Archivio mensile:maggio 2012

Explicit

E lui le prese la testa fra le mani e le baciò la fronte e le guance. Poi la abbracciò per pochi infiniti secondi e disse: “Ora non mi devi più niente, o forse io non ti devo più niente… Quando un giorno ci rivedremo questo momento avrà significato per me molto più di quanto tu ed io possiamo ora immaginare”. E dopo averla salutata se ne andò, soddisfatto per ciò che aveva ottenuto e con il cuore pieno di una nuova inesprimibile gioia.

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Capitolo 29 di The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, di Douglas Adams (seconda parte)

(Prosegue da qui)

A hundred yards away, pelted by the torrential rain, lay the Heart of Gold.
Its hatchway opened, and three figures emerged, huddling into themselves to keep the rain off their faces.
“In there?” shouted Trillian above the noise of the rain.
“Yes,” said Zarniwoop.
“That shack?”
“Yes.”
“Weird,” said Zaphod.
“But it’s in the middle of nowhere,” said Trillian, “we must have come to the wrong place. You can’t rule the Universe from a shack.”
They hurried through the pouring rain, and arrived, wet through, at the door. They knocked. They shivered.
The door opened.
“Hello?” said the man.
“Ah, excuse me,” said Zarniwoop, “I have reason to believe …”
“Do you rule the Universe?” said Zaphod.
The man smiled at him.
“I try not to,” he said, “Are you wet?”
Zaphod looked at him in astonishment.
“Wet?” he cried, “Doesn’t it look as if we’re wet?”
“That’s how it looks to me,” said the man, “but how you feel about it might be an altogether different matter. If you feel warmth makes you dry, you’d better come in.”
They went in.
They looked around the tiny shack, Zarniwoop with slight distaste, Trillian with interest, Zaphod with delight.
“Hey, er …” said Zaphod, “what’s your name?”
The man looked at them doubtfully.
“I don’t know. Why, do you think I should have one? It seems very odd to give a bundle of vague sensory perceptions a name.”
He invited Trillian to sit in the chair. He sat on the edge of the chair, Zarniwoop leaned stiffly against the table and Zaphod lay on the mattress.
“Wowee!” said Zaphod, “the seat of power!” He tickled the cat.
“Listen,” said Zarniwoop, “I must ask you some questions.”
“Alright,” said the man kindly, “you can sing to my cat if you like.”
“Would he like that?” asked Zaphod.
“You’d better ask him,” said the man.
“Does he talk?” said Zaphod.
“I have no memory of him talking,” said the man, “but I am very unreliable.”
Zarniwoop pulled some notes out of a pocket.
“Now,” he said, “you do rule the Universe, do you?”
“How can I tell?” said the man.
Zarniwoop ticked off a note on the paper.
“How long have you been doing this?”
“Ah,” said the man, “this is a question about the past, is it?”
Zarniwoop looked at him in puzzlement. This wasn’t exactly what he had been expecting.
“Yes,” he said.
“How can I tell,” said the man, “that the past isn’t a fiction designed to account for the discrepancy between my immediate physical sensations and my state of mind?”
Zarniwoop stared at him. The steam began to rise from his sodden clothes.
“So you answer all questions like this?” he said.
The man answered quickly.
“I say what it occurs to me to say when I think I hear people say things. More I cannot say.”
Zaphod laughed happily.
“I’ll drink to that,” he said and pulled out the bottle of Janx spirit. He leaped up and handed the bottle to the ruler of the Universe, who took it with pleasure.
“Good on you, great ruler,” he said, “tell it like it is.”
“No, listen to me,” said Zarniwoop, “people come to you, do they? In ships …”
“I think so,” said the man. He handed the bottle to Trillian.
