Post by shakhar24 on Feb 28, 2024 6:49:52 GMT
A small book lives in my house, so small, so modest that it hides and gets lost among the many papers that clutter my table. It lies between the most important books, thicker and more ostentatious, with hard covers and a wide spine, in which I clearly distinguish their titles, their authors and the anagrams of their publisher. But this little friend, one of the most beloved and most read, is making me angry, almost angry. I browse the shelves until boredom. I swipe aside notebooks, clippings and some notes, which further clutters the landscape and makes searching more difficult. Half an hour? I spent almost an hour on this search and, already angry, I shouted her name and some affectionate insults.
But he doesn't respond. Abandonment. It will be another day. Tomorrow? “The word was loose, vacant, weightless, in the air, so soulless and bodyless, so without color or kiss, that I let it pass by me, in my today . ” With an ironic smile, from some hidden C Level Executive List place that he had not yet discovered, he did not answer my calls, but he poured into my ears, into my memory, like an echo, his letters read so many times. Tired, I left the studio. With disdain I thought: anyway, I've read it so many times, I can do without it. It was not tomorrow, but many mornings later, when without looking for it, a small black corner with a white border appeared under a pile of magazines, like a child playing hide-and-seek. It was him! There he was crouched. Maybe tired of me, he wanted to be alone.
But I caught it with just two fingers and recovered it with joy. Late, almost at night, I looked around quickly to see if I recognized him, to verify that he was the same as always. If it was complete, if some lines had been erased in its hiding place or if a mysterious hand had torn off some pages as a souvenir, as punishment for my abandonment. It was him. I recognized, in a second and more leisurely reading, the traces that my hands had left as signs of other journeys through its pages. A bent corner marked a pause that demanded a new reading. A vigorous or sinuous line underlined a phrase. An arrow, two, even three, indicated with greater or lesser force some words that I wanted to leave located to recover them on another occasion or to recommend them to a reading friend.
But he doesn't respond. Abandonment. It will be another day. Tomorrow? “The word was loose, vacant, weightless, in the air, so soulless and bodyless, so without color or kiss, that I let it pass by me, in my today . ” With an ironic smile, from some hidden C Level Executive List place that he had not yet discovered, he did not answer my calls, but he poured into my ears, into my memory, like an echo, his letters read so many times. Tired, I left the studio. With disdain I thought: anyway, I've read it so many times, I can do without it. It was not tomorrow, but many mornings later, when without looking for it, a small black corner with a white border appeared under a pile of magazines, like a child playing hide-and-seek. It was him! There he was crouched. Maybe tired of me, he wanted to be alone.
But I caught it with just two fingers and recovered it with joy. Late, almost at night, I looked around quickly to see if I recognized him, to verify that he was the same as always. If it was complete, if some lines had been erased in its hiding place or if a mysterious hand had torn off some pages as a souvenir, as punishment for my abandonment. It was him. I recognized, in a second and more leisurely reading, the traces that my hands had left as signs of other journeys through its pages. A bent corner marked a pause that demanded a new reading. A vigorous or sinuous line underlined a phrase. An arrow, two, even three, indicated with greater or lesser force some words that I wanted to leave located to recover them on another occasion or to recommend them to a reading friend.