Martin Amis - Hannah rejects Thomsen (293-94) lyrics

She nodded sorrowfully and went on, “But something's happened. Back then, you were my figure for what was sane. For what was decent and normal and civilized. And how all that's been turned on its head. I'm . . . It's sad. You aren't normal any longer, not to me. When I see you, I'm there again. When I see you I smell it. And I don't want to smell it.” I eventually said it grieved me to admit that this made a kind of sense. “Can you believe, I was married to one of the most prolific murderers in history. Me. And he was so coarse, and so . . . prissy, and so ugly, and so cowardly, and so stupid. Dieter was hopeless too in his way. A head full of someone else's ideas. Stalin's. See? I'm no good at it. I'm just not up to it. Doll. Doll. The thought of being with a man is alien to me now. I haven't given them a glance in years. I'm finished with them. I'm so finished.” I considered for a moment—or for a moment I stopped considering. “You haven't got the right to say that.” “Haven't got the right?” “No, you haven't, I don't think you have. Only a victim has the right to say there's no coming back from it. And they hardly ever do. They're desperate to restart their lives. The ones that are truly broken are the ones we never hear from. They're not talking to—they're not talking to anybody. You, you were always your husband's victim, but you were never a victim.” She shook her square head at me. “It depends on the person, doesn't it? Suffering isn't relative. Don't they say that?” “But oh yes suffering is. Did you lose your hair and half your body weight? Do you laugh at funerals because there's all this fuss and only one person died? Did your life depend on the state of your shoes? Were your parents murdered? Were your girls? Do you fear uniforms and crowds and naked flames and the smell of wet garbage? Are you terrified of sleep? Does it hurt and hurt and hurt? Is there a tattoo on your soul?” She straightened again and was still for a moment, but then said steadily, “No. Of course not. But that's exactly what I mean. The thing is we don't deserve to come back from it. After that.” I said, “So they've prevailed, have they? In the case of Hannah Schmidt? True? Till your nerves are numb And your now is a time Too late for love. Saying Alas To less and less.” “Exactly. Grown used at last. To having lost. And I don't mean the war.” “No. No. You're a fighter. Like the time you gave Doll those black eyes. With one punch—Christ, you're like Boris. You're a fighter—that's who you really are. “ “No it isn't. I was never less myself than I was back then.” “And is this who you really are? Cowering in Rosenheim. And finished.” She folded her arms and looked to the side. “Who I am doesn't matter,” she said. “It's simpler than that. You and me. Listen. Imagine how disgusting it would be if anything good came out of that place. There.”