One day I got Clarke's novel 2001. I looked up and down, I did not get anything else, I shrugged and gave thanks to heaven, and I started to read the simple and rarely appreciative reading of a best- seller. Soon its pages were consumed between my fingers, I read the word END, and I stacked it properly in the trunk of oblivion. Or that I thought. One Saturday night, a TV show surrender to Master Kubrick. After a documentary about his person the film started. I did not blink for the next 138 minutes, not until the director resolved on an image to an outcome that C. Clarke cost him several pages. Then my eyelids opened and closed stunned disbelief to the fact that Kubrick also he were under the influence of the mysterious monolith. Echoed in my ears the mighty strains of "Thus Spoke Zarathustra" by Richard Strauss, while Stanley Kubrick smiled after the credits: to him the words left over.
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