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by Roberto Bolaño

“I just wanted to tell you,” he said, “that the young lady was right. I killed my wife. I pushed her into a ravine. The Virgin’s ravine. Actually, I don’t remember anymore. It might have been the Flower ravine. But I pushed her into a ravine and I watched her body fall, battered against the outcroppings of rock. Then I opened my eyes and searched for her. There she was down below. A spot of color on the stone slabs. For a long time I stared. Then I went down and slung her over my shoulder and climbed up with her, but she didn’t weigh a thing anymore, it was like climbing up with a bundle of sticks. I brought her into the house through the back door. No one saw me. I washed her carefully, I dressed her in clean clothes, I laid her out on the bed. How did no one notice all her bones were broken? I said she had died. What did she die of? they asked. Of sorrow, I said. When you die of sorrow it’s as if you’ve broken all the bones in your body, bruised yourself all over, cracked your skull. That’s sorrow.