The circus burns. The audience fled at breakneck pace. The stands are empty, the big top full of smoke and flames. The clown is alone on the track, his sequins' costume shining in the glimmer of the fire. His face is white as lime, under the left eye shines an obliged tear, the crooked hat on the head. With a flashing trumpet he plays the farewell's great melody, sublime and ridiculous.

[M. Ende] ... more