lunes, 12 de marzo de 2012

It was a wrong number that started it, the telephone ringing three times in the dead of night, and the voice on the other end asking for someone he was not. Much later, when he was able to think about the things that happened to him, he would conclude that nothing was real except chance. But that was much later. In the beginning, there was simply the event and its consequences. Whether it might have turned out differently, or whether it was all predetermined with the first word that came from the stranger's mouth, is not the question. The question is the story itself, and whether it means something is not for the story to tell.

Paul Auster. City of Glass, The New York Trilogy.

Veintiún días de tren y Europa.
Una amiga y mi mochila color salmón.
Paul Auster como compañía desde Amsterdam.

1 comentario:

cabaretvoltaire dijo...

Gran libro!! aunque a Auster se le acaba llendo mucho la olla...