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bremen1980 · 22 Dec 2010, 11:44

Am citit acum 4 ani ''Zgomotul alb '' de Don Delillo ,carte aparuta la Leda -Corint.De citeva zile am ascultat-o in format audio in engleza.Exceptionala carte ,un exemplu pentru sofisticatii nostri scriitori care forjeaza la greu forma dar o cam dau in bara la continut.Prin cuvinte (aparent )banale Delillo face o fotografie ( sau mai bine zis un Cat Scan ) Americii anilor '80: violenta ,frica ,sex ,droguri ,medicamente miraculoase ,televiziune omniprezenta ,consumerism ,si mai presus de toate frica de moarte ( acel zgomot alb ,zgomotul de fond al vietii -white noise ).Practic mai mult de 50 % poate fi citata . Astept o asemenea carte si despre perioda anilor 2000.

The supermarket shelves have been rearranged. It happened one day without warning. There
is agitation and panic in the aisles, dismay in the faces of older shoppers. They walk in a
fragmented trance, stop and go, clusters of well-dressed figures frozen in the aisles, trying to
figure out the pattern, discern the underlying logic, trying to remember where they'd seen the
Cream of Wheat. They see no reason for it, find no sense in it. The scouring pads are with the
hand soap now, the condiments are scattered. The older the man or woman, the more carefully
dressed and groomed. Men in Sansabelt slacks and bright knit shirts. Women with a powdered
and fussy look, a self-conscious air, prepared for some anxious event. They turn into the wrong
aisle, peer along the shelves, sometimes stop abruptly, causing other carts to run into them.
Only the generic food is where it was, white packages plainly labeled. The men consult lists, the
women do not. There is a sense of wandering now, an aimless and haunted mood, sweet-
tempered people taken to the edge. They scrutinize the small print on packages, wary of a
second level of betrayal. The men scan for stamped dates, the women for ingredients. Many
have trouble making out the words. Smeared print, ghost images. In the altered shelves, the
ambient roar, in the plain and heartless fact of their decline, they try to work their way through
confusion. But in the end it doesn't matter what they see or think they see. The terminals are
equipped with holographic scanners, which decode the binary secret of every item, infallibly.
This is the language of waves and radiation, or how the dead speak to the living. And this is
where we wait together, regardless of age, our carts stocked with brightly colored goods. A
slowly moving line, satisfying, giving us time to glance at the tabloids in the racks. Everything
we need that is not food or love is here in the tabloid racks. The tales of the supernatural and
the extraterrestrial. The miracle vitamins, the cures for cancer, the remedies for obesity. The
cults of the famous and the dead.

22 Dec 2010, 11:44	#501
bremen1980 Guru Join Date: Jun 2009 Posts: 2,355	Am citit acum 4 ani ''Zgomotul alb '' de Don Delillo ,carte aparuta la Leda -Corint.De citeva zile am ascultat-o in format audio in engleza.Exceptionala carte ,un exemplu pentru sofisticatii nostri scriitori care forjeaza la greu forma dar o cam dau in bara la continut.Prin cuvinte (aparent )banale Delillo face o fotografie ( sau mai bine zis un Cat Scan ) Americii anilor '80: violenta ,frica ,sex ,droguri ,medicamente miraculoase ,televiziune omniprezenta ,consumerism ,si mai presus de toate frica de moarte ( acel zgomot alb ,zgomotul de fond al vietii -white noise ).Practic mai mult de 50 % poate fi citata . Astept o asemenea carte si despre perioda anilor 2000. The supermarket shelves have been rearranged. It happened one day without warning. There is agitation and panic in the aisles, dismay in the faces of older shoppers. They walk in a fragmented trance, stop and go, clusters of well-dressed figures frozen in the aisles, trying to figure out the pattern, discern the underlying logic, trying to remember where they'd seen the Cream of Wheat. They see no reason for it, find no sense in it. The scouring pads are with the hand soap now, the condiments are scattered. The older the man or woman, the more carefully dressed and groomed. Men in Sansabelt slacks and bright knit shirts. Women with a powdered and fussy look, a self-conscious air, prepared for some anxious event. They turn into the wrong aisle, peer along the shelves, sometimes stop abruptly, causing other carts to run into them. Only the generic food is where it was, white packages plainly labeled. The men consult lists, the women do not. There is a sense of wandering now, an aimless and haunted mood, sweet- tempered people taken to the edge. They scrutinize the small print on packages, wary of a second level of betrayal. The men scan for stamped dates, the women for ingredients. Many have trouble making out the words. Smeared print, ghost images. In the altered shelves, the ambient roar, in the plain and heartless fact of their decline, they try to work their way through confusion. But in the end it doesn't matter what they see or think they see. The terminals are equipped with holographic scanners, which decode the binary secret of every item, infallibly. This is the language of waves and radiation, or how the dead speak to the living. And this is where we wait together, regardless of age, our carts stocked with brightly colored goods. A slowly moving line, satisfying, giving us time to glance at the tabloids in the racks. Everything we need that is not food or love is here in the tabloid racks. The tales of the supernatural and the extraterrestrial. The miracle vitamins, the cures for cancer, the remedies for obesity. The cults of the famous and the dead.