Benj, and Baby Lily by the shapes of their voices and the textures of their breathing. I know my sisters and brother by the baby powder, cheerio, and blue toddler toothpaste feeling of the little ones; the pickle, bubble bath, tousled pillow hair of my middle sisters; and the lemon and licorice of the two oldest. Maybe you don't think about what it means to see or not see; you squeeze those thoughts shut, be- cause who can stand to stare straight at what's happening? No one. We have to learn to look away so we can say-the way my parents still try to tell the seven of us-you'll be okay; everything will be fine. In other words, we lie. I don't do that anymore.
I don't say much at all, because I have to keep track of what's going on around me. And I was quiet anyway, even when I was still sighted. I learned that word from my doctors; I'd never heard of sighted until I wasn't it anymore, never considered blind until it locked onto me like a parasite. I hadn't noticed what an odd and colorless word it is, how it can suck the meaning out of whatever it attaches to: Blind love? Blind rage? Blind faith? Why are those the unthinking kinds? And who's more lost or hopeless than the blind leading the blind? The most amazing love happens at first what? Right, sight. Seriously?
This July was the one-year anniversary of my accident, and I was shocked to find it hot again
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