Athol Fugard Info

Elias stopped whittling. He held up the wooden swallow. "There is the space between the notes of the cicadas," he said softly. "There is the way the shadows stretch long enough to touch the mountains at five o'clock. You can't find those in a flat in Jo'burg."

The bus came the next morning. It left with an empty seat. Pieter stood on the stoep, his suit jacket discarded, watching the dust kick up behind the retreating vehicle. He wasn't sure if he was staying for the land, or because he had finally realized that the silence held more truth than the noise. athol fugard

Elias sat on an upturned crate outside the general dealer, his fingers dancing over a piece of scrap wood. He was whittling a bird—a swallow that would never fly. Beside him, Hennie, a man whose skin was a map of seventy years of South African sun, watched the horizon. Elias stopped whittling

Hennie didn't stand. He just pointed to the dirt at the boy's feet. "You’ve forgotten how to walk on this earth, Pieter. You’re stepping too light. The wind will blow you away." "There is the way the shadows stretch long