is written with a scalpel to produce silverware, but look no rubies, sapphires or: there is none. If jewel it infinitely yac'est piece gray, rusted, burned, frozen: this is a terrible ornament devastated universe. Everything is burned. Absolutely everything. We will not know exactly why. Not really. One may suspect something but there are still several possibilities. And we understand as much as this is not what matters. Like when it's done is done. There is no return on that. There will be live in what remains and there is nothing left. Rain. Snow. Cold. Ash. Wind. Of barbarism.
The road on which advance a father and son. The man and the boy.
There are good books. It there are fine. Old. There are sacred books.
And there are sacred books.
That's what I thought this book after finishing it. Not immediately. Because I did not know immediately what to do. Me first it was necessary freedom to drive, drill the scene of the latest pages, so little of the nutrient of the latest words, a tiny hole compass to imagine what could be filtered, so a thin needle clarity, for breakfast. Who survives.
"He stopped and leaned against the cart and then stopped and continued small turned and the man looked up and saw him crying on the road standing there looking at him from the depths of who knows what unimaginable future, glittering in the desert like a tabernacle. "
We often talk about the aridity of writing. Its count. Here we are with this novel. And yet everything seems to draw them like an inverted world, the landscapes in which all life has disappeared. Except that of others, hopelessly lost, or carried into clans ragged income below any civilization. Belief.
This is not a novel to me seemed to allow me to raise myself in the sense that a book be little edifying. It is a book that referred me to my abyss as we rarely feels pushed, you rarely ordered to do so, there is rarely required at this point.
"When he woke in the woods in the dark and cold of the night he held out his hand to touch the child sleeping beside him. The dark nights beyond darkness and the days more gray each day than before. As the assault of an indescribable cold glaucoma dimming the world under his pillow. At each precious breath raised his hand and fall gently. He pushed the plastic tarpaulin and raised himself in the stinking clothes and blankets and looked toward the east in search of a light but there was none. "
I heard that people had not returned to reading this book. It does not unthinkable to me. Whether he is a real fear, real fear that Apocalypse happens, abolishing the future, produced by the human or the cosmos emerged. Let the child no longer enough, in the heart of the heart of a disaster, to testify at a prior time always pass, always to live, still live. Whatever happens. And if given the tenuous thread of destiny last.
Roman philosophy. Metaphorical novel. Roman dish. I have felt surrounded the area where the question of good and evil tightens any event survival. As well to get something to eat to maintain that fire. The only element, water is tainted, poisoned air and barren land, persists and can not yet imagine that deep in the hollow body and afraid of humans and small. Would it matter that the virtues of a good and a bad illusory contours sometimes imprecise and sometimes the most brutal forms.
"The world is contracting around a core of raw separable entities. The names of things slowly following those things into oblivion. Colors. The names of birds. Things to eat. Finally the names of things that were thought to be true. More fragile than he would have thought. How many had already disappeared? The sacred idiom cut its references and consequently its reality. Retreating as something that tries to preserve its heat. To disappear forever when the time comes. "
A book of what remains when everything was abandoned in the destruction. Where in wave after wave of the final contours of humanity, with its limits to life, its limits on the threshold of death, a kind of residual choice, animal interference, low capacity to exist even beyond the pure physiological needs, remaining capacity, which is vital to the atom, to decide how far you go. And where will it stop.
A book without strength and softness. Vintage. A prehistory. Nakedness after the fall of millions of queries accessories. And the essence of an invisible design so you can measure that all existence contains anyway.
With what I read yet since I've read: the only voice we hear mostly. That of man and the little one.
Then at the end of the small with the other man, whether he will follow as the father died.
"How can I be sure that you are part of the Gentiles?
You can not be sure. It is a risk that you should take.
Do you carry the fire?
If I wear anything?
Fire.
You're not a little deranged, right?
No.
Just a little.
Yeah.
Ca nothing.
Then you wearing?
What? If there is fire?
Yes.
Yeah. We carry the fire.
you have children?
Yes.
You have a little boy?
was a boy and a girl.
How old is he?