“And they ask you,” said Zarniwoop, “to take decisions for them? About people’s lives, about worlds, about economies, about wars, about everything going on out there in the Universe?”
“Out there?” said the man, “out where?”
“Out there!” said Zarniwoop pointing at the door.
“How can you tell there’s anything out there,” said the man politely, “the door’s closed.”
The rain continued to pound the roof. Inside the shack it was warm.
“But you know there’s a whole Universe out there!” cried Zarniwoop. “You can’t dodge your responsibilities by saying they don’t exist!”
The ruler of the Universe thought for a long while whilst Zarniwoop quivered with anger.
“You’re very sure of your facts,” he said at last, “I couldn’t trust the thinking of a man who takes the Universe – if there is one – for granted.”
Zarniwoop still quivered, but was silent.
“I only decide about my Universe,” continued the man quietly. “My Universe is my eyes and my ears. Anything else is hearsay.”
“But don’t you believe in anything?”
The man shrugged and picked up his cat.
“I don’t understand what you mean,” he said.
“You don’t understand that what you decide in this shack of yours affects the lives and fates of millions of people? This is all monstrously wrong!”
“I don’t know. I’ve never met all these people you speak of. And neither, I suspect, have you. They only exist in words we hear. It is folly to say you know what is happening to other people. Only they know, if they exist. They have their own Universes of their own eyes and ears.”
Trillian said:
“I think I’m just popping outside for a moment.”
She left and walked into the rain.
“Do you believe other people exist?” insisted Zarniwoop.
“I have no opinion. How can I say?”
“I’d better see what’s up with Trillian,” said Zaphod and slipped out.
Outside, he said to her:
“I think the Universe is in pretty good hands, yeah?”
“Very good,” said Trillian. They walked off into the rain.
Inside, Zarniwoop continued.
“But don’t you understand that people live or die on your word?”
The ruler of the Universe waited for as long as he could. When he heard the faint sound of the ship’s engines starting he spoke to cover it.
“It’s nothing to do with me,” he said, “I am not involved with people. The Lord knows I am not a cruel man.”
“Ah!” barked Zarniwoop, “you say ‘The Lord’. You believe in something!”
“My cat,” said the man benignly, picking it up and stroking it, “I call him The Lord. I am kind to him.”
“Alright,” said Zarniwoop, pressing home his point, “How do you know he exists? How do you know he knows you to be kind, or enjoys what he thinks of as your kindness?”
“I don’t,” said the man with a smile, “I have no idea. It merely pleases me to behave in a certain way to what appears to be a cat. Do you behave any differently? Please, I think I am tired.”
Zarniwoop heaved a thoroughly dissatisfied sigh and looked about.
“Where are the other two?” he said suddenly.
“What other two?” said the ruler of the Universe, settling back into his chair and refilling his whisky glass.
“Beeblebrox and the girl! The two who were here!”
“I remember no one. The past is a fiction to account for …”
“Stuff it,” snapped Zarniwoop and ran out into the rain. There was no ship. The rain continued to churn the mud. There was no sign to show where the ship had been. He hollered into the rain. He turned and ran back to the shack and found it locked.
The ruler of the Universe dozed lightly in his chair. After a while he played with the pencil and the paper again and was delighted when he discovered how to make a mark with the one on the other. Various noises continued outside, but he didn’t know whether they were real or not. He then talked to his table for a week to see how it would react.

