-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Элизабет Гилберт
-
- Ешь, молись, люби
-
- Стр. 55/229
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
So
my
sister
comes
to
visit
me
in
Rome
-
in
my
new
city
-
and
then
shows
it
to
me
.
This
is
Rome
,
Catherine
-
style
.
Full
of
facts
and
dates
and
architecture
that
I
do
not
see
because
my
mind
does
not
work
in
that
way
.
The
only
thing
I
ever
want
to
know
about
any
place
or
any
person
is
the
story
,
this
is
the
only
thing
I
watch
for
-
never
for
aesthetic
details
.
(
Sofie
came
to
my
apartment
a
month
after
I
’
d
moved
into
the
place
and
said
,
"
Nice
pink
bathroom
,
"
and
this
was
the
first
time
I
’
d
noticed
that
it
was
,
indeed
,
pink
.
Bright
pink
,
from
floor
to
ceiling
,
bright
pink
tile
everywhere
-
I
honestly
hadn
’
t
seen
it
before
.
)
But
my
sister
’
s
trained
eye
picks
up
the
Gothic
,
or
Romanesque
,
or
Byzantine
features
of
a
building
,
the
pattern
of
the
church
floor
,
or
the
dim
sketch
of
the
unfinished
fresco
hidden
behind
the
altar
.
She
strides
across
Rome
on
her
long
legs
(
we
used
to
call
her
"
Catherine
-
of
-
the
-
Three
-
Foot
-
Long
-
Femurs
"
)
and
I
hasten
after
her
,
as
I
have
since
toddlerhood
,
taking
two
eager
steps
to
her
every
one
.
"
See
,
Liz
?
"
she
says
,
"
See
how
they
just
slapped
that
nineteenth
-
century
facade
over
that
brickwork
?
I
bet
if
we
turn
the
corner
we
’
ll
find
…
yes
!
…
see
,
they
did
use
the
original
Roman
monoliths
as
supporting
beams
,
probably
because
they
didn
’
t
have
the
manpower
to
move
them
…
yes
,
I
quite
like
the
jumble
-
sale
quality
of
this
basilica
…
"
Catherine
carries
the
map
and
her
Michelin
Green
Guide
,
and
I
carry
our
picnic
lunch
(
two
of
those
big
softball
-
sized
rolls
of
bread
,
spicy
sausage
,
pickled
sardines
wrapped
around
meaty
green
olives
,
a
mushroom
pate
that
tastes
like
a
forest
,
balls
of
smoked
mozzarella
,
peppered
and
grilled
arugula
,
cherry
tomatoes
,
pecorino
cheese
,
mineral
water
and
a
split
of
cold
white
wine
)
,
and
while
I
wonder
when
we
’
re
going
to
eat
,
she
wonders
aloud
,
"
Why
don
’
t
people
talk
more
about
the
Council
of
Trent
?
"
She
takes
me
into
dozens
of
churches
in
Rome
,
and
I
can
’
t
keep
them
straight
-
St
.
This
and
St
.
That
,
and
St
.
Somebody
of
the
Barefoot
Penitents
of
Righteous
Misery
…
but
just
because
I
cannot
remember
the
names
or
details
of
all
these
buttresses
and
cornices
is
not
to
say
that
I
do
not
love
to
be
inside
these
places
with
my
sister
,
whose
cobalt
eyes
miss
nothing
.
I
don
’
t
remember
the
name
of
the
church
that
had
those
frescoes
that
looked
so
much
like
American
WPA
New
Deal
heroic
murals
,
but
I
do
remember
Catherine
pointing
them
out
to
me
and
saying
,
"
You
gotta
love
those
Franklin
Roosevelt
popes
up
there
…
"
I
also
remember
the
morning
we
woke
early
and
went
to
mass
at
St
.
Susanna
,
and
held
each
other
’
s
hands
as
we
listened
to
the
nuns
there
chanting
their
daybreak
Gregorian
hymns
,
both
of
us
in
tears
from
the
echoing
haunt
of
their
prayers
.
My
sister
is
not
a
religious
person
.
Nobody
in
my
family
really
is
.
(
I
’
ve
taken
to
calling
myself
the
"
white
sheep
"
of
the
family
.
)
My
spiritual
investigations
interest
my
sister
mostly
from
a
point
of
intellectual
curiosity
.
"
I
think
that
kind
of
faith
is
so
beautiful
,
"
she
whispers
to
me
in
the
church
,
"
but
I
can
’
t
do
it
,
I
just
can
’
t
…
"
Here
’
s
another
example
of
the
difference
in
our
worldviews
.
A
family
in
my
sister
’
s
neighborhood
was
recently
stricken
with
a
double
tragedy
,
when
both
the
young
mother
and
her
three
-
year
-
old
son
were
diagnosed
with
cancer
.
When
Catherine
told
me
about
this
,
I
could
only
say
,
shocked
,
"
Dear
God
,
that
family
needs
grace
.
"
She
replied
firmly
,
"
That
family
needs
casseroles
,
"
and
then
proceeded
to
organize
the
entire
neighborhood
into
bringing
that
family
dinner
,
in
shifts
,
every
single
night
,
for
an
entire
year
.
I
do
not
know
if
my
sister
fully
recognizes
that
this
is
grace
.
We
walk
out
of
St
.
Susanna
,
and
she
says
,
"
Do
you
know
why
the
popes
needed
city
planning
in
the
Middle
Ages
?
Because
basically
you
had
two
million
Catholic
pilgrims
a
year
coming
from
all
over
the
Western
World
to
make
that
walk
from
the
Vatican
to
St
.
John
Lateran
-
sometimes
on
their
knees
-
and
you
had
to
have
amenities
for
those
people
.
"
My
sister
’
s
faith
is
in
learning
.
Her
sacred
text
is
the
Oxford
English
Dictionary
.
As
she
bows
her
head
in
study
,
fingers
speeding
across
the
pages
,
she
is
with
her
God
.
I
see
my
sister
in
prayer
again
later
that
same
day
-
when
she
drops
to
her
knees
in
the
middle
of
the
Roman
Forum
,
clears
away
some
litter
off
the
face
of
the
soil
(
as
though
erasing
a
blackboard
)
,
then
takes
up
a
small
stone
and
draws
for
me
in
the
dirt
a
blueprint
of
a
classic
Romanesque
basilica
.
She
points
from
her
drawing
to
the
ruin
before
her
,
leading
me
to
understand
(
even
visually
challenged
me
can
understand
!
)
what
that
building
once
must
have
looked
like
eighteen
centuries
earlier
.
She
sketches
with
her
finger
in
the
empty
air
the
missing
arches
,
the
nave
,
the
windows
long
gone
.
Like
Harold
with
his
Purple
Crayon
,
she
fills
in
the
absent
cosmos
with
her
imagination
and
makes
whole
the
ruined
.
