Turtle Diary

by Russell Hoban

Why was I talking to him like a son to a father? He wasn’t older than I or wiser. Just calmer.

The flat looked different with that to look forward to. Everything in it, all the clutter on the desk and the drawing-table, all the books and objects took on new character with the prospect of being seen by him.

We both drank gin neat, it was bright and velvety. We smiled at each other over our glasses, time seemed full and easy, available in unlimited amounts.

What was my swimming then? To go on working at the bookshop or somewhere else? To live alone or with someone? To stop smoking or not? To go on getting up in the morning or perhaps not?

I didn’t know how lonely I’d been until the loneliness stopped.

I saw myself in days past, years past, stepping carefully and trying to keep my balance.

was waiting for something now and the waiting was pleasant. I was waiting for the self inside me to come forward to the boundaries from which it had long ago withdrawn. Life would be less quiet and more dangerous, life is risky on the borders.

I’d always assumed that I was the central character in my own story but now it occurred to me that I might in fact be only a minor character in someone else’s.

Between now and then were all kinds of minutes, all of them good.

Autumn kept going with fewer and fewer brown and yellow leaves until a big rain came just as it always does. Wham! Bare trees, winter, black mornings, people walking fast.

Nothing was different or better and I didn’t think I was either but I didn’t mind being alive at the moment. After all who knew what might happen?