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Capitolo 29 di The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, di Douglas Adams (prima parte)

On a small obscure world somewhere in the middle of nowhere in particular – nowhere, that is, that could ever be found, since it is protected by a vast field of unprobability to which only six men in this galaxy have a key – it was raining.
It was bucketing down, and had been for hours. It beat the top of the sea into a mist, it pounded the trees, it churned and slopped a stretch of scrubby land near the sea into a mudbath.
The rain pelted and danced on the corrugated iron roof of the small shack that stood in the middle of this patch of scrubby land. It obliterated the small rough pathway that led from the shack down to the seashore and smashed apart the neat piles of interesting shells which had been placed there.
The noise of the rain on the roof of the shack was deafening within, but went largely unnoticed by its occupant, whose attention was otherwise engaged.
He was a tall shambling man with rough straw-coloured hair that was damp from the leaking roof. His clothes were shabby, his back was hunched, and his eyes, though open, seemed closed.
In his shack was an old beaten-up armchair, an old scratched table, an old mattress, some cushions and a stove that was small but warm.
There was also an old and slightly weatherbeaten cat, and this was currently the focus of the man’s attention. He bent his shambling form over it.
“Pussy, pussy, pussy,” he said, “coochicoochicoochicoo … pussy want his fish? Nice piece of fish … pussy want it?”
The cat seemed undecided on the matter. It pawed rather condescendingly at the piece of fish the man was holding out, and then got distracted by a piece of dust on the floor.
“Pussy not eat his fish, pussy get thin and waste away, I think,” said the man. Doubt crept into his voice.
“I imagine this is what will happen,” he said, “but how can I tell?”
He proffered the fish again.
“Pussy think,” he said, “eat fish or not eat fish. I think it is better if I don’t get involved.” He sighed.
“I think fish is nice, but then I think that rain is wet, so who am I to judge?”
He left the fish on the floor for the cat, and retired to his seat.
“Ah, I seem to see you eating it,” he said at last, as the cat exhausted the entertainment possibilities of the speck of dust and pounced on to the fish.
“I like it when I see you eat the fish,” said the man, “because in my mind you will waste away if you don’t.”
He picked up from the table a piece of paper and the stub of a pencil. He held one in one hand and the other in the other, and experimented with the different ways of bringing them together. He tried holding the pencil under the paper, then over the paper, then next to the paper. He tried wrapping the paper round the pencil, he tried rubbing the stubby end of the pencil against the paper and then he tried rubbing the sharp end of the pencil against the paper. It made a mark, and he was delighted with the discovery, as he was every day. He picked up another piece of paper from the table. This had a crossword on it. He studied it briefly and filled in a couple of clues before losing interest.
He tried sitting on one of his hands and was intrigued by the feel of the bones of his hip.
“Fish come from far away,” he said, “or so I’m told. Or so I imagine I’m told. When the men come, or when in my mind the men come in their six black ships, do they come in your mind too? What do you see pussy?”
He looked at the cat, which was more concerned with getting the fish down as rapidly as possible than it was with these speculations.
“And when I hear their questions, do you hear questions? What do their voices mean to you? Perhaps you just think they’re singing songs to you.” He reflected on this, and saw the flaw in the supposition.
“Perhaps they are singing songs to you,” he said, “and I just think they’re asking me questions.”
He paused again. Sometimes he would pause for days, just to see what it was like.
“Do you think they came today?” he said, “I do. There’s mud on the floor, cigarettes and whisky on the table, fish on a plate for you and a memory of them in my mind. Hardly conclusive evidence I know, but then all evidence is circumstantial. And look what else they’ve left me.”
He reached over to the table and pulled some things off it.
“Crosswords, dictionaries, and a calculator.”
He played with the calculator for an hour, whilst the cat went to sleep and the rain outside continued to pour. Eventually he put the calculator aside.
“I think I must be right in thinking they ask me questions,” he said, “To come all that way and leave all these things for the privilege of singing songs to you would be very strange behaviour. Or so it seems to me. Who can tell, who can tell.”
From the table he picked up a cigarette and lit it with a spill from the stove. He inhaled deeply and sat back.
“I think I saw another ship in the sky today,” he said at last. “A big white one. I’ve never seen a big white one, just the six black ones. And the six green ones. And the others who say they come from so far away. Never a big white one. Perhaps six small black ones can look like one big white one at certain times. Perhaps I would like a glass of whisky. Yes, that seems more likely.”
He stood up and found a glass that was lying on the floor by the mattress. He poured in a measure from his whisky bottle. He sat again.
“Perhaps some other people are coming to see me,” he said.

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Estratto dal capitolo 7 di Hanno tutti ragione, di Paolo Sorrentino

