gimli f schreef:
Dit boekje is nog steeds een van de leukste boekjes ooit... (door mij gelezen).
Het begin van dit boek is het leukste begin wat ooit in een boek is voorgekomen, wat mij betreft:
You are not the kind of guy who would be at a place like this at this time of the morning. But here you are, and you cannot say that the terrain is entirely unfamiliar, although the details are fuzzy.
Leukste twee openingszinnen, die ik ooit heb gelezen, denk ik.
Het gaat verder met zin drie:
You are at a nightclub talking to a girl; with a shave head. The club is either Heartbreak or the Lizard Lounge. All might come clear if you could just slip into the bathroom and do a little more Bolivian Marching Powder. Then again, it might not. A small voice inside you insists that this epidemic lack of clarity is a result of too much of that already.
Gewoon geweldig!
Vooruit: nog even doorgaan met het begin:
The night has already turned on that imperceptible pivot where two A.M. changes to six A.M. You know this moment has come and go, but you are not yet willing to concede that you have crossed the line beyond which all is gratuitous damage and the palsy of unraveled nerve endings. Somewhere back there you could have cut your losses, but you rode past that moment on a comet trail of white powder and now you are trying to hang on the rush.
En dan een mooi stukje metaforische schrijfstijl:
Your brain at this moment is composed of brigades of tiny Bolivian soldiers. They are tired and muddy from their long march through the night. There are holes in their boots and they are hungry. They need to be fed. They need the Bolivian Marching Powder.
Het begin van het tweede hoofdstuk mag ook grappig genoemd worden:
Monday arrives on schedule. You sleep through the first ten hours. God only knows what happened to Sunday.
Monday arrives on schedule.
Jaja...
Inderdaad een geweldige boek, ook een van mijn persoonlijke favorieten.
You haven't owed a watch in years. Knowing the time at any given moment might be a good step toward organizing the slippery flux of your life. You've never been able to see yourself as the digital kind of guy. But you could use a little Cartier in your act. It looks real, even if it isn't, and it tells time. What the hell. (blz. 23)
By seven everyone is gone. They all offered to help, and you waved them away. There is a shabby nobiliyt in failing all by yourself. Clara sticks her head in the door as she's leaving. ''My desk,' she says. My ass, you think. (blz. 25)
En zo zijn er nog een heleboel onvergetelijke stukken. Ben ook van plan om de film dan toch maar binnekort te huren.