...every one of those minutes may have brought something new (intro)
There was a boy lying on one of the couches in the main room. He was fast asleep even though some part of his body knew that he shouldn't be and it twitched every now and then, trying to rouse him. But this was such a nice dream. He was alone, alone and warm on something unbearably comfortable. It was better than any one of the wonderful dreams he had experienced in the camps. And the tent hadn't yet become a mass of chaos so he was certain he hadn't missed coffee. György gave what could could have almost been a smile. He took his happiness where he could find it.
To anyone from after the second world war he should have been immediately recognizable as an inmate of a concentration camp. To anyone unfamiliar he mostly likely resembled something out of a nightmare. A barely breathing, gray, mass of bones that seemed more held together by the threadbare uniform than his flesh. He looked nothing like the fourteen year old boy he actually was. But despite it all, he did look oddly peaceful.
(Typist: György "Gyuri" Köves from the Hungarian novel Sorstalanság (Fatelessness) by Imre Kertész, winner of the 2002 Nobel Prize for literature.)
To anyone from after the second world war he should have been immediately recognizable as an inmate of a concentration camp. To anyone unfamiliar he mostly likely resembled something out of a nightmare. A barely breathing, gray, mass of bones that seemed more held together by the threadbare uniform than his flesh. He looked nothing like the fourteen year old boy he actually was. But despite it all, he did look oddly peaceful.
(Typist: György "Gyuri" Köves from the Hungarian novel Sorstalanság (Fatelessness) by Imre Kertész, winner of the 2002 Nobel Prize for literature.)