Hopscotch Quotes

Don't wish to be normal. Wish to be yourself. To the hilt. Find out what you're best at, and develop it, and hopscotch your weaknesses. Wish to be great at whatever you are.

me atormenta tu amor que no me sirve de puente porque un puente no se sostiene de un solo lado...

Si te caes te levanto y sino me acuesto contigo

Probablemente de todos nuestros sentimientos el único que no es verdaderamente nuestro es la esperanza. La esperanza le pertenece a la vida, es la vida misma defendiéndose.

She would smile and show no surprise, convinced as she was, the same as I, that casual meetings are apt to be just the opposite, and that people who make dates are the same kind who need lines on their writing paper, or who always squeeze up from the bottom on a tube of toothpaste.

Hay ausencias que representan un verdadero triunfo

The idea of my future simultaneously thrilled and terrified me, like standing at the lip of a very sheer cliff- I could fly, or fall. I didn't know how to fly, and I didn't want to fall. So I backed away from the cliff and went in search of something that had a clear, solid trajectory for me to follow, like hopscotch.

But what is memory if not the language of feeling, a dictionary of faces and days and smells which repeat themselves like the verbs and adjectives in a speech, sneaking in behind the thing itself,into the pure present, making us sad or teaching us vicariously...

...nos queríamos en una dialéctica de imán y limadura, de ataque y defensa, de pelota y pared.

Cómo podía yo sospechar que aquello que parecía tan mentira era verdadero...

Buscás eso que llamas la armonía, pero la buscás justo ahí donde acabás de decir que no está, entre los amigos, la familia, en la ciudad...

I love you because you are not mine, because you are from the other side, from there where you invite me to jump and I cannot make the jump, because in the deepest moment of possession you are not in me, I cannot reach you, I cannot get beyond your body...

As if you could pick in love, as if it were not a lightning bolt that splits your bones and leaves you staked out in the middle of the courtyard. (...) You don't pick out the rain that soaks you to the skin when you come out of a concert.

Happy was she who could believe without seeing, who was at one with the duration and continuity of life.

Y mirá que apenas nos conocíamos y ya la vida urdía lo necesario para desencontrarnos minuciosamente.

Vos no elegís la lluvia que te va a calar hasta los huesos cuando salís de un concierto.

Demasiado tarde, siempre, porque aunque hiciéramos tantas veces el amor la felicidad tenía que ser otra cosa, algo quizá más triste que esta paz y este placer, un aire como de unicornio o isla, una caída interminable en la inmovilidad

Pobre amor el que de pensamiento se alimenta.

Of all our feelings the only one which really doesn't belong to us is hope. Hope belongs to life, it's life itself defending itself. Etcetera.

We went around without looking for each other, but knowing we went around to find each other.

Sintió una especie de ternura rencorosa, algo tan contradictorio que debía ser la verdad misma.

Hay ríos metafísicos, ella los nada como esa golondrina está nadando en el aire, girando alucinada en torno al campanario, dejándose caer para levantarse mejor con el impulso. Yo describo y defino y deseo esos ríos, ella los nada. Yo los busco, los encuentro, los miro desde el puente, ella los nada.

No puede ser que estemos aquí para no poder ser.

No es que haya que vivir, puesto que la vida nos es fatalmente dada... la vida se vive a sí misma, nos guste o no.

Before going back to sleep I imagined (I saw) a plastic universe, changeable, full of wondrous chance, an elastic sky, a sun that suddenly is missing or remains fixed or changes its shape.

...nada está perdido si se tiene por fin el valor de proclamar que todo está perdido y que hay que empezar de nuevo...

No estábamos enamorados, hacíamos el amor con un virtuosismo desapegado y crítico, pero después caíamos en silecios terribles y la espuma de los vasos de cerveza se iba poniendo como estopa, se entibiaba y contraía mientras nos mirábamos y sentíamos que eso era el tiempo...

—Usted escribe, supongo. —No —dijo Oliveira—. Qué voy a escribir, para eso hay que tener alguna certidumbre de haber vivido.

At an age when most children are playing hopscotch or with their dolls,you, poor child, who had no friends or toys, you toyed with dreams of murder, because that is a game to play alone.

Y debo decir que confío plenamente en la casualidad de haberte conocido. Que nunca intentaré olvidarte, y que si lo hiciera, no lo conseguiría.

Siempre quejándote de todo y a la vez fingiendo no darle importancia a nada. Vives de esperanzas pero no sabes ni qué esperas.

