L Am Not Perfect Quotes

Do you find it easy to get drunk on words?" "So easy that, to tell you the truth, I am seldom perfectly sober.

This car sucks.” “It was your idea. I, on the other hand, think this car if perfect size. But that might be because I’m not the size of a mountain.” He snickered. “You’re the size of a little, itty bitty doll.” “If you say a vacant doll, I will hurt you.” I wound the necklace chain around my fingers. “Got that?” “Yes, ma’am.

I am a bad maiden." "No" He kissed my other temple. "You're a perfectly normal girl. What is expected of you is what's bad" He paused. "And yes, you're also a very bad Maiden

I don’t know why I’ve always been like this, why the smallest things make me ache inside. There’s a poem I read once, titled “The World Is Too Much with Us,” and I guess that is the best way to describe the feeling—the world is too much with me.

The sooner you get dressed the sooner you can start fawning over me like a proper date and remember just because I agreed to go out on this date with you doesn't mean I am easy. I expect you to do a little work to get my out of my pants.

It’s easier to be pissed, though. If I stop being angry, I’m afraid I’ll fall apart until I’m just a warm mound of flesh on the floor.

How do we tie our shoes, brush our hair, drink coffee, wash the dishes, and go to sleep, pretending everything is fine? How do we laugh and feel happiness despite the buried things growing inside? How can we do that day after day?

Happiness is a dandelion wisp floating through the air that I can’t catch. No matter how hard I try, no matter how fast I run, I just can’t reach it. Even when I think I grasp it, I open my hand and it’s empty.

I was too excited and threw my book across the room. It was so good that it made me angry. People would think I’m nuts if I try to explain it to them, so I don’t.

I’d rather live in the streets than be a submissive Mexican wife who spends all day cooking and cleaning.

Can I miss people I’ve never met? Because I think I do.

I love the smell of old bookstores—paper, knowledge, and probably mildew.

I don’t know why it surprises me that the world doesn’t stop just because I’m gone.

I am not perfect, but if I looked perfect to everyone I must have been rocking imperfect perfectly to a few imperfect souls that seek imperfection vs. perfection, in an imperfect world where God asks us to seek perfection for our imperfect souls.

I don’t understand why everyone just complains about who I am. What am I supposed to do? Say I’m sorry? I’m sorry I can’t be normal? I’m sorry I’m such a bad daughter? I’m sorry I hate the life that I have to live?

Mexican nicknames are as cruel as they are hilarious.

As much as I get sick of eating Mexican food every single day of my life, if heaven existed, I know it would smell like fried tortillas.

There is no heaven. There is only earth, sky, and the transfer of energy. The idea would almost be beautiful if it weren't such a nightmare.

Be careful. Please. The border…The fucking border.” I feel a wildness spreading through me. “It’s nothing but a giant wound, a big gash between the two countries. Why does it have to be like that? I don’t understand. It’s just some random, stupid line. How can anyone tell people where they can and can’t go?

It’s his dream to live in the U.S., but I almost wish he won’t. Even if he makes it alive, this place is not the promised land for everyone.

All I do is fuck up. No one cares about who I really am.

Maybe you’re too young to understand, Julia, but sometimes people don’t need the truth.

One of the things I hate most in life is people telling me to calm down, as if I’m some out-of-control lunatic who isn’t entitled to have feelings.

If—when—I become rich, I want a library so big that I’ll need a ladder to reach all my books. I want first editions, too. I want ancient tomes that I have to handle with forceps and rubber gloves.

Como me gusta la mala vida. Fuck.

In some ways, I think that part of what of what I'm trying to accomplish, whether Amá really understands it or not, is to live for her Apá, and Olga. It's not that I'm living life for them, exactly, but I have so many choices they've never had. And I feel like I can do so much with what I've been given. What a waste their journey would be if I just settled for a dull mediocre life.

It's a very American trait, this wanting people to think well of us. It's a young want, and I am ashamed of it in myself. I am not always a good daughter, even though my lacks are in areas different from her complaints. Haven't I learned yet that the desire to be perfect is always disastrous and, at the least, loses me in the mire of false guilt?

sometimes in life you don’t get to do what you want to do. Sometimes you have to deal with what’s given to you, shut up, and keep working. That’s it.

And if you don’t agree, I’ll tie you up—and not in the fun way—and lock you in your bedroom.” My mouth dropped open. “Okay, maybe in the fun way. Like later, after everything is done, I’ll come back and—” I cut him off. “I’d like to see you try to tie me up.” His eyebrow arched. “I bet you would.” “Shut up,” I growled. “I’m being serious.” “So am I. You’re wearing the opal.” I scowled. “This makes no sense.” “It makes perfect sense.

But how do we live with these secrets locked within us? How do we tie our shoes, brush our hair, drink coffee, wash the dishes, and go to sleep, pretending everything is fine? How do we laugh and feel happiness despite the buried things growing inside? How can we do that day after day?

