Jennifer Egan’s novelistic
anthology of interconnected short stories (I’m not through yet; this is what I
think it is so far) has a line in its first few pages that resonated so deeply
with me that I went back and read, and re-read, it several times.
“In fact the
whole apartment, which six years ago had seemed like a way station to some
better place, had ended up solidifying around Sasha, gathering mass and weight,
until she felt both mired in it and lucky to have it – as if she not only
couldn’t move, but didn’t want to.”
Living in a city like Bombay, for
years now, in the same job, with the same friends, in the same apartment: this
is how I feel now. Like the girl in the story in New York, I live in this big
anonymous city, where people bounce off each other in myriad ways, just ducking
their heads and trying to get through the day without making too many waves. We
all end up finding these refuges, or building them; sanctuaries made out four
walls and a bed. Some simple way to escape the frantic energy of this seemingly
ceaseless urban jungle, that’s all I seem to want.
Like Sasha, I thought that this
life was just a way station to something else. Now, I look around to see it
solidifying around me against my will. If I don’t make a break for it and run,
I might, very comfortably, never leave.
