“Demonii” lui Dostoievski în germană. Asta da provocare. Unde citeam 100 pagini/oră, acum dacă apuc să citesc 100/zi. Da’ nici că mă las.
Nu am citit-o încă, dar e următoarea pe listă. The Gift, de Cecelia Ahern.
On his way into work one early winter morning, Lou meets Gabe, a homeless man sitting outside the office building. Intrigued by him and on discovering that he could also be very useful to have around, Lou gets Gabe a job in the post room.
But soon Lou begins to regret helping Gabe. His very presence unsettles Lou and how does Gabe appear to be in two places at the same time?
As Christmas draws closer, Lou starts to understand the value of time. He sees what is truly important in life yet at the same time he learns the harshest lesson of all.
This is a story about people who not unlike parcels, hide secrets. They cover themselves in layers until the right person unwraps them and discovers what’s inside. Sometimes you have to be unravelled in order to find out who you really are. For Lou Suffern, that took time.
“When you drop a glass or a plate to the ground it makes a loud crashing sound. When a window shatters a table leg breaks or when a picture falls off the wall it makes a noise. But as for your heart when that breaks it’s completely silent. You would think as it s so important it would make the loudest noise in the whole world or even have some sort of ceremonious sound like the gong of a cymbal or the ringing of a bell. But it’s silent and you almost wish there was a noise to distract you from the pain. If there is a noise it s internal. It screams and no one can hear it but you. It screams so loud your ears ring and your head aches. It trashes around in your chest like a great white shark caught in the sea it roars like a mother bear whose cub has been taken. That’s what it looks like and that’s what it sounds like a trashing panicking trapped great big beast roaring like a prisoner to its own emotions. But that’s the thing about love – no one is untouchable.”
De Umberto Eco, Editura Polirom. O carte a cărei multitudine de înţelesuri îmi va fi, poate, imposibil de interpretat şi înţeles vreodată. Un fel de Mircea Eliade în variantă italiană – mai ascuns, mai complex, mai modern. O carte pe care cu siguranţă va fi nevoie să o recitesc, poate peste câţiva ani o voi înţelege mai bine (sper). Şi vorbind de vârsta la care să Continue reading