Ma l’altra aberrante fissazione di mio cugino, oltre a quella dell’inamovibilità scultorea del suo peso, è quella che noi chiamiamo in famiglia la sua ossessione del compleanno.
Quando ne parliamo con le mie sorelle ci schiattiamo dalle risate perché nessuno al mondo è più fissato di mio cugino per il suo stesso compleanno. Ha sviluppato questa ossessione patologica dopo il compimento dei diciotto anni. Va’ a capire perché. Da quel giorno noi parenti sulle prime quando veniva questo benedetto quindici marzo, sua data di nascita, ci dimenticavamo di fargli gli auguri, può capitare, a chi non capita, allora lui puntuale come un cucù svizzero, aspettava fino a mezzanotte. A mezzanotte e uno iniziava il giro di telefonate a tutti i parenti che non gli avevano fatto gli auguri e ci insultava facendoci sentire delle pezze, hai voglia a dire che ti eri distratto, che avevi avuto da fare, che ti era passato di mente, macché, lui non ti sentiva e giù a scaricare insulti à gogo. A dirci quanto eravamo merde, latrine, cessi, stronzi, froci e altre raffinatezze per non avergli fatto gli auguri. Essendo il più grande di età, di peso e di altezza fra tutti i cugini ci incuteva grande soggezione e paura a noi più piccoli, da sempre. Non ha mai smesso di ricordarci l’ordine immutabile delle gerarchie. Ora sono anni che io e le mie sorelle attacchiamo a telefonarci già verso il dieci febbraio per ricordarci gli uni con gli altri che il quindici marzo si sta avvicinando e non bisogna dimenticarsi di fare gli auguri a Vincenzo, se no chi lo sente. Insomma a febbraio io e le mie sorelle scopriamo tra di noi questa solidarietà ridanciana e ormai da anni puntuali facciamo la processione di telefonate a mio cugino per fargli gli auguri e lui tutto contento, ogni anno, fa ‘sta madrina commossa in cui ci ringrazia con le lacrime agli occhi per quanto siamo cari a ricordarci del suo compleanno.

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Estratto dal capitolo 12, prima parte, di Flatland, di Edwin A. Abbott

One other word of warning suggests itself to me, though I cannot so easily mention a remedy; and this also refers to our relations with Women. About three hundred years ago, it was decreed by the Chief Circle that, since women are deficient in Reason but abundant in Emotion, they ought no longer to be treated as rational, nor receive any mental education. The consequence was that they were no longer taught to read, nor even to master Arithmetic enough to enable them to count the angles of their husband or children; and hence they sensibly declined during each generation in intellectual power. And this system of female non-education or quietism still prevails.
My fear is that, with the best intentions, this policy has been carried so far as to react injuriously on the Male Sex.
For the consequence is that, as things now are, we Males have to lead a kind of bi-lingual, and I may almost say bi-mental, existence. With Women, we speak of “love,” “duty,” “right,” “wrong,” “pity,” “hope,” and other irrational and emotional conceptions, which have no existence, and the fiction of which has no object except to control feminine exuberances; but among ourselves, and in our books, we have an entirely different vocabulary and I may almost say, idiom. “Love” then becomes “the anticipation of benefits”; “duty” becomes “necessity” or “fitness”; and other words are correspondingly transmuted. Moreover, among Women, we use language implying the utmost deference for their Sex; and they fully believe that the Chief Circle Himself is not more devoutly adored by us than they are: but behind their backs they are both regarded and spoken of – by all except the very young – as being little better than “mindless organisms.”

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Estratto dal capitolo 10, seconda parte, di Los detectives salvajes, di Roberto Bolaño

