A ver si los puedo convencer de que lean estos dos maravillosos libros:
"Un pésimo actor, muy pagado de sí mismo, sale de gira con el monólogo de Hamlet. Siempre había soñado hacer Shakespeare, pero nunca lo llamaban. Ninguna compañía, ni la más triste, le ofrecía un papel. El actor, ya maduro, con dolores de ciática, veía alejarse el último sueño que tenía. Una noche, frente al espejo y a una amante cincuentona, llena de granos, se dijo a sí mismo que si los otros actores no se animaban, él sí. Fue a Córdoba y lo silbaron, fue a Bahía Blanca y también lo silbaron, pasó por Santa Fe y el público seguía silbando. Una noche, en Rosario, harto de derrochar energía, llegó a la conclusión de que algo fallaba. Aturdido por los chiflidos y el pataleo se paró frente al público, hizo un corte de manga y le gritó: ¡Paren carajo, que no fui yo el que escribió esta mierda!"
Osvaldo Soriano, La Hora Sin Sombra.
"´Hey Horwitz,´ I said. ´You ever pass by the lagoon in Central Park? Down by Central Park South?´
´The lagoon. That little lake, like, there. Where the ducks are, you know.´
´Yeah, what about it?´
´Well, you know the ducks that swim around in it? In the springtime and all? Do you happen to know where they go in the wintertime, by any chance?´
´Where who goes?´
´The ducks. Do you know, by any chance? I mean does somebody come around in a truck or something and take them away, or do they fly by themselves - go south or something?´
Old Horwitz turned all the way around and looked at me. He was a very impatient-type guy. He wasn't a bad guy though.´How the hell should I know?´he said. ´How the hell should I know a stupid thing like that?´
´Well, don't get sore about it´, I said. He was sore about it or something.
´Who's sore? Nobody´s sore´.
I stopped having a conversation with him, if he was gonna get so damn touchy about it. But he started it up again himself. He turned all the way around again and said, ´The fish don't go no place. They stay right there where they are, the fish. Right in the goddam lake.´
The fish - that's different. The fish is different. I'm talking about the ducks,´I said.
´What's different about it? Nothin´s different about it,´Horwitz said. Everything he said, he sounded sore about something. ´It's tougher for the fish, the winter and all, than it is for the ducks, for Chrissake. Use your head, for Chrissake."
I didn't say anything for about a minute.Then I said, ´All right. What do they do, the fish and all, when the whole little lake´s a solid block of ice, people skating on it and all?´
Old Horwitz turned around again. ´What the hellaya mean what do they do?´he yelled at me. ´They stay right where they are, for Chrissake.´
´They ca't just ignore the ice. They can't just ignore it.´
´Who's ignoring it? Nobody's ignoring it!´Horwitz said. (...) ´They live right in the goddam ice. It's their nature, for Chrissake. They get frozen right in one position for the whole winter. ´
´Yeah? What do they eat, then? I mean, if they're frozen solid, they can't swim around looking for food and all.´
´Their bodies, for Chrissake - what'sa matter whith ya? Their bodies take in nutrition and all, right through the goddam seaweed and crap that's in the ice. They got their pores open the whole time. That's their nature, for Chrissake. See what I mean?´He turned way the hell around to look at me."
J. D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye.