What do you think?
Rate this book


194 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1958
The pilgrim tramped the roads of France, grasping his staff in emaciated hands; he was wearing a cloak sanctified by beautiful shells sewed to the leather and carried a gourd filled with pure stream water. His beard was growing longer under the drooping brim of his hat, and the frayed edge of his serge habit brushed against the worn sandals that had piously trod the streets of Paris without ever crossing the threshold of a tavern or deviating from the straight highroad of Saint James except to admire from a distance the holy house of the monks of Cluny.
The white and black marble squares flew to the floors and covered them. Stones leaped up and unerringly filled the gaps in the walls. The nail-studded walnut doors fitted themselves into their frames, while the screws rapidly twisted back into the holes in the hinges. In the dead flower beds, the fragments of tile were lifted by the thrust of growing flowers and joined together, raising a sonorous whirlwind of clay, to fall like rain on the framework of the roof. The house grew, once more assuming its normal proportions, modestly clothed. Ceres became less gray. There were more fish in the fountain. And the gurgling water summoned forgotten begonias back to life.
He looked like a gesticulating insect, a very small and lively object on top of the rock. Then he raised his hand and began to speak. He said that Great Upheavals were threatening Humanity; he said that this year snakes had laid their eggs in the tops of trees; he said that, although it was impossible for him to disclose the reason, the best way of avoiding a great general disaster would be to take refuge in the hills, mountain peaks, and ranges.