segunda-feira, 3 de dezembro de 2012


Still he felt nothing. Only the tautness of the muscles in his forearm where all the veins were puffed and thickened, and his toes  where they gripped the platform of the car. Only the humming of the air, and its scorching touch as it eddied round and past him.
He was waiting for the rage to fill him that would be equal at last to the outrage he was commiting. That would assuage his grief, and be so convincing to the witnesses of his barbaric spectacle that he might too believe there was a living man at the centre of it, and that man himself.

David Malouf, Ransom, Vintage, 2010

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