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448 pages, Hardcover
First published October 4, 2018
We were ushered into a crowded bedroom. The crowd parted, revealing a man upon the bed, naked save for an old dressing gown, a sort of white turban wrapped around his head. The face was moon-shaped and very pitted, the large eyelids were not quite closed, the wide mouth was open, the tongue sticking out a little of a corner, the skin was diseased, sores, scabs, broken wheals. There was a great hole in the chest, a deep, dark mouth; you could see right down its throat. The man had begun to congeal; the liquids inside had steadied and started their darkening.
“There is a melancholy to wax heads: they were never born, they capture life, but life shrugs away from them. In the quietest moments, I whispered to these half-personalities: 'I'll sit with you,' I said. 'Are you frightened of the dark? Don't be.'”Little may interest fans of re-imagined history/fictional biographies and/or readers who have a fondness for the well-known wax museum. Personally, I struggled with remaining consistently invested in these characters as they never quite came to life for me. Like Marie, I was longing for the chance to engage with a shell that would not fully animate. However, I seem to be in the minority so maybe it was just me. If this sounds like a storyline you would enjoy, then consider checking it out for yourself!
None of us had a large understanding of the tides of man; each knew only his little portion. For some it was hair, for others teeth; one concentrated on eyes, another on paint; one mixed the wax, another prepared the plaster. No one could see beyond his own individual station. Only together did we make the anatomy of a city in change; only together did we render things legible to all. (336)I was wondering what kept author Edward Carey dedicated for the fifteen years it took to birth this remarkable and compulsively readable historical novel about the child who lost her mother during the eighteenth century, which loss set her on a bizarre trajectory to train to make wax models of human anatomy, become a servant to the young sister of the King of France, and ultimately, to become Madame Tussaud of wax museum fame. But the above paragraph toward the end of the book answered my question.
- Kad ir tave.
- Mane?
- Nesi bet kas.
- Na... rodos, ne.
- Nežinau, - pasakiau, - kaip atrodai po drabužiais. Šio stalčiaus dar neištraukiau. Nusivilk marškinius, noriu tave nupiešti.
- Tau negalima!
- Ak, liaukis, nesimuistyk. Mačiau daugybę kūnų. Berne. Mačiau, kaip atrodo kūnų vidus. Edmonai, sutik, leisk man į tave pažvelgti.
- Ką darai?
- Rengiu tave.
- O ne!
- Nuvilksiu tau marškinius.
- Oi! Maldauju!
- Apie kūnus žinau viską. Daktaras Kurcijus mane išmokė.
- Varge!
- Taip! Žiūrėk, atsegu tau sagas!
- Matau. Jaučiu.
- Išmoksiu tave, Edmonai Piko. Kiekvieną tavo kūno dalį.
- Mama! Bet kada gali įeiti mama.
- Ji išėjo.
- Gali grįžti.
- Dar turime laiko, pats žinai.
- Man šalta.
- Tai pasislink arčiau ugnies.
- Kaip tu į mane žiūri!
- Kad geriau tave matyčiau.
- Kaip spoksai!
- Ar galiu tave paliesti?
- Man reikia eiti.
- Matau tavo liekną kūną, šonkaulius, tavyje tvinksinčią gyvybę! Edmonai žmogaus kūne! Tu žavingas!
- Mari! Mari! Liaukis!
- Noriu žiūrėti. Patrauk rankas, Edmonai, noriu žiūrėti!
- Negaliu! Negaliu! Neištversiu tokio tavo žvilgsnio. (p. 126-127)