When the money has been pegged to the blue sky and the clouds and time to the earth, I will then take all of the grey cubicle dividers from the world’s financial planning offices and the money-moving offices of every middleman and middlewoman, and I will carve them into geometric shapes and make a labyrinth in the red centre of the outback.
(Sue Stevenson, ‘The cloud of undoing’, Southerly, 76.1)
Vous sortez d’un sas noir et découvrez huit portes fermées, au-dessus desquelles un minuteur décompte en chiffres rouges le temps qu’il vous reste avant de pouvoir y entrer.
(Claire Richard, “ « Bientôt, je ne serai plus là » : apprendre à mourir avec Rimini Protokoll ”, L’Obs, 25 oct., 2016)
Asking the breezes to send greetings to a time when women stitched those white and gold swans in treasured embroidery that became heirlooms, before they fled along broad rivers towards the sea where white soot-stained swans were nesting in the burnt marshes.
(Alexis Wright, The Swan Book, ‘Owls in the grass’)
Seen from a distance, against the background of crumbling grey plaster, they look like a rich and colorful palette, like a painting of tasteful and imaginative composition. Moreover, the shopkeeper changes the layout of the colors from day to day: Brown dates lie beside pastel pistachios and green olives—and the next day white almonds have taken the place of the fleshy dates and a pile of pepper pods is burning scarlet where there had been golden millet.
(Ryszard Kapuściński, ‘The dead flame’, Shah of Shahs)