29 April 2009
My ma bring ‘n boek hier aan. Myne wat sy jare gelede geleen het. ‘n Boek uit ‘n vorige lewe. Ek het die omslag bekyk en ek kon niks van die storie onthou nie, behalwe dat ek effens hartseer was aan die einde. The Smoke Jumper, deur Nicholas Evans.
Dis jare sedert ek ‘n boek klaargelees het. Gister het ek weer begin lees aan my ou boek. Hel, ek het vergeet hoe magical dit is om weg te raak in ‘n wêreld wat iemand met woorde geskilder het. Ek het gelees en gelees en vanoggend êrens tussen een en twee aan die slaap geraak op die bank, die boek steeds in my hande.
Lees net hierdie eerste paragraaf:
The important things in life always happened by accident. At fifteen she didn’t know much, in fact, with each passing year she was a lot less clear about most things. But this much she did know. You could worry yourself sick trying to be a better person, spend a thousand sleepless nights figuring out how to live clean and decent and honest, you could make a plan and bolt it in place, kneel by your bed every night and swear to God you’d stick to it, hell, you could go to church and promise properly. You could cross your heart seven times with your eyes tight shut, cut your thumb and squeeze it and pen solemn vows on a rock with your own blood then throw it in the river at the stroke of midnight. And then, out of the black beyond, like a hawk on a rat, some nameless catastrophe would swoop into your life and turn everything upside down and inside out forever.
Huh? Hoe kan ‘n mens ophou lees na sò inleiding?
En van skilder met woorde gepraat, lees hierdie:
…Then, just as he was about to pick up his pack, he saw what at first he took to be a flaming branch rise above the pale spine of rock. It took him several seconds to recognize that it was no branch.
It was a large bull elk, but like no elk Connor had ever laid eyes on. Every hair of its coat had been burned and its skin was charred black. Its great rack of antlers flamed like a torch. The animal scrambled up onto the ridge, dislodging a clutter of falling stone, and just as it found its footing it saw him.
For a long moment the two of them stood quite still, staring at each other. Connor felt like a pagan before some ancient demigod or devil summoned from a world beyond. He felt the sweat chill on his neck.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he reached for the small Leica that he kept in his pocket and at the same time felt the wind around him lift and swirl and he saw the flames on the elk’s antlers dance and fan sideways and he heard the fire beyond it bellow as if in some dread conspiring chorus.
The animal was in his viewfinder now and it raised its muzzle proudly as if posing for a portrait and suddenly it occurred to Connor that there was a message here, though what it was and for whom he had no idea. He pressed the button and at the sound of the shutter the elk turned and vanished and Connor stood wondering if it had all been but a trick of his imagination.
Ek het van voor af respek vir skrywers en boeke en woorde. Toorgoed.