world's box

&quote;In the box of the world&quote; when we were children... we were playing and bustling, and one of us saw the &quote;box&quote; coming from afar, and he dropped the &quote;ball&quote; or the like in his hand, uttering a loud shout, and went running, leaping, while we were following him. The metaphor: this one is holding his sleeve, the other is holding his belt, and his last hand is on the box, and he is walking with his back bent under his burden, and his thick, thick beard is folded over his chest, and we are jostling around him and bouncing, until he brings us to the shade, and places the wooden &quote;bench&quote; on the ground, so we are on top of it, jostling, pushing, and shouting. We curse before it settles on its legs, and the man who lives in the bird does not care about us, does not give us a glance, and does not care about those of us who remain on his &quote;bench,&quote; and whoever moves away from it and falls to the ground and stands up cursing and cursing, or cries and feels pain, or goes to the wall and presses his shoulder against it and puts his hand in his eye. Just as the old &quote;world box&quote; was the mail of the &quote;magic lantern&quote; and the &quote;cinema&quote; tape and their vanguard, so this book is a glimpse into the magical, rugged, and amazing world of literature.