Age of Iron
When I wake out of the Borodino sleep I am calling or crying or coughing with sounds that come from deep in my chest. Then I quiet down and lie staring about me. My room, my house, my life: too close a rendering to be an imitation: the real thing: I am back: again and again I am back, from the belly of the whale disgorged. (3.424)
At the airport, the day you left, you gripped me and stared into my eyes. "Do not call me back, Mother," you said, "because I will not come. Then you shook the dust of this country from your feet. You were right. Nevertheless, there is part of me that is always on the alert, always turned to the northwest, longing to welcome you, embrace you should you relent and, in whatever form, come visiting. (3.425)
"What are your plans?"
He looked uncomprehending.
"What do you plan to do? Do you want to stay here?"
"I must go home."
"Where is home?"
He stared back at me doggedly, too tired to think up another lie. "Poor child," I whispered. (3.487-492)