Del sí al no, ¿cuántos quizá?

Y lo que llamamos amarnos fue quizá que yo estaba de pie, delante de vos, con una flor amarilla en la mano, y vos sostenías dos velas verdes, y el tiempo soplaba contra nuestras caras una lenta lluvia de renuncias y despedidas y tickets de metro.

La gente se cree amiga porque coincide algunas horas por semana en un sofá, una película, a veces una cama, o porque le toca hacer el mismo trabajo en la oficina.

Había tanta niebla en tu corazón desconcertado.

Había tanto tiempo perdido en vos, eras de tal manera el molde de lo que hubieras podido ser.

Oh mi amor, te extraño, me dolés en la piel, en la garganta, cada vez que respiro es como si el vacío me entrara en el pecho donde ya no estás

What good is a writer if he can’t destroy literature? And us ... what good are we if we don’t help as much as we can in that destruction?

It’s impossible to want what I want and in the shape I want it, and share life with others besides. I had to know how to be alone and how to let so much wanting do its work, save me or destroy me…

No estábamos enamorados, hacíamos el amor con un virutosísimo desapego y crítico, pero después caíamos en silencios terribles...

When You Have Forgotten Sunday: The Love Story -- And when you have forgotten the bright bedclothes on a Wednesday and a Saturday, And most especially when you have forgotten Sunday -- When you have forgotten Sunday halves in bed, Or me sitting on the front-room radiator in the limping afternoon Looking off down the long street To nowhere, Hugged by my plain old wrapper of no-expectation And nothing-I-have-to-do and I’m-happy-why? And if-Monday-never-had-to-come— When you have forgotten that, I say, And how you swore, if somebody beeped the bell, And how my heart played hopscotch if the telephone rang; And how we finally went in to Sunday dinner, That is to say, went across the front room floor to the ink-spotted table in the southwest corner To Sunday dinner, which was always chicken and noodles Or chicken and rice And salad and rye bread and tea And chocolate chip cookies -- I say, when you have forgotten that, When you have forgotten my little presentiment That the war would be over before they got to you; And how we finally undressed and whipped out the light and flowed into bed, And lay loose-limbed for a moment in the week-end Bright bedclothes, Then gently folded into each other— When you have, I say, forgotten all that, Then you may tell, Then I may believe You have forgotten me well.

As if you could pick in love, as if it were not a lightning bolt that splits your bones and leaves you staked out in the middle of the courtyard.

You're like a witness. You're the one who goes to the museum and looks at the paintings. I mean the paintings are there and you're in the museum too, near and far away at the same time. I'm a painting. Rocamadour is a painting. Etienne is a painting, this room is a painting. You think that you're in the room but you're not. You're looking at the room, you're not in the room.

Déjame entrar, déjame ver algún día como ven tus ojos.

I smile because there are tiny dreams that play hopscotch at the corners of my mouth, and every time I breathe they float and every time I laugh they fly kites.

Total parcial: te quiero. Total general: te amo

La Maga did not know that my kisses were like eyes which began to open up beyond her, and that I went along outside as if I saw a different concept of the world, the dizzy pilot of a black prow which cut the water of time and negated it.

La rayuela se juega con una piedrita que hay que empujar con la punta del zapato. Ingredientes: una acera, una piedrita, un zapato, y un bello dibujo con tiza, preferentemente de colores. En lo alto está el Cielo, abajo está la Tierra, es muy difícil llegar con la piedrita al Cielo, casi siempre se calcula mal y la piedra sale del dibujo. Poco a poco, sin embargo, se va adquiriendo la habilidad necesaria para salvar las diferentes casillas (rayuela caracol, rayuela rectangular, rayuela de fantasía, poco usada) y un día se aprende a salir de la Tierra y remontar la piedrita hasta el Cielo, hasta entrar en el Cielo, (Et tous nos amours, sollozó Emmanuèle boca abajo), lo malo es que justamente a esa altura, cuando casi nadie ha aprendido a remontar la piedrita hasta el Cielo, se acaba de golpe la infancia y se cae en las novelas, en la angustia al divino cohete, en la especulación de otro Cielo al que también hay que aprender a llegar. Y porque se ha salido de la infancia (Je n'oublierai pas le temps des cérises, pataleó Emmanuèle en el suelo) se olvida que para llegar al Cielo se necesitan, como ingredientes, una piedrita y la punta de un zapato.

