Recenzii și Cărți .PDF

„The authors deny that I would be an author.

The actors deny that I would be an actor. The authors

tell me: you are an actor who makes the author. The

actors tell me: you are an author who makes the actor.

Some do not want me in their own category. Only the

scenographers tolerate me. „

Dario Fo, winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature,

1997.

Chapter IDestinies

Summer is coming to an end. It is raining

heavily across the west coast of America. Even if it’s

night, the atmosphere is very hot. The earth is still hot

and blue steam is dissipating in the air making it

unbreathable. The air outside is stifling, and the cabin

is too hot. In the background, in the curve, you can

hear the long creaking and the rare, jerky creaking of

the big wheels of heavy, rectangular trucks, and a rain

of black, greasy splashes, thrown on either side, falls

on the sidewalk.

Two figures are lost in the darkness, rushing

past him. Stripped, long, they dissipate like two

mysterious shadows on the side of the road, like two

images too simple, vague, unworthy at this hour to be

noticed. Small drops ripple on the windshield and the

driver’s eyes search through the thick haze for the

white stripe in the middle of the street.

If it had been day, perhaps beyond the grove

along which the road stretches, he would have seen

them running from the north over the vast, sun-burnt

plain, full of bare bushes and thickets, and then,

crossing the street, as it slides on the dark green

outline of the swamp on the right. Without knowing

that perhaps not far away, in front, hidden in the

curtain of clouds, it is a wall that rises suddenly to the

sky, to the angular ridges of the mountains, to the

sharp, rough peaks of the Sierra Madre massif.

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