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“The smell of burnt flesh, which the perilla seeds couldn’t wholly mask, pricked my nose. I remember the two eyes that had watched me, while the dog was made to run on, while he vomited blood mixed with froth, and how later they had seemed to appear, flickering, on the surface of the soup. But I don’t care. I really didn’t care.”

“Sister, just behave, okay? Just eat what he gives you.”

sums up the entire book for you

“Everything starts to feel unfamiliar. As if I’ve come up to the back of something. Shut up behind a door without a handle. Perhaps I’m only now coming face-to-face with the thing that has always been here. It’s dark. Everything is being snuffed out in the pitch-black darkness.”

“Intolerable loathing, so long suppressed. Loathing I’ve always tried to mask with affection. But now the mask is coming off.That shuddering, sordid, gruesome, brutal feeling. Nothing else remains. Murderer or murdered, experience too vivid to not be real. Determined, disillusioned. Lukewarm, like slightly cooled blood”

Now, brain, work as hard as you can.
A one-sided passion is wearing him thin.
He's in a state of nervous anxiety.
He kisses that adored face every day, his hands all over those exquisite limbs.
missing is the satisfaction that comes when there are two who long with the same intensity.
(But these two are not equally given to their illicit passion.
It possessed only him in full.)

Every inch of his flesh is racked by longing.
He feels that body's touch all over.
He longs to embrace him again.

He's lost him for good, as if he'd never existed.
Through imagination, and self-delusion, he seeks those lips on the lips of others; he's trying to feel that lost love again.

He's lost him for good, and now on the lips of each new lover he seeks the lips of the one he lost; in every embrace with each new lover he tries to believe that he's giving himself to the same young man.

It bears a resemblance. But I remember him as even mor
handsome,
more sensual, almost painfully so, which casts his features in a more vivid light.
He seems even more handsome to me now that my soul calls him back, out of Time.

Gratification of the flesh between half-opened clothes,
the quick baring of the flesh - the ideal image of it
lay the bed;
has travelled across twenty-six years, and now has come
ht reached only halfway ansi.
to live in these verses.

That afternoon, at four o'clock, we parted, just for a week... alas, that week became forever.

never found them again - so quickly lost, the potic eyes, the pallid face, seen on the street at nightfall.
then given up so easily,
I never found them again - possessed entirely by chance, and now so agonizingly longed for.
The poetic eyes, the pallid face, those lips I never found again.


tot eu si domnul S

Try to preserve them, poet, your visions of love,
however few may stay for you.
Cast them, half hidden, into your verse.
Try to hold on to them, poet, when they come alive in your mind at night or in the brightness of noon.

The vision of my body in its youth brought sorrowful memories also: the grieving of my family, separations, the feelings I had for my own kin, feelings for the dead, whom I little acknowledged.
Half past twelve; how the time has passed.
Half past twelve; how the years have passed.

I allowed no restraint. I gave in completely and left.
I ran toward pleasures that were half real and half spun by my own mind.
I ran in the radiant night and drank down strong wines, the kind that champions of pleasure drink.

"Return often and take me,
beloved sensation, return and take me - when the body's memory awakens, and old longings pulse again in my blood, when lips and skin remember, and hands could almost touch again.
Return often and take me at night, when lips and skin remember."

me with a certain S

Let me stop right here. Let me, too, have a look at nature. the morning sea and the cloudless sky, both a luminous blue, the yellow shore, all of it beautiful, and in such magnificent light.
Let me stop right here. Let me pretend this is actually what I'm seeing (I really did see it, when I first stopl and not, here too, more of those fantasies of mine, more of those memories, those voluptuous illusions.

I sit and gaze like this for a long time.
Immersed again in art, I recover from the labour of
creating it.

An old man, stooped and spent, crippled by the years and by excess, walks slowly across the alley.
But as he enters his house
to hide his wretched state and his old age, he muses on that share of youth he still claims.
Young boys today recite his verses.
His fancies pass across their waking eyes.
Their healthy, sensuous minds, their muscular, smooth limbs, are stirred by his vision of beauty.

“Julio talks, but what he says is not heard. Someone should turn up his volume. Gazmuri’s throaty and intense voice, on the other hand, booms, works perfectly well:”

“Julio talks, but what he says is not heard. Someone should turn up his volume. Gazmuri’s throaty and intense voice, on the other hand, booms, works perfectly well:”

“You’ve gone back to wearing black, was the first thing she said to her. But the first thing she said was not the first thing she thought. And she thought many things when she saw Emilia: she thought you look ugly, you’re depressed, you look like a drug addict. She realized that perhaps she should not have come. She carefully examined Emilia’s eyebrows, Emilia’s eyes.”
l

“Madrid was not beautiful, at least not to Anita, to the Anita who that morning had to dodge, at the metro exit, past a group of Moroccans who were plotting something. They were actually Ecuadorians and Colombians, but she, who had never in her life met a Moroccan, thought of them as Moroccans, since she recalled that a gentleman had recently said on television that Moroccans were the great problem of Spain. "

“They quickly learned to read the same things, to think similarly, and to conceal their differences. Very soon they formed a conceited intimacy. At least during that time, Julio and Emilia managed to merge into a single kind of mass. They were, in short, happy. There is no doubt about that.”

“This is the story of two students who are enthusiasts of truth, of scattering sentences that seem true, of smoking eternal cigarettes, and of closing themselves into the intense complacency of those who think they are better, purer than others, than that immense and contemptible group known as the others.”

“In the story of Emilia and Julio, in any case, there are more omissions than lies, and fewer omissions than truths, truths of the kind that are called absolute and that tend to be uncomfortable. ”

“The first lie Julio told Emilia was that he had read Marcel Proust. He didn’t usually lie about reading, but that second night, when they both knew they were starting something, and that that something, however long it lasted, was going to be important, that night Julio made his voice resonant and feigned intimacy,”