Everything changes, for better or worse, whether we like it or not. Sometimes it's beautiful, and sometimes it fills us with terror. Sometimes both.

I wonder what it’s like to clean houses all day and then come home and keep cleaning. I hate seeing her this way because it makes me feel so guilty—guilty for existing, guilty that she has to work like that for us.

If there’s any place on earth where people should be allowed to cry as they watch their lives transform before them, it’s the airport. In a way, it’s kind of like purgatory, isn’t it? An in-between place.

But -- my dear, my heart is BROKEN! I have seen the perfect Peter Wimsey. Height, voice, charm, smile, manner, outline of features, everything -- and he is -- THE CHAPLAIN OF BALLIOL!! What is the use of anything? ... I am absolutely shattered by this Balliol business. Such waste -- why couldn't he have been an actor?

In the infinity of life where I am, all is perfect, whole, and complete. I no longer choose to believe in old limitations and lack.

In the world that exists inside my own head I am the perfect woman.

If I end up being an office lady who wears slacks and changes into white sneakers to walk home from the train, I'll just jump off a skyscraper.

You shouldn’t hate yourself so much. Everyone is messed up, even when it doesn’t seem like it.

...nothing satisfies me, nothing makes me happy. I want too much out of life. I want to take it in my hands and squeeze and twist as much as I can from it. And it's never enough.

Mothers are not supposed to be more beautiful than their daughters, and daughters are not supposed to die before their mothers.

But I know I have to go far away. I love my parents, of course, and I feel guilty for wanting to leave them, but living here would be too hard. I need to grow and explore, and they won’t let me. I feel like I’m being kept under a magnifying glass.

Everything is so perfect I wish I could keep it in a jar.

I’ve read The Awakening a million times, but I find it comforting. My favorite character is the lady in black who follows Edna and Robert everywhere. I also love the book because I’m so much like Edna—nothing satisfies me, nothing makes me happy. I want too much out of life. I want to take it in my hands and squeeze and twist as much as I can from it. And it’s never enough.

I know it won’t stay this way. I know there will be days when this view is covered with grey and gloomy clouds. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. But for right now, I enjoy this moment. I breathe, I feel free, and I’m thankful that for today… I am living.

I love art almost as much as I love books.

Being compared to my mother makes me want to punch Lorena right in the mouth,

When I get these flashbacks, I feel like someone scooped my soul out and trampled it on the dirty ground.

I run to my room and slam the door. I hate when Amá sees me cry. —

I do not believe in democracy, but I am perfectly willing to admit that it provides the only really amusing form of government ever endured by mankind.

One of the things I hate most in life is people telling me to calm down, as if I´m some out-of-control lunatic who isn´t entitled to have feelings

They act as if I’m some sort of devil-child because I don’t like to go to church and would rather read books than socialize with them.

I had never loved him like I did at that moment.

You think you're all grown-up. You're only fifteen. You don't even know how to make a tortilla.

Because we shouldn’t be living lies,

Suddenly, I no longer belong to her.

I lean back into my clothes and take some deep breaths. Why does it always feel like life is a stupid puzzle I'll never figure out?

I’ve always had trouble being happy, but now it feels impossible.

I would also like to acknowledge all the immigrants who have risked their lives to come to this country, and the children of those immigrants. You are what make America great.

I’m afraid to tell him exactly how I feel - how one second I’m okay and the next I’m sad for no good reason. I don’t want to scare him away.

I smile and say, thank you,' because the rudest thing you can do to a Mexican lady is refuse her food—might as well spit on a picture of La Virgen de Guadalupe or turn the TV off during Sábado Gigante.

In some ways, I think that part of what I’m trying to accomplish—whether Amá really understands it or not—is to live for her, Apá, and Olga. It’s not that I’m living life for them, exactly, but I have so many choices they’ve never had, and I feel like I can do so much with what I’ve been given. What a waste their journey would be if I just settled for a dull, mediocre life. Maybe one day they’ll realize that.

I also love the book because I’m so much like Edna—nothing satisfies me, nothing makes me happy. I want too much out of life. I want to take it in my hands and squeeze and twist as much as I can from it. And it’s never enough.

You need me because I am the Queen of Ithicana.” Twisting, she threw the knife in her hand, watching as it embedded in the map, marking Vencia—and Aren—with perfect precision. “And it’s time my father was brought to his knees.

He only speaks Spanish, which makes me nervous. I speak it fine, of course, but I sound ten times smarter in English. My vocabulary is just not as extensive, and sometimes I get stuck. I hope he doesn’t think I’m dumb, because I’m not.

