The Dispossessed

There was a wall. It did not look important. It was built of uncut rocks roughly mortared; an adult could look right over it, and even a child could climb it. Where it crossed the roadway, instead of having a gate it degenerated into mere geometry, a line, an idea of boundary. But the idea was real. It was important. For seven generations there had been nothing in the world more important than that wall.

Like all walls, it was ambiguous, two-faced. What was inside it and what was outside it depended upon which side of it you were on.

Ursula Le Guin, The Dispossessed

Promete, e muito, a avaliar por estes dois primeiros parágrafos - um dos mais curiosos inícios de livro que já tive oportunidade de ler.

john