Reseña del libro "The Great Chess Master: The Lamp Bearers (en Inglés)"
"A hundred and twenty people in a borrowed room, with the doors shut and no instruction except to wait." No premises. No funds. No scriptures. No organisation, and no name for themselves. Ten days of a conversation that ran out by the fourth morning, and not one of them knew it was ten days. Three hundred years later the empire that killed Him belonged to them, and they never once had an army. This is not the history of an institution. No chapter in it is about the movement. Every chapter is one person, receiving it badly, in the middle of something else. A jar-maker who went out into the street annoyed and stood there four minutes without a category. A treasurer of a foreign kingdom whom the law itself excluded, reading a passage about somebody cut off with no descendants. A cook who sat through fourteen months of a philosopher demolishing her faith and never argued back, because she assumed he would work it out. A grandmother carding wool in a house where she was a burden, telling a six year old at night with the order wrong. A jailer four seconds from a sword. A runaway thief who carried his own indictment a thousand miles to a door he might have died at. And two men in that borrowed room, both present for every single thing in the previous volume, both eligible, and the lot fell on one of them. He got a seat and one mention. The other got nothing and did the work, and nobody ever wrote his name again. **Book Seven of The Great Chess Master.** The volume in which the reader stops standing above the board. There is no living witness, no verifiable chain of custody, and nothing to hold but the thing itself. Those are the conditions of the book and they are yours. And Veyl, who tried killing them for three centuries and finally worked out that it had been a delivery system. So he stopped. That is the last movement, and it is harder to read than the one with the killing in it.
