História genial da New Yorker que o vulcão na Islândia atua como elemento conciliador no final. Muito bonito. Um trilhão de vezes bonito.

Seguem alguns trechos que, espero, não tirem nem a surpresa nem empobreçam a história que merece ser lida na íntegra aqui.

—Good night, Mick.
—Go a bit mad.
—Thanks.
—You asked.
—How?
—How what?
—How would I go mad?
—Wife swapping.
—I’d need a wife.
—True.
—Good night, Mick.

[...]

They all sat in front of the telly and watched the Icelandic volcano erupting.—Amazing.
They looked at the cloud as it grew and curled.
—It’s all ash, he told them.
—What’s ash?
Erica’s question—it was one of those brilliant moments. Kevin and Ciara looked at each other. They smiled. There were no coal fires in the house and neither of them had ever smoked. The cooker was electric. Nothing was ever burned. There was no real religion, at home or in school, so Erica had never noticed the gray thumbprints on Ash Wednesday, on the foreheads of the old and the Polish. A child like Erica could get this far without knowing what ash was, until she saw it spewing from a mountain.
—It’s like dust, he said. Burnt.
—What burnt?
—Stone, I think. I’m not sure.
—Stone?
—I think so.
—You, like, can’t burn stone.
—If it’s hot enough, you can. Lava.
—It’s scary.
—It’s only a cloud.
They sat and watched, and ate, and gathered the expertise. Ash killed planes; it attached itself to the turbine section of the engines.
It was an act of God.


Para ouvir, Islands do XX.