More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
She felt a perfect animal inside her, full of contradictions, of selfishness and vitality.
it is impossible to be any more than what you are (nevertheless I exceed myself even when I’m not delirious, I am more than myself almost normally); I have a body and everything that I do is a continuation of my beginning;
Let us sleep hand in hand.
She couldn’t fool herself because she knew she was also living and that those moments were the peak of something difficult, of a painful experience for which she should be thankful: almost as if she were feeling time outside herself, in a detached manner.
Inside her it was as if death didn’t exist, as if love could weld her, as if eternity were renewal.
The impression that if she could remain in the feeling for a few more instants she’d have a revelation—easily, like seeing the rest of the world just by leaning from the earth towards space.
“Everything,” she says slowly as if surrendering something, scrutinizing herself without understanding herself. Everything. And this word is peace, serious and incomprehensible as a ritual.
Another way to capture it would be to live. But dreams are more complete than reality, which drowns me in the unconscious.
A softly somber color had settled on the fields warm from the last sunlight and the light breeze flew slowly. I must not forget, I thought, that I have been happy, that I am being happier than one can be. But I forgot, I’ve always forgotten.
No, she still wasn’t so worn out that she wanted cowardly to pray instead of discovering pain, suffering it, owning it entirely so she could know all of its mysteries.
If she prayed, if she thought it would be to give thanks for having a body made for love.
the last ice cubes had melted and now she was sadly a happy woman.
He trusted that he could imagine in one life and exist in another, separate one.
How many times will I have to live through the same things in different situations?
She stopped and without her footsteps she heard the silence moving.
may they make a harp out of my nerves when I die.
Dear God, how sweetly she sank into the incomprehension of herself.