Claudia, que los primeros días intentó ignorar la nueva situación, finalmente también aceptó los hechos y dijo que empezaba a sentirse agobiada. Al segundo día de estancia con nosotros, una mañana, mientras Claudia se lavaba los dientes, Ulises le dijo que la amaba. La respuesta de Claudia fue que ya lo sabía. He venido hasta aquí por ti, le dijo Ulises, he venido porque te amo. La respuesta de Claudia fue que podía haberle escrito una carta. Ulises encontró aquella respuesta altamente estimulante y le escribió un poema que leyó a Claudia a la hora de comer. Cuando yo me levantaba discretamente de la mesa, pues no quería oír nada, Claudia me pidió que me quedara y el mismo ruego le hizo a Daniel. El poema era más bien un conjunto de fragmentos sobre una ciudad mediterránea, Tel-Aviv, supongo, y sobre un vagabundo o poeta mendicante. Me pareció hermoso y así lo dije. Daniel compartió mi opinión. Claudia estuvo callada unos minutos, con expresión pensativa, y después dijo que, en efecto, ojalá pudiera ella escribir poemas tan hermosos. Por un instante yo pensé que todo se reconducía, que íbamos a poder estar todos en paz y me propuse como voluntario para ir a conseguir una botella de vino. Pero Claudia dijo que al día siguiente tenía que estar muy temprano en la universidad y diez minutos después ya estaba encerrada en nuestra habitación. Ulises, Daniel y yo hablamos durante un rato, nos bebimos otra taza de té y después cada uno se fue a su cuarto. A eso de las tres me levanté para ir al baño y al pasar de puntillas por la sala escuché que Ulises estaba llorando. No creo que se diera cuenta que yo estaba allí. Estaba tirado bocabajo, supongo, desde donde yo estaba sólo era un bulto sobre el sofá, un bulto cubierto con una manta y con un viejo abrigo, un volumen, una masa de carne, una sombra que se estremecía lastimeramente. (…) La cabeza me daba vueltas porque cada noche, cuando salía a orinar, encontraba a Ulises llorando en la oscuridad, y eso no era lo peor, lo peor era que algunas noches pensaba: hoy lo veré llorar, es decir, que vería su rostro, porque hasta entonces sólo lo oía, ¿y quién me asegura a mí que lo que escuchaba era un llanto y no los gemidos, por ejemplo, de alguien en el proceso de hacerse una paja? Y cuando pensaba que vería su rostro, lo imaginaba alzándose en la oscuridad, un rostro anegado en llanto, un rostro tocado por la luz de la luna que se filtraba a través de las ventanas de la sala. Y ese rostro expresaba tanta desolación que ya desde el mismo momento en que me sentaba en la cama, en la oscuridad, sintiendo a Claudia a mi lado, su respiración algo ronca, el peso como de una roca me oprimía el corazón y yo también sentía ganas de llorar. Y a veces me quedaba mucho rato sentado en la cama, aguantándome las ganas de ir al baño, aguantándome las ganas de llorar, todo por el miedo de que aquella noche sí, de que aquella noche su cara se levantase de la oscuridad y yo pudiera verla.

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Estratto dal capitolo 4 di A Clockwork Orange, di Anthony Burgess

I had to have a smeck, though, thinking of what I’d viddied once in one of those like articles of Modern Youth, about how Modern Youth would be better off if A Lively Appreciation Of The Arts could be like encouraged. Great Music, it said, and Great Poetry would like quieten Modern Youth down and make Modern Youth more Civilized. Civilized my syphilised yarbles. Music always sort of sharpened me up, O my brothers, and made me feel like old Bog himself, ready to make with the old donner and blitzen and vecks and ptitsas creeching away in my ha ha power.

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Idea per un cortometraggio

Presentazione del protagonista, ricca di dettagli che si riveleranno completamente inutili. Il personaggio in questione fa un lavoro monotono, banale, ripetitivo, preferibilmente un impiegato di bassa leva. Intellettualmente sterile, single, amico di tutti e un po’ coglione, tra i 25 e i 35 anni, praticamente privo di vita sociale fuori dall’ufficio.
Ritorno a casa, in un piccolo appartamento di un condominio, dove prosegue la routine quotidiana, con i gesti sempre uguali. Ovviamente vive solo e guarda molta televisione (programmi di ogni genere, con una particolare attenzione per le cose meno impegnative, quiz banali, reality show, serie tv, magari qualche telenovela).
Inizio di una nuova giornata, non necessariamente quella successiva ma comunque identica a tutte le altre. Ritorno in appartamento alla solita ora. Si accorge in qualche modo che anche l’inquilino del piano di sopra, che non ha mai visto e del quale non sa nulla praticamente, se non che ha una trentina di anni in più di lui e vive solo in un appartamento identico, ha una routine molto simile alla sua.
Le giornate si susseguono uguali, il protagonista nota somiglianze sempre più frequenti tra la sua vita e quella del signore del piano di sopra (in realtà questi punti comuni si sono sempre verificati, ma solo ora l’uomo se ne rende conto).
In qualche modo (individuare un qualche escamotage) un giorno entra in contatto con il vicino, che gli sembra molto familiare. Dialogo tra i due, il più vecchio racconta la sua vita monotona e priva di amore al giovane, che uscendo si ripromette di tornare a far visita all’anziano. Appena fuori dalla porta, si gira e vede che sul campanello c’è il suo nome. Ne rimane stupito (si tratta di un nome banale ma non comune, sarebbe meglio citarlo fin dall’inizio) e suona per far sapere al vecchio di essere un suo omonimo. Dall’interno nessuna risposta. Suona ancora, bussa, chiama, ma dall’altra parte c’è solo silenzio. Si preoccupa, fa per scendere e contattare il portiere, quando da un’altra porta sullo stesso pianerottolo esce una signora, allarmata dai rumori. Si tratta di una vicina del protagonista (anche in questo caso, meglio introdurla nella parte iniziale del corto e descriverla come una donna anziana, che vive con un gatto ed è in buoni rapporti con il protagonista, che la aiuta spesso a portare le borse della spesa). L’uomo rimane interdetto dalla presenza della donna su quel piano, ma guardando la targhetta sull’ascensore capisce che in realtà si tratta del piano in cui si trova il suo stesso appartamento e si rende conto che la porta alla quale sta bussando è la sua. Prende le chiavi dalla tasca, apre ed entra nell’appartamento che è esattamente come quando lo ha lasciato prima di andare a parlare con il vecchio, lasciando la signora con una scusa.
La morale dovrebbe essere chiara.

