To compensate, Paz had developed a habit of turning back to the beginning of a book the moment she finished it. As if a story were a circle, its ending secretly embedded in its opening line. As if a book were a long and unclasped belt, with the first chapter at the buckle and the last page the end tip, an extended supple thing she could bend and wrap around the waist of her mind, curved, fastened, solid enough to stay.
