magiadoreal

Consideramos a vida um poço inesgotável, porque não sabemos quando vamos morrer.  No entanto, tudo acontece apenas um certo número de vezes. Um pequeno número. Quantas vezes mais você se lembrará de uma certa tarde de sua infância? Uma tarde que está tão profundamente enraizada em seu ser? Talvez umas quatro ou cinco vezes. Talvez nem isso. Quantas vezes vai ainda olhar a lua cheia nascendo? Talvez vinte. E, no entanto, tudo parece infinito. ( The Sheltering Sky , Paul Bowles)

Mokhtar lived in a room not far from his shop, overlooking the sea. There was a tiny window in the wall above his sleeping-mattress through which, if he stood in a tiptoe, he could see the waves pounding against the rocks of the breakwater far below. The sound came up, too, especially on nights when the Casbah was wrapped in rain and its narrow streets served only for the passage of unexpected gusts of wind. On these nights the sound of the waves was all around, even though he kept the window shut. Throughout the year there were many such nights,and it was precisely at such times that he didn´t feel like going home to be alone in his little room. He had been by himself ten years now, ever since his wife had died; his solitude never weighed on him when the weather was clear and the stars shone in the sky. But a rainy night put him in mind of the happy hours of his life, when in just such nocturnal wind and storm he and his great-eyed bride would pull the heavy blinds shut and live quiet...