If I have not found the going to write, at least I found the love of reading. And thanks to Martin Page and his Dragonfly that allow me to confirm and my passion for this author.
Dragonfly his eight years * no way inferior to his other books. There is still much poetry
" On 18 December at seventeen hours and thirteen minutes, the sun had not appeared yet, but time did not remain inactive. It was raining since the beginning of the day, since the dew, it rained on the streets and damaged gray, the gray roofs, green and looked and it was raining on gray hair, sparse, brown, long, short of passers on the umbrellas , the roofs of cars and helmets for motorcyclists, it rained on pigeons flying in and bums asleep on the newspapers that exceeded kiosks, in the neck of workers pressed on the windows glasses, binders schoolchildren. "
cynicism:
" The company is pretty well done for people who have everything already. "
and black humor:
" Since she left her modeling, she devoted her time and fortune to the crusades against things that the nerves. That is to say almost everything. well, if she could not bear the cars, she did not more environmentalists, and had therefore developed a bicycle pollutant. It was a simple black Dutch bike, frame up, which she grafted a small diesel engine that did not cause the wheels, its sole function was to produce a thick smoke and nauseous. "
A pure pleasure to read and highlight, reread and savored. Happiness in a rectangle of paper, to caress the eyes again and again.
(*) PAGE Martin The dragonfly its eight years. I Lu, July 2004.
