She would not shed a tear, she would not waste the rest of her years simmering in the maggot broth of memory.

She felt the abyss of disenchantment.

El mundo habrá acabado de joderse -dijo entonces- el día en que los hombres viajen en primera clase y la literatura en el vagón de carga.

For a week, almost without speaking, they went ahead like sleepwalkers through a universe of grief, lighted only by the tenuous reflection of luminous insects, and their lungs were overwhelmed by a suffocating smell of blood.

I never had intimate friends, and the few who came close are in New York. By which I mean they're dead, because that's where I suppose condemned souls go in order not to endure the truth of their past lives.

but he only found her in the image that saturated his private and terrible solitude.

The problem with marriage is that it ends every night after making love, and it must be rebuilt every morning before breakfast.