The dark moppets of dread played their paranoid hopscotch across Moist's inner eyeballs.

un mate es como un punto y aparte. Uno lo toma y después se puede empezar un nuevo párrafo.

Happy are those who choose, those who accept being chosen, the handsome heroes, the handsome saints, the perfect escapists.

La risa ella sola ha cavado más túneles útiles que todas las lágrimas de la tierra.

¿Por qué no aceptar lo que estaba ocurriendo sin pretender explicarlo, sin sentar las nociones del orden y de desorden?

HOPSCOTCH.

Being alive always seems to be the price of something.

Thus they went along, Punch and Judy, attracting each other and repelling, as love must do if it is not to end up as calendar art or a pop tune.

Bruno opened his eyes in wonder at the things he saw. In his imagination he had tough that all the huts were full of happy families, some of whom sat outside on rocking chairs in the evening and told stories about how things were so much better when they were children and they'd had nowadays. He thought that all the boys and girls who lived there would be in different groups, playing tennis or football, skipping and drawing out squares for hopscotch on the ground. As it turned out, all the things he thought might be there-wern't.'' -The boy in the striped Pajamas

Rope-skipping, hopscotch. That old woman in black who sat down next to me on my bench, on my rack of joy (a nymphet was groping under me for a lost marble), and asked if I had stomachache, the insolent hag. Ah, leave me alone in my pubescent park, in my mossy garden. Let them play around me forever. Never grow up.

Amor mío, no te quiero por vos ni por mí ni por los dos juntos, no te quiero porque la sangre me llame a quererte, te quiero porque no sos mía, porque estás del otro lado, ahí donde me invitás a saltar y no puedo dar el salto, porque en lo más profundo de la posesión no estás en mí, no te alcanzo, no paso de tu cuerpo, de tu risa,

Mi diagnóstico es sencillo: sé que no tengo remedio

Explanation is a well-dressed error.

In his imagination he had thought that all the huts were full of happy families, some of whom sat outside on rocking chairs in the evening and told stories about how things were so much better when they were children and they'd had respect for their elders, not like the children nowadays. He thought that all the boys and girls who lived here would be in different groups, playing tennis or football, skipping and drawing out squares for hopscotch on the ground. He had thought that there would be a shop in the centre, and maybe a small café like the ones he had known in Berlin; he had wondered whether there would be a fruit and vegetable stalls. As it turned out, all the things that he thought might be there - weren't.

El recuerdo es el idioma de los sentimientos

Como no sabías disimular me di cuenta en seguida de que para verte como yo quería era necesario empezar por cerrar los ojos.

Esto es la realidad. Esto que acepto a cada momento como la realidad y que no puede ser, no puede ser.

you have to live by fighting each other, it's the law, the only way that things are worth while but it hurts

Anda a saber, yo creo que ni vos ni yo tenemos demasiado la culpa. No somos adultos

La gente que se da citas precisas es la misma que necesita papel rayado para escribirse o que aprieta desde abajo el tubo del dentífrico

Of all our feelings the only one which really doesn't belong to us is hope. Hope belongs to life, it's life itself defending itself.

Soy yo, soy él. Somos, pero soy yo, primeramente soy yo, defenderé ser yo hasta que no pueda más.

And it is also the only reward for my work: to feel what I have written is like the back of a cat as it is being petted, with sparks and an arching in cadence. (page 402)

Apenas nos conocíamos y ya la vida urdía lo necesario para desencontrarnos minuciosamente.

La razón sólo nos sirve para disecar la realidad en calma, o analizar sus futuras tormentas, nunca para resolver una crisis momentánea

During his reading hours, which were between one and five o'clock in the morning, but not every morning, he had come to the disconcerting conclusion that whistling was not an important theme in literature.

Allí donde esté tiene pelo ardiendo como una torre y me quema desde lejos , me hace pedazos nada más que con su ausencia.

No tenía ninguna fe de que ocurriera lo que deseaba, y sabía que sin fe no ocurriría. Sabía que sin fe no ocurre nada de lo que debería ocurrir, y con fe casi siempre tampoco.

La verdad es que no quiero entender nada, si por entender hay que aceptar eso que llamábamos la equivocación.

Sometimes I am convinced that triangle is another name for stupidity, that eight times eight is madness or a dog.

Living is something most of us postpone, isn't it? We sell the present for a chance at a future where we may do our living when we're old and we've lost the talent for it.

Antes de caer en la nada con el último diástole

Te prometo una cosa: acordarme de vos a ultimo momento parque sea todavía mas amargo.

Pero el amor, esa palabra...

Entonces mis manos buscan hundirse en tu pelo, acariciar lentamente la profundidad de tu pelo mientras nos besamos como si tuviéramos la boca llena de flores o de peces, de movimientos vivos, de fragancia oscura. Y si nos mordemos el dolor es dulce, y si nos ahogamos en un breve y terrible absorber simultáneo del aliento, esa instantánea muerte es bella. Y hay una sola saliva y un solo sabor a fruta madura, y yo te siento temblar contra mí como una luna en el agua.

in Just- spring          when the world is mud- luscious the little lame balloonman whistles          far          and wee and eddieandbill come running from marbles and piracies and it's spring when the world is puddle-wonderful the queer old balloonman whistles far          and          wee and bettyandisbel come dancing from hop-scotch and jump-rope and it's spring and           the                     goat-footed balloonMan          whistles far and wee

No estábamos enamorados, hacíamos el amor con un virtuosismo desapegado y crítico, pero después caíamos en silencios terribles y la espuma de los vasos de cerveza se iba poniendo como estopa, se entibiaba y contraía mientras nos mirábamos y sentíamos que eso era el tiempo.

Lo que mucha gente llama amar consiste en elegir a una mujer y casarse con ella. La eligen, te lo juro, los he visto. Como si se pudiese elegir en el amor, como si no fuera un rayo que te parte los huesos y te deja estaqueado en la mitad del patio

Felices los que eligen, los que aceptan ser elegidos, los hermosos héroes, los hermosos santos, los escapistas perfectos.

One begins to go about with the sluggish step of a philosopher or a clochard, as more and more vital gestures become reduced to mere instincts of preservation, to a conscience more alert not to be deceived than to grasp truth.

Nuestra verdad posible tiene que ser invención, es decir escritura, literatura, pintura, escultura, agricultura, piscicultura, todas las turas de este mundo. Los valores, turas, la santidad, una tura, la sociedad, una tura, el amor, pura tura, la belleza, tura de turas.

Why couldn't I accept what was happening without trying to explain it, without bringing up ideas of order and disorder, of freedom, as one sets out geranium pots in a courtyard on the Calle Cochabamba? Maybe on had to fall into the depths of stupidity in order to make the key fit the lock to the latrine or to the Garden of Olives.

Amor mío, no te quiero por vos ni por mí ni por los dos juntos, no te quiero porque la sangre me llame a quererte, te quiero porque no sos mía, porque estás del otro lado, ahí donde me invitás a saltar y no puedo dar el salto, porque en lo más profundo de la posesión no estás en mí, no te alcanzo, no paso de tu cuerpo, de tu risa, hay horas en que me atormenta que me ames (cómo te gusta usar el verbo amar, con qué cursilería lo vas dejando caer sobre los platos y las sábanas y los autobuses), me atormenta tu amor que no me sirve de puente porque un puente no se sostiene de un solo lado, jamás Wright ni Le Corbusier van a hacer un puente sostenido de un solo lado, y no me mires con esos ojos de pájaro, para vos la operación del amor es tan sencilla, te curarás antes que yo y eso que me querés como yo no te quiero.

That's how it is, Rocamadour: in Paris we're like fungus, we grow on the railings of staircases, in dark rooms with greasy smells, where people make love all the time and then fry some eggs and put on Vivaldi records, light cigarettes... and outside there are all sorts of things, the windows open onto the air and it all begins with a sparrow or a gutter, it rains a lot here, rocamadour, much more than in the country, and things get rusty... we don't have many clothes, we get along with so few, a good overcoat, some shoes to keep the rain out, we're very dirty, everybody is dirty and good-looking in Paris, Rocamadour, the beds smell of night and deep sleep, dust and books underneath.

Bennie's corner of Brooklyn looked different every time Sierra passed through it. She stopped at the corner of Washington Avenue and St. John's Place to take in the changing scenery. A half block from where she stood, she'd skinned her knee playing hopscotch while juiced up on iceys and sugar drinks. Bennie's brother, Vincent, had been killed by the cops on the adjacent corner, just a few steps from his own front door. Now her best friend's neighborhood felt like another planet. The place Sierra and Bennie used to get their hair done had turned into a fancy bakery of some kind, and yes, the coffee was good, but you couldn't get a cup for less than three dollars. Plus, every time Sierra went in, the hip, young white kid behind the counter gave her either the don't-cause-no-trouble look or the I-want-to-adopt-you look. The Takeover (as Bennie had dubbed it once) had been going on for a few years now, but tonight its pace seemed to have accelerated tenfold. Sierra couldn't find a single brown face on the block. It looked like a late-night frat party had just let out; she was getting funny stares from all sides--as if she was the out-of-place one, she thought. And then, sadly, she realized she was the out-of-place one.