About your age. Maybe a little more.
And you have not eaten.
No.
You do not eat people?
No. We do not eat people.
And I come with you?
Yes. You can.
Okay then.
Okay. "
A book without end. Unresolved. In this, I think, yes, a sacred book.
The road on which advance a father and son. The man and the boy.
There are good books. It there are fine. Old. There are sacred books.
And there are sacred books.
That's what I thought this book after finishing it. Not immediately. Because I did not know immediately what to do. Me first it was necessary freedom to drive, drill the scene of the latest pages, so little of the nutrient of the latest words, a tiny hole compass to imagine what could be filtered, so a thin needle clarity, for breakfast. Who survives.
"He stopped and leaned against the cart and then stopped and continued small turned and the man looked up and saw him crying on the road standing there looking at him from the depths of who knows what unimaginable future, glittering in the desert like a tabernacle. "
We often talk about the aridity of writing. Its count. Here we are with this novel. And yet everything seems to draw them like an inverted world, the landscapes in which all life has disappeared. Except that of others, hopelessly lost, or carried into clans ragged income below any civilization. Belief.
This is not a novel to me seemed to allow me to raise myself in the sense that a book be little edifying. It is a book that referred me to my abyss as we rarely feels pushed, you rarely ordered to do so, there is rarely required at this point.
"When he woke in the woods in the dark and cold of the night he held out his hand to touch the child sleeping beside him. The dark nights beyond darkness and the days more gray each day than before. As the assault of an indescribable cold glaucoma dimming the world under his pillow. At each precious breath raised his hand and fall gently. He pushed the plastic tarpaulin and raised himself in the stinking clothes and blankets and looked toward the east in search of a light but there was none. "
I heard that people had not returned to reading this book. It does not unthinkable to me. Whether he is a real fear, real fear that Apocalypse happens, abolishing the future, produced by the human or the cosmos emerged. Let the child no longer enough, in the heart of the heart of a disaster, to testify at a prior time always pass, always to live, still live. Whatever happens. And if given the tenuous thread of destiny last.
Roman philosophy. Metaphorical novel. Roman dish. I have felt surrounded the area where the question of good and evil tightens any event survival. As well to get something to eat to maintain that fire. The only element, water is tainted, poisoned air and barren land, persists and can not yet imagine that deep in the hollow body and afraid of humans and small. Would it matter that the virtues of a good and a bad illusory contours sometimes imprecise and sometimes the most brutal forms.
"The world is contracting around a core of raw separable entities. The names of things slowly following those things into oblivion. Colors. The names of birds. Things to eat. Finally the names of things that were thought to be true. More fragile than he would have thought. How many had already disappeared? The sacred idiom cut its references and consequently its reality. Retreating as something that tries to preserve its heat. To disappear forever when the time comes. "
A book of what remains when everything was abandoned in the destruction. Where in wave after wave of the final contours of humanity, with its limits to life, its limits on the threshold of death, a kind of residual choice, animal interference, low capacity to exist even beyond the pure physiological needs, remaining capacity, which is vital to the atom, to decide how far you go. And where will it stop.
A book without strength and softness. Vintage. A prehistory. Nakedness after the fall of millions of queries accessories. And the essence of an invisible design so you can measure that all existence contains anyway.
With what I read yet since I've read: the only voice we hear mostly. That of man and the little one.
Then at the end of the small with the other man, whether he will follow as the father died.
"How can I be sure that you are part of the Gentiles?
You can not be sure. It is a risk that you should take.
Do you carry the fire?
If I wear anything?
Fire.
You're not a little deranged, right?
No.
Just a little.
Yeah.
Ca nothing.
Then you wearing?
What? If there is fire?
Yes.
Yeah. We carry the fire.
you have children?
Yes.
You have a little boy?
was a boy and a girl.
How old is he?
About your age. Maybe a little more.
And you have not eaten.
No.
You do not eat people?
No. We do not eat people.
And I come with you?
Yes. You can.
Okay then.
Okay. "
A book without end. Unresolved. In this, I think, yes, a sacred book.
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