How easy it is to loose one's head over nothing.
Trying to get hold of something, Berlioz fell backwards, the back of his head lightly striking the cobbles, and had time to see high up - but wether to right or left he no longer knew - the gold-tinged moon. He managed to turn on his side, at the same moment drawing his legs to his stomach in a frenzied movement, and, while turning, to make out the face, completely white with horror, and the crimson armband of the woman driver bearing down on him with irresistible force. Berlioz did not cry out, but around him the whole streat screamed with desperate female voices.
The woman driver tore at the electric brake, the car dug its nose intothe ground, then instantly jumped up, and glass flew from the windows with a crash and a jingle. Here someone in Berlioz's brain cried desperatly: "Can it be...?". Once more, and for the last time, the moon flashed, but now breaking to pieces, and then it became dark.
The tram-car went over Berlioz, and a round and a round dark object was thrown over the cobbled slope below the fence of the Patriarch's walk. Having rolled down this slope, it went bouncing along the cobblestones of the street.
It was the severed head of Berlioz.
Trying to get hold of something, Berlioz fell backwards, the back of his head lightly striking the cobbles, and had time to see high up - but wether to right or left he no longer knew - the gold-tinged moon. He managed to turn on his side, at the same moment drawing his legs to his stomach in a frenzied movement, and, while turning, to make out the face, completely white with horror, and the crimson armband of the woman driver bearing down on him with irresistible force. Berlioz did not cry out, but around him the whole streat screamed with desperate female voices.
The woman driver tore at the electric brake, the car dug its nose intothe ground, then instantly jumped up, and glass flew from the windows with a crash and a jingle. Here someone in Berlioz's brain cried desperatly: "Can it be...?". Once more, and for the last time, the moon flashed, but now breaking to pieces, and then it became dark.
The tram-car went over Berlioz, and a round and a round dark object was thrown over the cobbled slope below the fence of the Patriarch's walk. Having rolled down this slope, it went bouncing along the cobblestones of the street.
It was the severed head of Berlioz.
Mikhail Bulgakov - The Master and Margarita
2 comments:
este livro não o acabei, e é daquelas coisas que não compreendo. como ele começa agarra logo, tão diferente de tudo, o ambiente que ele cria. quase se ouve banda sonora. por acaso ainda ontem pensei nele, porque acabei por emprestá-lo e foi daqueles empréstimos... e lamentei não o ter por perto. tu gostas de grandes literaturas... o proust, este em inglês... :)
Grandes prazeres. Espero que tenhas a certeza que tu devolvem porque vale a pena. E sim até agora estou agarrado. Nada mau para um livro recomendado por uma polaco ultra-católica. Mas acho que por lá o bulgakov é leitura obrigatória. E o Proust é um projecto de vida.
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