In her final years she would still recall the trip that, with the perverse lucidity of nostalgia, became more and more recent in her memory.

She would defend herself, saying that love, no matter what else it might be, was a natural talent. She would say: You are either born knowing how, or you never know.

Thus they went on living in a reality that was slipping away, momentarily captured by words, but which would escape irremediably when they forgot the values of the written letters.

It always amuses me that the biggest praise for my work comes for the imagination, while the truth is that there's not a single line in all my work that does not have a basis in reality. The problem is that Caribbean reality resembles the wildest imagination.

That's maybe the reason he does so many things so that he will not have to think .

More than mother and son, they were accomplices in solitude.

Justice limps along, but gets there all the same.