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“Andreas Ban would like to put several swifts on his chest to rest, to breathe with him like sleeping children. Little black birds like cheerful death. Painless. Little black birds with big eyes and a small beak, which peck noiselessly at his insides, see what is there and are silent. Andreas Ban stretches his arms toward the sky, imagining that he is flying, imagining himself in a flock of swifts and lets out a stifled cry. Small birds, they die when they are alone. He, Andreas Ban, is alone.” — Daša Drndić
Andreas Ban would like to put several swifts on his chest to rest, to breathe with him like sleeping children.
Little black birds like cheerful death. Painless.
Little black birds with big eyes and a small beak, which peck noiselessly at his insides, see what is there and are silent.
Andreas Ban stretches his arms toward the sky, imagining that he is flying, imagining himself in a flock of swifts and lets out a stifled cry.
Small birds, they die when they are alone.
He, Andreas Ban, is alone.