“But Paris was a very old city and we were young and nothing was simple there, not even poverty, nor sudden money, nor the moonlight, nor right and wrong nor the breathing of someone who lay beside you in the moonlight.”

E. Hemingway.
"París era una fiesta"

Monday, 26 November 2012


Beware the autumn people.
For some, autumn comes early, stays late, through life, where October follows September and November touches October and then instead of December and Christ’s birth there is no Bethlehem Star, no rejoicing, but September comes again and old October and so on down the years, with no winter, spring or revivifying summer.
For these beings, fall is the only normal season, the only weather, there be no choice beyond.
Where do they come from? The dust.
Where do they go? The grave.
Does blood stir their veins? No, the night wind.
What ticks in their head? The worm.
What speaks through their mouth? The toad.
What sees from their eye? The snake.
What hears with their ear? The abyss between the stars.
They sift the human storm for souls, eat flesh of reason, fill tombs with sinners. They frenzy forth. In gusts they beetle-scurry, creep, thread, filter, motion, make all moons sullen, and surely cloud all clear-run waters. The spider-web hears them, trembles—breaks.
Such are the autumn people.
Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes (1962)

Nadie podrá quejarse de que no fue advertido a tiempo, luego. Cierren la puerta cuando se vayan, eso sí.


  1. No jodas. Yo publico mi sueño neyorquino y tú, un año antes, me tendías esta trampa bradburiana?? un poco bruja que eres. Bso,

  2. Algún día te invito a tomar el té en mi choza con patas de gallina, de cara al bosque. Be ready.


¡Habla, pueblo de Aura!