The Promise

by Silvina Ocampo

I don’t have a life of my own; I have only feelings. My experiences were never important—not during the course of my life nor even on the threshold of death. Instead, the lives of others have become mine.

Those times when I felt unhappy now seem so joyful,

I’ve forgotten my brother’s face; I can’t even remember the color of his eyes, striped blue and green like glass marbles. Sometimes too much love makes it difficult to remember.

“Being tired is restful, while resting is not always restful,”

There’s always something in the dramatic life of a woman that makes her bourgeois.

“It has no plot,” answered Verónica. “Can one write a novel without a plot?” “Naturally. One could write forever about their feelings.”