“It was calm in the family. The costumes for the roles of the mothers, fathers, daughters and sons were hanging in the apple tree at home and waiting for worse times. There are moments of a certain closeness, when the heaviness of the domestic terrain changes its state of matter and becomes lightness. When it’s just possible to say more.
The Third and I were sitting in front of the cabin, the town below us was floating in the timelessness of August. One month before, in an identical situation, I had harshly confronted her with some facts about her sister she simply hadn’t seen due to generational diopters and life in a small provincial town. I had looked at her, a story had taken shape before her eyes and in a fully logical way sucked in a bunch of trifles and fleeting facts that in her eyes had been thrown around throughout family history for years without sense and meaning. Among others, two sentences surfaced that she had carried within herself for almost sixty years without even knowing they had been there.
About one month later she said them to me, at the same place behind the cabin, in a sort of repetition of the timelessness, in the midst of the change of the state of matter and from a dangerous proximity. Back then I lost my balance for a few long minutes. In the background of the town down in the valley a door appeared that I just hadn’t seen before. Or it had stood too deep in the field of implicitness or too near for me to notice. The sentences the Third threw at me slid into the keyhole, the door opened. I found myself in the midst of an awful series of strikes. Incidences that had been scattered without sense and logic in my space and time of the family for years got a shape and a weight and their place in the whole thing. Lines grew from apparently negligible particles and facts, rooms grew from the lines and dramaturgies from the rooms.
Suddenly, in the middle of nothing, everything was in its right place. I should write that all at once there was only beauty around me. But to write something like this is all but impossible.”
Aleš Čar, On sufferableness