There are people who await their ending, in their own beds, ready for the dust to sneak into their rooms and pantries, bedrooms and basements, to lie upon the old blankets, to fill their nostrils, to clog their lungs; to die of suffocation. But there are others, diligent people, who fight against the sky’s will, who put cars and machines to work and gather the unstoppable ash.
He turned his gaze to the sculpted figures above the building’s entrance—mutilated and broken segments of human bodies—but no matter where he looked the dream was still inside him, he couldn’t get rid of it, it was like an aftertaste or a bright light burned into your eye, leaving behind a dark spot in your field of vision.
Every time I fall asleep, the blue horse enters my dream and summons me to go. I follow it, and we run together; for this old body of mine to feel that light, floating step is exhilarating almost to the point of terror.
Sunt oameni care-și așteaptă finalul nestingheriți, în patul lor, așteaptă ca praful să se strecoare în camere și cămări, dormitoare sau beciuri, să se așeze peste păturile lor învechite de vreme și de nevoi, să le astupe nările, să li se-năclăiască plămânii, să moară sufocați. Dar mai sunt alții, suflete destoinice, care luptă cu voia cerului, care mobilizează mașini și utilaje, care adună cenușa ce cade fără oprire.
Nur remembered a paragraph from one of Tirosh's poems, from the single book he published, two years before the twentieth century came to an end: "The morning rises: another train station…"
.This story was originally published on the Israeli SFF Society website
נור נזכרה בבית אחד משיר של תירוש, מהספר היחיד שהוא פרסם, שנתיים לפני סוף המאה העשרים: "הבוקר עולה; עוד תחנת רכבת. השמיים בכחול כהה ופנסי הרחוב דולקים; אנשים, כמו תיבות טבועות של אוצרות עתיקים, יושבים במצולותיהם. מוקדם מדי להתחיל בפעולות חילוץ: לשעה קלה, לפני שהשמש תזרח, אנחנו לבד." היא לא אהבה את הדימוי, לא מצאה בו את המקוריות הדרושה כדי להפוך את השיר למשהו מעבר למשני, אבל עדיין... היא חשבה עליו עכשיו, מכיוון שבדרכו שלו, תירוש תפש, בשיר, מהות מסוימת של מסע.
לתחנה היה שם רשמי בו לא נעשה שימוש; עבור תושבי העיר, לפחות, היה לה רק שם אחד, שילוב שגרם למעטים שהגנו על השפה בחירוף נפש להתמרמר בכל פעם מחדש: דמשק-סטנרל.…
Han vände blicken mot de skulpterade gestalterna ovanför ingången, halva människokroppar, stympade och sönderbrutna men vart han än såg fanns drömmen ännu inom honom, han blev inte kvitt den, den var som en eftersmak eller ett skarpt ljus inbränt i ögat efterlämnande en skugga i synfältet.
Read in Italian here
People who know me know that for some years I have been involved in an almost impossible mission: to promote and spread not much the concept of SF “diversity” (a positive idea that hides, in my opinion, a fundamental error, that is diversity from a common standard; from a normality that has become a benchmark for evaluating any phenomenon, yet which doesn’t exist in reality) but instead a fairer distribution of “the future” and therefore of opportunities between dominant cultures and languages and those ones considered minor for the only reason of being “other”.
Fortunately, as a small publisher and SF writer, in five years of translations from at least six languages, and with a catalogue of over seventy stories published from around the world I can affirm:
Quality has no colour,
Quality has no nation,
Quality has no language,
Quality belongs to everyone.…
