Sunday, November 23, 2008


Italo Calvino
pg 52-53

I went into a sandy wasteland: I proceeded, sinking down among dunes which were always somehow different and yet almost the same. Depending on the point from which you looked at them, the crests of the dunes seemed the outlines of reclining bodies. There you could almost make out the form of an arm folded over a tender breast, with the palm open under a resting cheek; farther on, a young foot with a slender big toe seemed to emerge.

We ran along the crest of the volcanoes. In the noon grayness, Ayl's flying hair and the tongues of flame that rose from the craters were mingled in a wan, identical fluttering of wings.
"Fire. Hair," I said to her. "Fire same hair."

No comments: