World Cup The Nailers are good memories. May seem to escape, generators chauvinism, or triggers consumer LCDs. But memories are used to systematically screwing isolated bursts nostalgia piled four situations years. No one can criticize them in this direction, or at least no more than a memory pills. But life goes on. I probably remember this World Cup not so much from my conversations with the Clown Lugüercio-a staunch advocate of Veron-or my animosity against Maradona Religion, more talented advocate of the effort. Rather, I'll remember from my readings interspersed by Cordwainer Smith and Peter Mair, who just look at how good they are their books.
Smith In one corner, with a sci-fi but effective Berreta sixties, talking about space as the top-Out, human machines who decide to fight Pain Space and distant future where the instrumentality controls everything. In the other the amazing "Salvatierra" in Mair, with its dreamlike landscapes and coastal reading of the son of the father through the years, discovering a painting in kilometers, and the slow trasncurre neglect that work. Cordwainer is positivist, imaginative, believes in the future and to outline the SMS half a century before that the Observer write on their slates, "Pr RVF QRD" is sensed as "darling please." Mair instead as the river flows into the past, revels in the abandonment and desided Argentine provincial landscape, and avoid the dialogs in the main character, mute, barely able to communicate across the lines of his painting.
Cordwainer Smith says: "The gray eyes looked at Helen and compassionate, and he was now and not she who dominated the situation. Helen looked into the eyes. Those eyes had been open for forty years in almost complete darkness of the tiny cabin. Weak boards had come to shine as bright as blazing suns, hurting the retinas tired before he could take his eyes (...) Occasionally he had watched the black void, and had seen there the images of the boards, light black to dark black, while the miles of candles absorbing the momentum of light and accelerated the ship in an ocean of unfathomable silence. " And he answers Mairal
: "Salvatierra began painting after my sister in a less painful, muffled, as if asleep, purified by the river, a warm water Ofelia cloudy. Salvatierra had wanted to paint the power of the river in its material, and the river had asked him to change his twelve year old daughter. The river carried it slowly but relentlessly, but he could stop him. And so he painted it: Estela drowned in the backwater of the willows, Estela between monstrous fish, his hair tangled in the reeds on the edge, her dress heavy eyelids in the current calm, Estela barely visible beneath the surface, between reflection water clouds. "
Finally, we are spectators. Procastinamos Often, we waited to knowingly avoid decide and take refuge in football or in a book, sometimes in vain if it is better than that. I share this delusion, but I prefer to go further, and I have a vision. Imagine a cult of worship hooligan entering the Ellis Park to the cry of "See the World / and read to Mair, gaining access, without tickets, clear-seeking hooligans in their path, and desagarrando copies of" The Game of Rat and Dragon "by Smith, with a stupid nationalism, amid the wail of the vuvuzelas.
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