أزبــكيـة

Blindness Jose Saramago A minute later, because of one of those all too common abdications of the body, that chooses to give up in certain moments of anguish or despair, when, if it were guided by logic alone, all its nerves should be alert and tense, a kind of weariness crept over him, more drowsiness than real fatigue, but just as heavy.  He dreamt at once that he was pretending to be blind, he dreamt that he was for ever closing and opening his eyes, and, that on each occasion, as if he were returning from a journey, he found waiting for him, firm and unaltered, all the forms and colours of the world as he knew it. Fighting has always been, more or less, a form of Blindness And when is it necessary to kill, she asked herself as she headed in the direction of the hallway, and she herself answered the question, when what is still alive is already dead. But it is a question of being patient, of letting time take its course, we should have learnt this once and for al...