en voyage
(…)
Non que ces sept années de peau, de chair, de cheveux et d’ossature eussent eu de quoi éclipser les créatures de rêve des jardins d’Allah et du ghetto de la communauté internationale.
La beauté du monde, c’était ma longue pavane offerte au jour, c’était la vitesse de mon cheval, c’était mon crâne déployé comme une voile aux souffles des ventilateurs.
(…)
Amélie Nothomb
“Soon as you get settled, go to the library“, the Gatekeeper tells me my first day in town.
“There is a girl who minds the place by herself. Tell her the Town told you to come read old greams. She will show you the rest.”
“Old dreams?” I say. “What dio you mean by “old dreams”?”
The Gatekeeper pauses from whittling a round peg, sets down his penknife, and sweeps the wood shavings from the table.”Old dreams are…old dreams. Go to the Library. You will find enough of them to make your eyes roll. Take out as many as you likeand read them good and long.”
Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World
Haruki Murakami
Tomoko ran down to the beach in her bare feet. The pine needles stabbed at her as she went through the groove. The tide had come in, and she had to climb over the rock to the bathing-beach.
“Oh? You’re related to the people who drowned at A. Beach? That’s too bad. Two children and a woman all at once, they say.”
Yukio Mishima
I was told that if I were a good lad, kept my hair tidy, and did not tease the cat, I would probably, when I died, go to a place where all day long I would sit still and sing hymns. (Think of it! as reward to a healthy boy for being good.) There would be no breakfast and no dinner, no tea and no supper. One old lady cheered me a little with a hint that the monotony might be broken by a little manna; but the idea of everlasting manna palled upon me, and my suggestions, concerning the possibilities of sherbet or jumbles, were scouted as irreverent. There would be no school, but also there would be no cricket and no rounders.
Jerome K. Jerome
Mi è avvenuto più volte, svegliandomi nel cuor della notte (la notte, in questo caso, non dimostra veramente d’aver cuore), mi è avvenuto di provare al bujo, nel silenzio, una strana meraviglia, uno strano impaccio al ricordo di qualche cosa fatta durante il giorno, alla luce, senz’abbadarci; e ho domandato allora a me stesso se, a determinar le nostre azioni, non concorrano anche i colori, la vista delle cose circostanti, il vario frastuono della vita. Ma sì, senza dubbio; e chi sa quant’altre cose! Non viviamo noi, secondo il signor Anselmo, in relazione con l’universo? Ora sta a vedere quante sciocchezze questo maledetto universo ci fa commettere, di cui poi chiamiamo responsabile la misera coscienza nostra, tirata da forze esterne, abbagliata da una luce che è fuor di lei. E, all’incontro, quante deliberazioni prese, quanti disegni architettati, quanti espedienti macchinati durante la notte non appajono poi vani e non crollano e non sfumano alla luce del giorno? Com’altro è il giorno, altro la notte, così forse una cosa siamo noi di giorno, altra di notte: miserabilissima cosa, ahimè, così di notte come di giorno.
Il fu Mattia Pascal
Luigi Pirandello
clementineTe 
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