Per E-Mail in den vergangenen Wochen diese Kurzgeschichte von F. Scott Fitzgerald gelesen. Toll. Besonders der Schluss.
He did not remember clearly whether the milk was warm or cool at his last feeding or how the days passed–there was only his crib and Nana’s familiar presence. And then he remembered nothing. When he was hungry he cried–that was all. Through the noons and nights he breathed and over him there were soft mumblings and murmurings that he scarcely heard, and faintly differentiated smells, and light and darkness.
Then it was all dark, and his white crib and the dim faces that moved above him, and the warm sweet aroma of the milk, faded out altogether from his mind.