Memories of My Melancholy Whores

by Gabriel García Márquez

When I was twenty I began to keep a record listing name, age, place, and a brief notation on the circumstances and style of lovemaking.

Oh, Señor, she said, with a mournful lament, that wasn’t made for coming in but for going out.

Sex is the consolation you have when you can’t have love.

The women who sold their bodies at bargain prices until dawn moved around the house after eleven in the morning, when the heat from the stained glass became unbearable, and they were obliged to live their domestic life walking naked through the house while they shouted observations on the night’s adventures.

“That poor creature’s head over heels in love with you.”