In your language you have a form of poetry called a sonnet...It is a very strict form of poetry, is it not? ...There are fourteen lines, I believe, all in iambic pentameter. That's a very strict rhythm or meter, yes?...And each line has to end with a rigid rhyme pattern. And if the poet does not do it exactly this way, it is not a sonnet, is it?' 'No.' 'But within this strict form the poet has complete freedom to say whatever he wants, doesn't he?' 'Yes." Calvin nodded again. 'So,' said Mrs. Whatsit. 'So what?' 'Oh, do not be stupid, boy!' Mrs. Whatsit scolded. 'You know perfectly well what I am driving at!' 'You mean you're comparing our lives to a sonnet? A strict form, but with freedom within it?' 'Yes,' Mrs. Whatsit said. "You're given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself.

The agua de jamaica is tart, sweet, and refreshing. I pour myself another glass. If the night were made into a drink, it would taste like this.

It's funny how in the United States I'm too fat, and in Mexico I'm too skinny.

Sometimes I'm convinced the world wants me to shut up, that I'm better off folding myself into a million pieces.

sometimes in life you don’t get to do what you want to do. Sometimes you have to deal with what’s given to you, shut up, and keep working.

Mexican ladies are always knitting doilies for everything—doilies for the TV, doilies for vases, doilies for useless knickknacks. Doilies as far as the eye can see!

She has compared me to my sister every single day of my life, so why should I expect that to change now that she’s dead?

Do you find it easy to get drunk on words?" "So easy that, to tell you the truth, I am seldom perfectly sober." Lord Peter Wimsey in Gaudy Night

I miss him, even though he's sitting right in front of me.

Other times I just lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling, imagining the kind of life I want to have when I get older. I picture myself at the top of the Eiffel Tower, climbing pyramids in Egypt, dancing in the streets in Spain, riding in a boat in Venice, and walking on the Great Wall of China. In these dreams, I’m a famous writer who wears flamboyant scarves and travels all around the world, meeting fascinating people. No one tells me what to do. I go wherever I want and do whatever I please.

...unfortunately, I am incapable of thinking up perfectly biting, split-second retorts, in any language. The French even have a word for this: l'esprit de l'escalier; staircase wit, something you only think of on the way out.

If your soulmate can't teach you a few things then what is the point of having one? I don't need someone to tell me I am right. I don't need someone to tell me I didn't screw up. I don't need someone to not push me to reach for my dreams. I don't need someone to not take an interest in making me better. I need a team mate, a best friend and someone that allows me enough room to have off days. I am allowed to be as silly, corny, upset at times, excited, scared and a million emotions, but still loved. I need someone that will be that way for me, also. I don't want perfection. I don't want to build my world around what other people think. I want to build it around positive experiences, spiritual growth, and adventure. That requires something deeper than just acting the way someone requires. It means finding someone imperfect that I have the ability to help and someone that sees my imperfectness and is willing to help me. If a soulmate is anything, it better be useful. Otherwise, it is simply a made up fantasy that has no place in God's plan for me.

You know, I just... I just feel like it's unfair, that my whole life is unfair, like I was born into the wrong place and family. I never belong anywhere. My parents don't understand anything about me. And my sister is gone. Sometimes I watch those stupid TV shows, you know? The ones where mothers and daughters talk about feelings and fathers take their kids to play baseball or get ice cream or some shit like that, and I wish it were me. It's so stupid, I know, to want your life to be a sitcom.

The rain set early in tonight, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake: I listened with heart fit to break. When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneeled and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her form Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soiled gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And called me. When no voice replied, She put my arm about her waist, And made her smooth white shoulder bare, And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, Murmuring how she loved me — she Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor, To set its struggling passion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me forever. But passion sometimes would prevail, Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain A sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain: So, she was come through wind and rain. Be sure I looked up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last l knew Porphyria worshiped me: surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do. That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string l wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. And l untightened next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: I propped her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorned at once is fled, And I, its love, am gained instead! Porphyria's love: she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard. And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirred, And yet God has not said aword!

Cu ani mai tarziu, la o nunta, l-am auzit pe preot descriind casnicia ca pe o frangere in doua a tristetii si o dublare a bucuriei, si nu mi-a trecut prin minte nici tipul cu care eram atunci si nici vreun sot perfect, imaginar, din viitorul meu; in schimb, m-am gandit imediat la Matha.

I look at Connor, and a wave of sadness washes over me. I miss him, even though he’s sitting right in front of me. It’s hard to explain, but it reminds me of a haiku I once read: 'Even in Kyoto—/ hearing the cuckoo’s cry—/ I long for Kyoto.' I feel like that a lot. I get nostalgic before I have to.

In the infinity of life where I am, all is perfect, whole, and complete. Change is the natural law of my life. I welcome change. I am willing to change. I choose to change my thinking. I choose to change the words I use. I move from the old to the new with ease and with joy. It is easier for me to forgive than I thought. Forgiving makes me feel free and light. It is with joy that I learn to love myself more and more. The more resentment I release, the more love I have to express. Changing my thoughts makes me feel good. I am learning to choose to make today a pleasure to experience. All is well in my world.

