Aquí teniu el primer capítol en anglès (The ghosts of Dalí, translated by Maggie Ridding, edited by Peter Ridding)
Consulteu els drets a: http://www.sandrabruna.com/libros.php?id_libro=2149&lang=en
1. The maestro was in bed, immersed in his nightly paranoia, recalling his mighty discussions when suddenly he was startled. Something made him raise his head from the pillow. His sunken watery eyes slightly changed expression. Just beyond the foot of the bed he could see the outline of the side-table with the candelabra, his wife’s dressing-table with its ostentatious silver mirror. He thought perhaps he was imagining things and fell back again onto the pillow, his gaze tracing the four sides of the canopied bed. He screwed up his eyes to get a clearer picture. He could sense a shadow by the door that led to the piano room slowly and silently drawing nearer, a presence almost palpable in the rancid air of the room. He supposed it was the nurse who came to disturb him regularly. He would try to feign sleep just to annoy her, he thought. But whatever it was refused to go away and stood there defiantly. He noted the rapid breathing which made him wonder about the person’s intentions. His fear made his right hand tremble uncontrollably. He didn’t dare open his eyes. He ruffled the sheets a little to see if that would confuse the stranger. He made a few grunting noises then listened. The sound of breathing continued. The visitor stood close, unafraid, not moving an inch. Clearly he knew he was being watched. For a moment he thought it was his wife’s ghost. Ever since he had been living in the castle he was convinced that one night she would appear before his shrivelled old figure wearing the red dress that he had buried her in, two floors below, inside the crypt. The mere thought of this terrified him. He could not stand it any longer so he opened his eyes to find out what was happening. With difficulty he sat up. Now he could see that there really was someone at the foot of the bed. It was not his wife, nor the nurse, nor one of his secretaries or workers. It was a totally unfamiliar figure, wrapped in a black robe. The sight left him almost paralyzed.
‘Who are you?’ he croaked.
The figure stepped forward taking hold of the bedpost.
‘Maestro, please forgive the intrusion,’ he said softly, still keeping his face hidden.
‘Leave me alone. Get out.
Terror-stricken, he fumbled under the sheets for the alarm button fastened to his dressing gown. He pressed it repeatedly until it gave off sparks and a strange light glowed beneath the sheets.
“You must listen to my story!”
“Are you Death?”
The man hesitated a second.