Friday, September 30, 2011

John Steinbeck om plastikk

Not far outside of Bangor I stopped at an auto court and rented a room. It wasn't expensive. The sign said «Greatly Reduced Winter Rates.» It was immaculate; everything was done in plastics – the floors, the curtain, table tops of stainless burnless plastic, lamp shades of plastic. Only the bedding and the towels were of a natural material. I went to the small restaurant run in comjunction. It was all plastic too – the table linen, the butter dish. The sugar and crackers were wrapped in cellophane, the jelly in a small plastic coffin sealed with cellophane. It was early evening and I was the only customer. Even the waitress wore a sponge-off apron. She wasn't happy, but then she wasn't unhappy. She wasn't anything. But I don't believe anyone is a nothing. There has to be something inside, if only to keep the skin from collapsing. This vacant eye, listless hand, this damask cheek dusted like a doughnut with plastic powder, had to have a memory or a dream.

Travels with Charley - John Steinbeck

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