(Originalmente scritto come un’idea per un racconto breve a settembre 2007. Ispirato a un racconto di Luca Berta, pubblicato in Imitazioni della vita, Sironi Editore, 2006)

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Estratto da Corazón tan blanco, di Javier Marías

Yo hablo y entiendo y leo cuatro lenguas incluyendo la mía, y por eso, supongo, me he dedicado parcialmente a ser traductor e intérprete en congresos, reuniones y encuentros, sobre todo políticos y a veces del nivel más alto (en dos ocasiones he hecho de intérprete entre jefes de estado; bueno, alguno era sólo presidente de gobierno). Supongo que por eso tengo (como la tiene Luisa, que se dedica a lo mismo, sólo que no compartimos exactamente las mismas lenguas y ella está menos profesionalizada o se dedica menos, y por tanto no la tiene tan acentuada) la tendencia a querer comprenderlo todo, cuanto se dice y llega a mis oídos, tanto en el trabajo como fuera de él, aunque sea a distancia, aunque sea en uno de los innumerables idiomas que desconozco, aunque sea en murmullos indistinguibles o en susurros imperceptibles, aunque sea mejor que no lo comprenda y lo que se diga no esté dicho para que yo lo oiga, o incluso esté dicho justamente para que yo no lo capte. Puedo desconectar, pero sólo en ciertos estados de ánimo irresponsable o bien mediante un gran esfuerzo, y por eso a veces me alegro de que los murmullos sean de veras indistinguibles y los susurros imperceptibles, y de que existan tantas lenguas que me son extrañas y no son deducibles, porque así descanso. Cuando sé y compruebo que no hay manera, que no puedo entender por mucho que lo desee e intente, entonces me siento tranquilo y desentendido y descanso. Nada puedo hacer, nada está en mi mano, soy un inválido, y mis oídos descansan, mi cabeza descansa, mi memoria descansa y también mi lengua, porque en cambio, cuando comprendo, no puedo evitar traducir automática y mentalmente a mi propia lengua, e incluso muchas veces (por suerte no siempre, acaso sin darme cuenta), si lo que me alcanza es en español también lo traduzco con el pensamiento a cualquiera de los otros tres idiomas que hablo y entiendo. A menudo traduzco hasta los gestos, las miradas y los movimientos, es un sucedáneo y una costumbre, y aun los objetos me parece que dicen algo cuando entran en contacto con esos movimientos, miradas y gestos. Cuando nada puedo hacer, escucho sonidos que sé que son articulados y tienen sentido y sin embargo me resultan indescifrables: no logran individualizarse ni formar unidades. Esa es la maldición mayor de un intérprete en su trabajo, cuando por algún motivo (una dicción imposible, un acento extranjero pésimo, una grave distracción propia) no separa ni selecciona y pierde comba, y todo lo que oye le parece idéntico, un amasijo o un flujo que tanto da que se emita como que no se emita, pues lo fundamental es individualizar los vocablos, como a las personas si uno quiere tratarlas. Pero también es su mayor consuelo cuando eso sucede y no está en el trabajo: sólo entonces puede relajarse del todo y no prestar atención ni permanecer alerta, y hallar placer en escuchar voces (el insignificante rumor del habla) que no sólo sabe que no le atañen, sino que además no está capacitado para interpretar, ni para transmitir, ni para memorizar, ni para transcribir, ni para comprender. Ni siquiera para repetirse.

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