The song of the Eves (V)
The first 10 000 shots are the worst. – Helmut Newton
Nu există țară pentru bătrâni IV | No country for old men IV
„Loretta mi-a spus ea că a auzit la radio despre un anume procent de copii din districtul ăsta care sunt crescuți de bunicii lor. Am uitat cât era. Destul de mare, mi s-a părut. Părinții n-au vrut să-i crească. Am discutat despre asta. Ce ne-am gândit noi e că atunci când noua generație se face…
The Road | Drumul (VI)
When he woke in the woods in the dark and the cold of the night he’d reach out to touch the child sleeping beside him. Nights dark beyond darkness and the days more gray each one than what had gone before. Like the onset of some cold glaucoma dimming away the world. His hand rose…
The Road | Drumul (V)
In that long ago somewhere very near this place he’d watched a falcon fall down the long blue wall of the mountain and break with the keel of its breastbone the midmost from a flight of cranes and take it to the river below all gangly and wrecked and trailing its loose and blowsy plumage…
The Road | Drumul (IV)
In dreams his pale bride came to him out of a green and leafy canopy. Her nipples pipeclayed and her rib bones painted white. She wore a dress of gauze and her dark hair was carried up in combs of ivory, combs of shell. Her smile, her downturned eyes. In the morning it was snowing…
The Road | Drumul (III)
Wrapped in the blankets, watching the nameless dark come to enshroud them. The gray shape of the city vanished in the night’s onset like an apparition and he lit the little lamp and set it back out of the wind. Then they walked out to the road and he took the boy’s hand and they…
The Road | Drumul (II)
The long concrete sweeps of the interstate exchanges like the ruins of a vast funhouse against the distant murk. He carried the revolver in his belt at the front and wore his parka unzipped. The mummied dead everywhere. The flesh cloven along the bones, the ligaments dried to tug and taut as wires. Shriveled and…
The garden of souls | Grădina cu suflete (XIII)
To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: aye, there’s the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there’s the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,…
The garden of souls | Grădina cu suflete (XII)
Caut, nu ştiu ce caut. Caut un cer trecut, ajunul apus. Cât de-aplecată e fruntea menită-nălţărilor altădată! Caut, nu ştiu ce caut. Caut aurore ce-au fost, tâşnitoare, aprinse fântâni – azi cu ape legate şi-nvinse. Caut, nu ştiu ce caut. Caut o oră mare rămasă în mine fără făptură ca pe-un ulcior mort o urmă…