Sometimes stories meet so intense that seem written for second-rate novels printed on paper. And even if the genre - comedy, tragedy, satire - is forgotten, and the ending left in the basement of memories - the murderess Butler is the - however there is something inside.
We do not know well what we know not adequately describe it, but I am annoyed by that pebble in the heart that leaves strange and unexpected side effects, such as watery eyes, a considerable difficulty in expressing themselves correctly and a turmoil-proof a thousand camomile .
This is one of those stories. Tell you about it as they have told me, and the person who told me he is not a reliable type, so take it or leave .
E 'set in a faraway country, where there is only one language but many languages \u200b\u200band many ways to say what, in my country, they say one word. And, without ulteriore indugio, eccola qui.
Qualche tempo fa, in un posto in capo al mondo, ho conosciuto un gruppo di Cercatori, che aveva lo scopo di snasare, trovare ed impossessarsi di qualcosa che non era possibile trovare nel proprio paese. I Cercatori erano in tanti: io me ne ricordo tre.
Uno era soprannominato il Maestro, praticava una disciplina dura, era sempre in movimento e alle volte lo vedevi correre. Dico, non riuscivi proprio a vederlo. Era una macchia sfocata, subito sparita, ma lo sapevi che era lui.
Uno era soprannominato il Profondo, sapeva scendere nelle profondità the earth, where there is only heat, lava and death, and always managed to get by. He had two hands like two shovels, and used them to go down and back up.
One was dubbed the singer could describe things with lyrics and poems, playing always to make the rhymes. Of what he wrote and kept a ten throw. And if he asks, "Why throw that you write," he answered "Because it is already written."
I remember them well, there were three lanky, but different. Those rare occasions when he came into the inn with the attendants were strange marks on their height.
And one winter night I met them in a tavern, eating a hot soup.
asked to sit down and offered me their plate. Bowed his head to thank, and after finishing my ration I asked them what they wanted.
The Master said, "I try my limit. I try to understand what I can. I try to improve and new ways to enrich my discipline and be a better teacher."
The Deep said, "I want a new road. So go down to hell and back, and even risk their lives every time I would see if there are other ways to go."
The Chanter said, "I am looking for the inspiration to write something I can read again. I try to write something that can inspire others. "
watched the fire in the fireplace for a while, 'and then we said goodbye to retiring.
I saw them no more for some time.
many times I went to the tavern, I asked them, but I found them.
He spent the season of cold and rainy, and that the flowers arrived. And one evening, I found the Master, the Deep Cantore and at the same table, but with the cowl off.
were their own, but had a different atmosphere. They were different. I asked if I could sit at their table, and I bring three dishes on the table to repay their kindness winter, smiled and accepted the invitation.
When they had finished eating they trusted.
Master, in a low voice, said, "I searched and found my limit, I passed a thousand and thirty opponents, difficulty and pain, and I knew what my next hurdle to overcome: a new limit who searches the old limit as if it were an infant. "
The Deep, looking at the window, said, "I found a new road, and going up, not where there is rock and lava and death, but to the tops of mountains, clouds and water, and will be even more difficult to walk. "
The Chanter was silent. He took a sheet of paper and began writing:" I accompanied the Master and the depth in their adventures, seeking inspiration. I found stories, joys, tears, people. I found so many things that words do not seem enough. "
I saw them out, one by one, with different expressions, as long as tree trunks, and I wondered what I would ask them when they are revised.
I said, what he told me this story is not a reliable one. And 'a running for taverns. But the story seems credible. I asked a friend of mine, a brilliant designer, keep your eyes open, so often find them together somewhere.
If you find them, make me a drawing, so I have proof that the Seekers exist and are chasing something that is not only their shadows.
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