We carry the dead with us only until we die too, and then it is we who are borne along for a little while, and then our bearers in turn drop, and so on into the unimaginable generations.
W mojej pamięci jest swoim własnym cieniem. Która z nich jest realniejsza, kobieta, która rozłożyła się na trawiastej skarpie moich wspomnień, czy też ta powłoka kurzu i suchy szpik, jedyne jej ślady,...
This is the way it is with me, always looking in or looking out, a chilly pane of glass between me and a remote and longed-for world.
The secret of survival is a defective imagination.
The past, I mean the real past, matters less than we pretend.
She had that look - scared and sort of paralysed but frantic underneath - that girls got when they could think of only the one thing. It was a look that told him it would be her first time.
Przeszłość bije we mnie niczym drugie serce.
Of all the things we fashioned for them that they might be comforted, dawn is the one that works. When darkness sifts from the air like fine soft soot and light spreads slowly out of the east then all...
No właśnie, przedmioty potrafią przetrwać, a żywi tymczasem znikają.
Me pregunto si los demás, de niños, tienen ese tipo de imagen, a la vez vaga y concreta, de lo que les gustaría ser de mayores. No hablo de esperanzas y aspiraciones, ni de vagas ambiciones, ese tipo...
I had a sudden image of myself as a sort of large dark simian something slumped there at the table, or not a something but a nothing, rather, a hole in the room, a palpable absence, a darkness visible...
Given the world that he created, it would be an impiety against God to believe in him.
Chaos is nothing but an infinite number of ordered things.
Another week done with. How quickly the time goes as the season advances, the earth hurtling along its groove into the years's sharply descending final arc.
I am old now, or oldening ...
He had scores to settle with the world, and she, at that moment, was world enough for him.
Მე მხოლოდ მიწიერი თვითგამოხატვის წამს ველი. სწორედ ასეა: მთლიანად, ერთიანად გამოვხატავ საკუთარ თავს და გავთავისუფლდები როგორც საბოლოო, სამადლობელი სიტყვის მთქმელი. მოკლედ ამოვითქმები.
Ბავშვობაში ბედნიერება სულ სხვა რამეა. მეტწილად უბრალოდ აგროვებ ახალ გრძნობებს, შეგრძნებებს თუ გამოცდილებას და მერე იმ პრიალა მოზაიკასავით აწყობ, ერთ მშვენიერ დღეს შენივე საკუთარ, უკვე დასრულებულ მე-დ...
Yes, another April; in a way, in this story, it is always April.
We do not grow up; all we do is grow dull.