“That’s why I’m so angry really–not because of all the chores and all the making nice and all the duty of being a woman–or rather, of being me–because these are the burdens of being human. Really I’m angry because I’ve tried so hard to get out of the hall of mirrors, this sham and pretend of the world, or of my world, on the East Coast of the Unites States of America in the first decade of the twenty-first century. And behind every mirror is another fucking mirror, and down every corridor is another corridor, and the Fun House isn’t fun anymore and it isn’t even funny, but there doesn’t seem to be a door marked EXIT…..
I’ve finally come to understand that life itself is the Fun House. All you want is that door marked EXIT, the escape to a place where Real Life will be; and you can never find it. No: let me correct that. In recent years, there was a door, there were doors, and I took them and I believed in them, and I believed for a stretch that I’d managed to get out into Reality–and God, the bliss and terror of that, the intensity of that: it felt so different–until I suddenly realized I’d been stuck in the Fun House all along; I’d been tricked. The door marked EXIT hadn’t been an EXIT at all.
Claire Messud “The Woman Upstairs”
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