A hand of smoke took his hand, started him downward, if it was downward, showed him a centre, if it was a centre, put it in his stomach, where the vodka was softly making crystal bubbles, some sort of infinitely beautiful and desperate illusion which some time back he had called immortality.

Ahora la Maga no estaba en mi camino, y aunque conocíamos nuestros domicilios, cada hueco de nuestras dos habitaciones de falsos estudiantes en París, cada tarjeta postal abriendo una ventanita Branque o Ghirlandaio o Max Ernst contra las molduras baratas y los papeles chillones, aun así no nos buscaríamos en nuestras casas. Preferíamos encontrarnos en el puente, en la terraza de un café, en un cine-club agachados junto a un gato en cualquier patio del barrio latino. Andábamos sin buscarnos pero sabiendo que andábamos para encontrarnos.

...Amor mío, no te quiero por vos ni por mí ni por los dos juntos, no te quiero porque la sangre me llame a quererte, te quiero porque no sos mía, porque estás del otro lado, ahí donde me invitás a saltar y no puedo dar el salto, porque en lo más profundo de la posesión no estás en mí, no te alcanzo, no paso de tu cuerpo, de tu risa, hay horas en que me atormenta que me ames (cómo te gusta usar el verbo amar, con qué cursilería lo vas dejando caer sobre los platos y las sábanas y los autobuses), me atormenta tu amor que no me sirve de puente porque un puente no se sostiene de un solo lado, jamás Wright ni Le Corbusier van a hacer un puente sostenido de un solo lado, y no me mires con esos ojos de pájaro, para vos la operación del amor es tan sencilla, te curarás antes que yo y eso que me querés como yo no te quiero. Claro que te curarás, porque vivís en la salud, después de mí será cualquier otro, eso se cambia como los corpiños...

Αγγίζω το στόμα σου, με το δάχτυλό μου αγγίζω το περίγραμμα του στόματός σου, το σχεδιάζω σαν να το δημιουργεί το χέρι μου, σαν το στόμα σου να μισανοίγει για πρώτη φορά και αρκεί να κλείσω τα μάτια μου για να το σβήσω και να ξαναρχίσω να το φτιάχνω, και κάθε φορά κάνω να γεννιέται το στόμα που ποθώ, το στόμα που επιλέγει το χέρι μου και σχεδιάζει πάνω στο πρόσωπό σου, ένα στόμα επιλεγμένο ανάμεσα σε τόσα άλλα, επιλεγμένο με ηγεμονική ελευθερία από μένα για να το ζωγραφίσει το χέρι μου πάνω στο πρόσωπό σου και που από ένα γύρισμα της τύχης που δεν προσπαθώ να καταλάβω συμπίπτει ακριβώς με το στόμα σου που χαμογελάει κάτω από εκείνο που σχεδιάζει το χέρι μου. Με κοιτάς, με κοιτάς από κοντά, κάθε φορά και από πιο κοντά και τότε παίζουμε τον κύκλωπα, κοιταζόμαστε όλο και από πιο κοντά και τα μάτια μεγαλώνουν, πλησιάζουν το ένα το άλλο, κολλάνε το ένα στο άλλο και οι κύκλωπες κοιτιούνται, οι ανάσες τους μπλέκουν, τα στόματα συναντιούνται και παλεύουν ανόρεχτα, δαγκώνονται χείλια με χείλια, ακουμπώντας μόλις τη γλώσσα πάνω στα δόντια, παίζουν μέσα στον περίβολό τους όπου πηγαινοέρχεται ένας βαρύς αέρας με ένα παλιό άρωμα και μια σιωπή. Τότε τα χέρια μου θέλουν να βυθιστούν στα μαλλιά σου, να χαϊδέψουν αργά τα βάθη των μαλλιών σου ενώ φιλιόμαστε σαν το στόμα μας να είναι γεμάτο λουλούδια ή ψάρια, ζωηρές κινήσεις, σκοτεινή ευωδιά. Και όταν δαγκωνόμαστε ο πόνος είναι γλυκός κι όταν πνιγόμαστε μʼ ένα σύντομο και τρομερό ταυτόχρονο ρούφηγμα της αναπνοής, αυτός ο στιγμιαίος θάνατος είναι όμορφος. Και υπάρχει ένα και μόνο σάλιο, μια και μόνη γεύση από ώριμο φρούτο κι εγώ σε νιώθω νʼ ανατριχιάζεις απάνω μου όπως η σελήνη στο νερό.

