Why don’t they ever say things like ‘You’re a good person. You’re a great, smart, wonderful guy, your life matters, and you deserve to be happy’? I mean, instead of saying, ‘You’re no good, your life is worthless, everyone hates you, you should hurt yourself, you deserve to be hurt, you deserve to die.’
“Even worse,” the woman went on, “why do the voices always say things like ‘Go shove some innocent stranger in front of an oncoming train’? Instead of, like, ‘How about helping that little old lady with her bags?’ ”
He wanted to laugh, but the woman was being earnest. She was young—early thirties, he guessed—with an unremarkable face except for her eyes, so dark you could barely distinguish iris from pupil. She stared at him from under thick bangs, the only part of her black hair that had been streaked blond. Kiss Me Deadly red lipstick, and a long-sleeved forest-green dress of some suède-like fabric that looked vintage. His gaze kept being drawn to her gleaming manicure, each copper-colored nail like a Japanese beetle.
He could have told her that what she was saying wasn’t true. The voices didn’t always bully or suggest evil acts. Sometimes their words were impersonal, and might even be kind. Sometimes they didn’t speak at all but only breathed heavily—which could, he supposed, be as sinister as threats or curses. Some hummed, or chanted, or sang. “I hear lullabies,” one patient had told him.
If he’d wanted to get into a conversation with Lady Greensleeves, he might have said all this. He might have added the obvious: non-negative voices were not necessarily a positive thing. The problem with the lullabies was that they drove a woman of fifty to rock back and forth and suck her thumb. And, of course, there was a certain kind of person, one of the worst kinds of person, who seemed to live with a voice continually telling them how great they were, and who felt victimized because their perfection was not universally acknowledged.
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة September 09, 2024 من The New Yorker.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
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هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة September 09, 2024 من The New Yorker.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك? تسجيل الدخول
ART OF STONE
\"The Brutalist.\"
MOMMA MIA
Audra McDonald triumphs in \"Gypsy\" on Broadway.
INTERNATIONAL AFFAIRS
\"Black Doves,\" on Netflix.
NATURE STUDIES
Kyle Abraham's “Dear Lord, Make Me Beautiful.”
WHAT GOOD IS MORALITY?
Ask not just where it came from but what it does for us
THE SPOTIFY SYNDROME
What is the world's largest music-streaming platform really costing us?
THE LEPER - LEE CHANGDONG
. . . to survive, to hang on, waiting for the new world to dawn, what can you do but become a leper nobody in the world would deign to touch? - From \"Windy Evening,\" by Kim Seong-dong.
YOU WON'T GET FREE OF IT
Alice Munro's partner sexually abused her daughter. The harm ran through the work and the family.
TALK SENSE
How much sway does our language have over our thinking?
TO THE DETECTIVE INVESTIGATING MY MURDER
Dear Detective, I'm not dead, but a lot of people can't stand me. What I mean is that breathing is not an activity they want me to keep doing. What I mean is, they want to knock me off. My days are numbered.