So here I am, upside down in a woman. Arms
patiently crossed, waiting, waiting and
wondering who I'm in, what I’m in for. My
eyes close nostalgically when I remember
[5] how I once drifted in my translucent body
bag, floated dreamily in the bubble of my
thoughts through my private ocean in slow-
motion somersaults, colliding gently against
the transparent bounds of my confinement,
[10] the confiding membrane that vibrated with,
even as it muffled, the voices of conspirators
in a vile enterprise. That was in my careless
youth. Now, fully inverted, not an inch of
space to myself, knees crammed against
[15] belly, my thoughts as well as my head are
fully engaged. I’ve no choice, my ear is
pressed all day and night against the bloody
walls. I listen, make mental notes, and I’m
troubled. I’m hearing pillow talk of deadly
[20] intent and I’m terrified by what awaits me, by
what might draw me in.
I’m immersed in abstractions, and only the
proliferating relations between them create
the illusion of a known world. When I hear
[25] "blue," which I’ve never seen, I imagine some
kind of mental event that's fairly close to
"green"—which I’ve never seen. I count
myself an innocent, unburdened by
allegiances and obligations, a free spirit,
[30] despite my meagre living room. No one to
contradict or reprimand me, no name or
previous address, no religion, no debts, no
enemies. My appointment diary, if it existed,
notes only my forthcoming birthday. I am, or
[35] I was, despite what the geneticists are now
saying, a blank slate. But a slippery, porous
slate no school-room or cottage roof could
find use for, a slate that writes upon itself as
it grows by the day and becomes less blank. I
[40] count myself an innocent, but it seems I'm
party to a plot. My mother, bless her
unceasing, loudly squelching heart, seems to
be involved.
In: McEWAN, Ian. Nutshell: a novel. New York: Nan A. Talese / Doubleday, 2016. p. 1-2
O segmento draw me in (l. 21), como empregado no texto, poderia ser substituído por