Every time it starts to get cool, I mean in the middle of autim, I start gettin nutty ideas like I was thinkin about what was forein and diffrent, like for exsample how I'd like to turn into a swallow and get away and fly to countrys where it gets hot, or be an ant so's I could get deep into a cave and eat the stuff I stored away durin the summer or be a snake like what they got in the zoO, the ones they keep lockt up in glass cages thats heated so's they don't get stiff from the cold, which is what happens to poor human beans who cant buy no close cause the price is to high, and cant keep warm cause theys no keroseen, no coal, no wood, no fule oil and besides theys no loot, cause when you go around with bocoo bread you can go into any bar and get some sneaky pete that can be real warmin, even tho it aint good to overdo it cause if you overdos it it gets to be a bad habbit and bad habbits is bad for your body just like they is for youre selfrespeck, and when you start goin downhill cause your actin bad in everythin, they aint nobody or nothin can stop you from endin up a stinkin piece of human garbidge and they never gone give you a hand to haul you up outen the dirty muck you rollin around in, not even if you was a eaglE when you was young and could fly up and over the highest hills, but when you get old you like a highflyin bomber thats lost its moral engines and fall down outen the sky. I jes hope what I been writin down hear do somebody some good so he take a good look at how he livin and he dont be sorry when it too late and everythin is gone down the drain cause it his own fault. -- Caser Bruto, What I Would Like to Be If I Wasn't What I Am (Chapter: "A St. Bernard Dog")

Да излезе, да направи, да приведе в ред не бяха неща, които помагат на човек да заспи. Да приведе в ред, какъв израз. Да направи. Да направи нещо, да направи добро, да направи пиш, да направи така, че да мине времето - действието във всичките му разновидности. Но зад всяко действие има протест, защото всяко действие означава да се излезе от, за да се стигне до, или да се премести нещо, за да бъде то тук, а не там, или да се влезе в онази къща, вместо да не се влиза, или пък да се влезе в другата до нея, тоест във всяко действие има приемане на някаква липса, на нещо, което все още не е направено, но може да бъде направено, мълчалив протест срещу непрестанната очевидност на липсата, на непълнотата, на недостатъчността на настоящето. Да вярваш, че действието може да даде пълнота или че сборът от действия наистина може да е равнозначен на един живот, достоен за това име, бе илюзия на моралист. По-добре беше да се откажеш, защото отказът от действие беше самият протест, а не неговата маска.

Докосвам устата ти, с пръст докосвам ръба на устата ти, рисувам я, като че ли излиза изпод ръката ми, като че ли за първи път устата ти се отваря леко, достатъчно е да затворя очи, за да разваля всичко и да започна отново, всеки път правя така, че да се роди устата, която желая, устата, която ръката ми избира и рисува върху лицето ти, една уста, избрана измежду всички, съвършено свободно избрана от мен, за да я нарисувам с моята ръка върху твоето лице и която по някаква случайност - не се опитвам да я проумея - съвпада точно с твоята уста, усмихваща се изпод ръката ми, която те рисува. Гледаш ме, гледаш ме отблизо, все по-отблизо и тогава играем на циклопи, гледаме се все по-отблизо и очите стават все по-големи, доближават се едно до друго, наслагват се едно върху друго и циклопите се гледат, дишат объркани, устите се срещат и сборичкват лекичко, хапят се с устни, едва опрели език в зъбите, играят в своите селения, откъдето влиза и излиза тежък въздух - древен мирис, тишина. Тогава ръцете ми се устремяват да проникнат в косите ти, галят бавно дълбините на косите ти, докато се целуваме, устите ни сякаш са пълни с цветя или риби, с живи движения, с тъмен аромат. И ако се захапем, болката е сладка, и ако се задушим в едно кратко и едновременно изпиване на дъха, тази мигновена смърт е красива. И има една-единствена слюнка и един-единствен вкус на зрял плод, и аз те усещам да потрепваш до мен като луна във водата.