Matematica e letteratura hanno incrociato il cammino troppe volte perché si tratti soltanto di incontri casuali. Se è vero che entrambe sono attività di "finzione" e consistono principalmente nel'invenzione di mondi possibili, non deve stupire questo continuo rispecchiamento.
Pubblico oggi il primo di una piccola serie di racconti "matematici". Si tratta di racconti finiti, come in questo caso, o di brevi estratti da testi più lunghi.
Fatemi sapere che ne pensate.
Continuity of Parks (Julio Cortázar)
He had begun reading the novel a few days before. Left him to urgent business, he returned by train to open as he returned to the farm, slowly let himself be of interest to the plot, the character design. That night, after writing a letter to his attorney and discussing a matter with the factor of sharecropping, he returned to the book in the tranquility of the study that opened the park of oak. Lying in the favorite chair with your back to the door that would have bothered as an irritating intrusion possibilities, let your left hand caress repeatedly the green velvet and si mise a leggere gli ultimi capitoli. La sua memoria riteneva senza sforzo il nome e le immagini dei protagonisti; l'illusione romanzesca lo conquistò quasi subito. Godeva del piacere quasi perverso di staccarsi di riga in riga da ciò che lo attorniava, e di sentire al tempo stesso che la testa riposava comodamente sul velluto dell’alto schienale, che le sigarette erano sempre a portata di mano, che al dì là delle vetrate danzava l'aria del crepuscolo sotto i roveri. Di parola in parola, assorto nel sordido dilemma degli eroi, lasciandosi andare verso le immagini che si componevano e acquistavano colore e movimento, fu testimone dell'ultimo incontro nella capanna sul monte. Prima entrava la donna, guardinga; adesso arrivava l'amante, my face hurt by lashes of a branch. Admirably she dabbed the blood with her kisses, caresses, but he refused, he had not come to repeat the ceremonies of a secret passion, protected by a world of dry leaves and furtive paths. The dagger is warmed against her bosom, and crouched under pulsed freedom. A dialogue flowed anxious for pages like a stream of snakes, and felt that everything was decided a long time. Even those caresses which enveloped the body of the lover as if to restrain and dissuade him abominably drew the figure of another body that had to be destroyed. Nothing had been forgotten: alibis, circumstances, errors. From that hour, each moment was carefully determined its use. The list was interrupted when two ruthless to allow a hand caressing his cheek. He was beginning to get dark.
Without even looking over, tied closely to the task that awaited them, they parted at the door of the hut. She was to continue the path that was heading north. On the opposite path he turned for a moment to see her running with her hair down. He ran too, providing protection against the trees and hedges as long distinguished in the haze of mauve dusk the driveway leading to the house. The dogs were not barking, and barking. The factor should not be there at that hour, and was not there. Go up the three steps of the porch and went inside. From the blood that was galloping in his ears he could hear the woman's words: the first a blue room, then a gallery, a staircase with carpet. Upstairs, two doors. No one in the first room, no one in the second. The drawing-room door, and then the dagger in his hand, the light from the windows, the high back of a chair of green velvet, the head of a man in the chair reading a novel.
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