My French was neither good nor bad. I had enough to understand what people said to me, but speaking was difficult, and there were times when no words come to my lips, when I struggled to say even the simplest things. There was a certain pleasure in this, I believe-to experience language as a collection of sounds, to be forced to the surface of words where meanings vanish-but it was also quite wearing, and it had the effect of shutting me up in my thoughts. In order to understand what people were saying, I had to translate everything silently into English, which meant that even when I understood, I was understanding at one remove-doing twice the work and getting half the result. Nuances, subliminal associations, undercurrents-all these things were lost on me. In the end, it would probably not be wrong to say that everything was lost on me.
一本の間違い電話から、一人の老人の尾行を依頼される作家の話「City of Glass 」。同じくマンションに住む男の見張りから始まる「Ghost」。そして消えた幼馴染の著作を巡る「The Locked Room」。