I meet you. I remember you. Who are you? You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. How could I know this city was tailor-made for love? How could I know you fit my body like a glove? I like you. How u...
Finding yourself in a hole, at the bottom of a hole, in almost total solitude, and discovering that only writing can save you. To be without the slightest subject for a book, the slightest idea for a...
لا ينبغي للنساء أن يُطلعن عُشّاقهنّ على ما يضعن مِن كتُب
Very early in my life it was too late.
Very early in my life it was too late. It was already too late when I was eighteen. Between eighteen and twenty-five my face took off in a new direction. I grew old at eighteen. I don't know if it's t...
The words emerge from her body without her realizing it, as if she were being visited by the memory of a language long forsaken.
The story of my life doesn't exist. Does not exist. There's never any center to it. No path, no line. There are great spaces where you pretend there used to be someone, but it's not true, there was no...
She says people ought to learn to live like them, with the body abandoned in a wilderness, and in the mind the memory of a single kiss, a single word, a single look to stand for a whole love.
People ought to be told of such things. Ought to be taught that immortality is mortal, that it can die, it's happened before and it happens still. It doesn't ever announce itself as such-it's duplicit...
L´homme se croit un héros, toujours comme l´enfant. L´homme aime la guerre, la chasse, la pêche, les motos, les autos, comme l´enfant. Quand il dort, ca se voit, et on aime les hommes comme ca, les fe...
La historia de mi vida no existe. Eso no existe. Nunca hay centro. Ni camino, ni línea. Hay bastos pasajes donde se insinúa que alguien hubo, no es cierto, no hubo nadie.
La faim n'empêche pas les enfants de jouer.
I had the face of pleasure, and yet I had no knowledge of pleasure. There was no mistaking that face.
Among all the other nights upon nights, the girl had spent that one on the boat….when it happened, the burst of Chopin…. There wasn’t a breath of wind and the music spread all over the dark boat, like...
Sen bu öyküden pek hoşlanmıyorsun, dedi.-Öyküyü öğrenmem için, bu bir neden olamaz. Yine de bilmek isterim.-Yoksa o mu? Hoşuna gitmeyen kendisi mi yoksa?-Sanırım, öyle. Yani, Cebelitarık denizcilerind...
أن أكتب ، ذا الشيء الوحيد الذي عمّر حياتي وفتَنها. وقد فعلتُه إذ أنّ الكتابة لم تغادرني قط
« Je n'ai jamais écrit, croyant le faire, je n'ai jamais aimé, croyant aimer, je n'ai jamais rien fait qu'attendre devant la porte fermée. »
You alone became the outer surface of my life, the side I never see, and you will be that, the unknown part of me, until I die.
When you wept it was just over yourself and not because of the marvelous impossibility of reaching her through the difference that separates you.
Stormy skies, says Ernesto. He grieved for them. Summer rain. Childhood.