Not anyone has written extra feelingly and extra superbly than Nescio concerning the insanity and disappointment, braveness and vulnerability of juvenile: its titanic plans and imprecise longings, let alone the binges, crashes, and marathon walks and talks. not anyone, for that subject, has written with such pristine readability concerning the radiating canals of Amsterdam and the cloud-swept panorama of the Netherlands.
Who was once Nescio? Nescio—Latin for “I don’t know”—was the pen identify of J.H.F. Grönloh, the hugely profitable director of the Holland–Bombay buying and selling corporation and a father of four—someone who knew good enough approximately decent adulthood. in simple terms in his spare time and lower than the canopy of a pseudonym, as though commemorating a misplaced self, did he permit himself move, generating over the process his lifetime a handful of totally unique tales that include probably the most luminous pages in glossy literature.
This is the 1st English translation of Nescio’s tales.
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Extra info for Amsterdam Stories
Actually, it’s not the corridor you’d expect a passage to be; that’s only what we call it for lack of a better name. Strictly speaking, it isn’t a corridor at all. A corridor has an entrance and an exit, forming a route from one place to another. But this passage has neither entrance nor exit, and leads smack into a cinder-block wall at one end and a chain link fence at the other. It’s not even an alleyway. For starters, an alley has to at least have an entrance. The neighbors all call it “the passage” for convenience sake.
I have absolutely no recollection of ever hearing this woman’s voice before. And I pride myself on a near-perfect ear for voices, so I’m sure there’s no mistake. This is the voice of a woman I don’t know. A soft, low, nondescript voice. ” I put on my most polite language. “What difference does that make? All I want is ten minutes of your time. ” She cinches the matter quick and neat. ” “Of our feelings,” says the woman succinctly. I crane my neck back through the door I’ve left open to peer into the kitchen.
I’m not thirsty,” I say. ” “No work to go to,” I admit. ” “Kind of. ” “Lawyer’s gofer,” I equivocate, taking a slow, deep breath to cut the talk. ” “She does,” I say. I take out a cigarette and put it to my mouth, strike a match, and light up. The wind-up bird screeches from a nearby tree. A good twelve or thirteen turns of the watch spring, then it flits off to another tree. “Cats are always going past there,” the girl remarks apropos of nothing, pointing over at the edge of the grass in front.
Amsterdam Stories by Nescio