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Iain Banks, A Song of Stone

Ich brauchte ein bißchen länger für das Buch, weil mir über die Feiertage einfach die Zeit fehlte und darüber hinaus der größtenteils der zweiten Person gehaltene Erzählstil mehr Aufmerksamkeit erforderte. Und ich konnte einfach das Gefühl es schon einmal gelesen zu haben nicht abschütteln, obwohl es keine Passage gab, die mir definitiv vertraut war. Aber obwohl oft sehr bedrückend ist es ein faszinierendes Buch, wie alles von Banks.

I am cells; no more, I think. This present assemblage - bones, flesh and blood - is more complicated than most such gatherings to be found on the world's rude surface, and my quorum of sense-holding plasm may be greater than other animals can muster, but the principle's the same, and all our extra wisdom does is let us know the truth of our own insignificance more fully. My body, my whole dazed being, seems like little more than a pile of autumn leaves, blown and bunched by a swirling wind and trapped, coralled by a chance of ancillary geography into a localised drift. Of what greater consequence am I than that temporary heap of leaves, that collection of cells, collectively dead or dying? How much more do any of us signify?
Yet still we do ascribe a greater pain and joy and weight of import to ourselves than to any mere clump of matter, and feel it too. We seduce ourselves with our own images, perhaps. The leaf dryly tumbling along the road is not really like a refugee.

(Iain Banks, A Song of Stone, 1997)