One is convinced of the true art of writing when one feels right in the middle of the action described in the book, when one smells, tastes, sighs, laughs, cries, hopes, and waits together with the characters in the book. This book entails a sort of mysticism, a special scenery where the reader enters, being at the same time free and a prisioner of the magic of words. And the magic continues for the reader with the moment of riding the elephant. Actually, I am still there, in that particular moment, and I am writing to you, enchanted by the things that were, are and continue to be, regardless if the space allows them to exist all at the same time.
And below, a couple of paragraphs to give you the crave of reading this book:
“… Wrappings were,
in those times, more important than the contents... “
“I went back to the vineyard,
and I laid down next to grandpa, who was sound asleep, as it’s usually the case with peasants. Some people go to sleep at dusk and wake up at 4 or 5 in the
morning or when God taps on their shoulders. I dreamed the most colored dreams
and in my sleep I could hear the grapes ripen.”
“… he had been a pantomime
professor in Paris, before the war. A slightly odd art that entails people
playing the game of make belief, moving about so convincingly that one believes
they are truly doing it. If I think about it, he should have been a hero in the
current work environment... “
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