''the indian and the wheatfield'' isimli öyküsünden alıntıladığım aşağıdaki satırların, hakkında bu kadar az entry girilmesine şaşırdığım yazarı. çevirmenlerin en iyisi olmasının yanında çok iyi bir yazardır, keşke daha çok yazsa.
...a vast field of blond wheat under a never-ceasing breeze.forget agriculture and geography, ''breeze'' is the most merciful form of a continuous state of being here. the blond field heaves and waves under it. most of the time there is rain. rain that doesn't relieve, but only burdens, brings only more green, more and more green so much so that it pains the eye to look at it when it is the high season of green.
the wheatfield must get tired of having to bear so much green and turn it into gold, a pale gold; all he has for company is the undependable blue sky and the still more fickle patches of white cloud wandering above, all he knows of change are birds and the warmth of little brown creatures, furry and agile, going in and out of his body in their comical hurry, therefore-
--maybe...
edit: bu entry'i girmeden önce bu başlık altında 2 entry vardı, nereye kayboldular acaba!!
