Palo mi je nešto na pamet. Ovo je 1/2 jedne priče. Zašto je ovde, pitate se. Pa, recimo, zato što je ovaj blog drugačiji. Što su tekstovi trosmisleni i dvosmisleni a ipak najvažnije nisu već viđeni. I što je ovo dobra prilika da se malo online poigramo. Dakle, komentar možete napisati i sme sadržati samo jedno – prevod ove polovine jedne lepe priče. Ne treba mi prevod, samo hoću da na kraju ove “igre” svoj prevod uporedite sa prevodom nekog …ma videćete već o kome je reč …. okušajte se
While Henry is sitting in a slippery nygohyde chair reading a copy of â€œCosmopolitianâ€ and smelling that stuff they put in hair for permanents, that stuff that smells like rotting eggs, he can’t help but remember watching his mother cut his father ‘s hair. He couldn’t have been more than three or four. His father was perched on a bar stool in the middle of the den.An old white sheet was spread under the stool like a shrowd and red towel covered this shoulders. Hanry’s mother stood next to his father, awkwardly holding an unbreakable plastic comb and pair of scissors she had especially bought for cutting his hair. She crouched down beside his head and closed her left eye to line up scissors. Very slowly, so she heared each hair beign cut, she closed the scissors. The brittle hair drifted away on the natural air currents of the room, the dark clippings floating down to the white sheet spread across the floor….