terça-feira, 19 de março de 2013


He passed a park in Yusuf Pasa that was full of dismantled swings and broken slides; next to it was an open lot where a group of teenage boys were playing football. The high lampposts of the coal depot gave them just enough light, and Ka stopped for a while to watch them. As he listened to them shouting and cursing, and watched them skidding in the snow, and gazed at the white sky and the pale yellow glow of the lamplights, the desolation and remoteness of the place hit him with such force he felt god inside him.

Orhan Pamuk, Snow, Maureen Freely (trad.), Faber & Faber, 2005.

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