We'd nicknamed her "the pigeon," because of her nose and eyes; my mother was an expert at finding animal resemblances.
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My mother slept deeply, she was privileged, a Queen of Sleep, one of those people who could sleep forever, all their lives, if they set themselves to it.
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Prodigious spectacle, perennial postcard, transcendental cinema, scene of scenes: to see a madwoman go mad. It's like seeing God.
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I don't think traveling is worth the trouble if you don't bring your life along with you.
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(I want to make a note here of an idea that may be useful later on: the only appropriate mannequin I can think of for a wedding dress is a snowman.)
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Patagonia... the end of the world... yes, agreed; but the end of the world is still the world.
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But what am I after? I don't know. People disarmed by their own visions, like Picasso's women, medusa-like and limping, thousand-armed goddesses, hollow people, fluid people?
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The simple fact of being alive and not dead had unexpected consequences.
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The world, life, love, work: winds. Great crystalline trains that whistle through the sky.
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Traveling is real. Opening the door to all fears is real, even if what comes before and what comes after, the motives and the consequences, are not.
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It was a plateau as white as the moon, under a black sky filled with stars. Too big, too beautiful, to be taken in with a single gaze; and yet it must be, because no one has two gazes.
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Son of a thousand whores!
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In Ramón and Delia's past there was a small, secret puzzle (but life is full of puzzles that are never solved).
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There are things that seem like secrets someone is keeping, but they aren't being kept by anyone.
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The town was the size of a handkerchief
--César Aira, translated by Rosalie Knecht
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