(Did Sofia Coppola read this before Lost in Translation?) Jill confronts the mother about her constant, to her pointless, wandering habits and the negative effect such incessant uprootings have in a way the son cannot. This time it’s the detail of Jill, the narrator’s partner, who tires of the stress the mother has on her son, and her picking out new curtains towards the end of the story. Could a story like that - about a peripatetic, restless mother, and a son waiting for her next fruitless move, to another place (or perhaps a place she’s already lived in) - yield something new with yet another re-read? And it does - it’s an inexhaustibly poignant story. I’ve read it - and the other stories here - seven or eight times, with gaps of a couple of years between each re-read, on average. I’ve read it - and the other stories here - seven or eight times, with gaps of a couple of years betwee I’ve read this a few times now - it’s a book I return to every so often simply because it grows in my mind between each re-read the stories evolve and live on, and I want to find out: have they become what I think they have? Were they always that thing and did I recognise this during the last reading - that I wasn’t quite up to the task of reading them yet? Take the opening story here, Boxes. I’ve read this a few times now - it’s a book I return to every so often simply because it grows in my mind between each re-read the stories evolve and live on, and I want to find out: have they become what I think they have? Were they always that thing and did I recognise this during the last reading - that I wasn’t quite up to the task of reading them yet? Take the opening story here, Boxes.
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