In the infinity of life where I am, all is perfect, whole, and complete. I no longer choose to believe in old limitations and lack. I now choose to begin to see myself as the Universe sees me—perfect, whole, and complete. The truth of my Being is that I was created perfect, whole, and complete. I will always be perfect, whole, and complete. I now choose to live my life from this understanding. I am in the right place at the right time, doing the right thing. All is well in my world.

Sunt un om viu. Nimic din ce-i omenesc nu mi-e străin. Abia am timp să mă mir că exist, dar mă bucur totdeauna că sunt. Nu mă realizez deplin niciodată, pentru că am o idee din ce în ce mai bună despre viaţă. Mă cutremură diferenţa dintre mine şi firul ierbii, dintre mine şi lei, dintre mine şi insulele de lumină ale stelelor. Dintre mine şi numere, bunăoară între mine şi 2, între mine şi 3. Am şi-un defect un păcat: iau în serios iarba, iau în serios leii, mişcările aproape perfecte ale cerului. Şi-o rană întâmplătoare la mână mă face să văd prin ea, ca printr-un ochean, durerile lumii, războaiele. Dintr-o astfel de întâmplare mi s-a tras marea înţelegere pe care-o am pentru Ulise - şi bărbatului cu chip ursuz, Dante Alighieri. Cu greu mi-aş putea imagina un pământ pustiu, rotindu-se în jurul soarelui... (Poate şi fiindcă există pe lume astfel de versuri.) Îmi olace să râd, deşi râd rar, având mereu câte o treabă, ori călătorind cu o plută, la nesfârşit, pe oceanul oval al fantaziei. E un spectacol de neuitat acela de-a şti, de-a descoperi harta universului în expansiune, în timp ce-ţi priveşti o fotografie din copilărie! E un trup al tău vechi, pe care l-ai rătăcit şi nici măcar un anunţ, dat cu litere groase, nu-ţi pferă vreo şansă să-l mai regăseşti. Îmi desfac papirusul vieţii plin de hieroglife, şi ceea ce pot comunica acum, aici, după o descifrare anevoioasă, dar nu lipăsită de satisfacţii, e un poem închinat păcii, ce are, pe scurt, următorul cuprins: Nu vreau, când îmi ridic tâmpla din perne, să se lungească-n urma mea pe paturi moartea, şi-n fiece cuvânt ţâşnind spre mine, peşti putrezi să-mi arunce, ca-ntr-un râu oprit. Nici după fiecare pas, în golul dinapoia mea rămas, nu vreau să urce moartea-n sus, asemeni unei coloane de mercur, bolţi de infern proptind deasupra-mi... Dar curcubeul negru-al ei, de alge, de-ar bate-n tinereţia mea s-ar sparge. E o fertilitate nemaipomenită în pământ şi-n pietre şi în schelării, magnetic, timpul, clipită cu clipită, gândurile mi le-nalţă ca pe nişte trupuri vii. E o fertilitate nemaipomenită în pământ şi-n pietre şi în schelării. Umbra de mi-aş ţine-o doar o clipă pironită, s-ar şi umple de ferigi, de bălării! Doar chipul tău prelung iubito, lasă-l aşa cum este, răzimat între două bătăi ale inimii mele, ca între Tigru şi Eufrat.

I hate the cliché that you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, because covers say so much about what’s inside. Take The Great Gatsby, for instance—the woman’s melancholic face against the city lights in the distance is the perfect representation of the quiet misery of that era. Covers matter. Those who don’t think so are full of crap.

I convinced myself that all the kids are going to be smarter than I am because they went to better schools. I got stuck in this horrible loop. I became completely preoccupied until I focused on my breathing and surroundings, and forced myself to write a list of reasons why that was untrue: 1) The school would not have accepted me if they didn't think I could succeed. 2) I've read about a million books. 3) I'll work really hard. 4) Mr. Ingman says I'm the best student he's ever had. 5) Most people aren't really that smart

It’s so stupid, I know, to want your life to be a sitcom

I never imagined I would have to protect and care for my mother—I didn’t know that was my job—but I said, “Yes, of course.

She’d put me in her toy carriage and sing me songs by Cepillín, that scary Mexican clown who looks like a rapist but everyone loves for some reason.

Like Louie, I’ve been yelling and yelling, trying to get God to see how disappointed I am with this life He forced on me. How afraid I am to trust Him again. And He’s been patiently waiting, pushing me past boundaries, asking me to be vulnerable, testing me with new challenges, all to help me see that His way is better and perfect and it’s okay that it doesn’t always make sense.

His eyes had that hooded quality that brought a flush to my cheeks. “That’s a great list.” “What about you?” I asked. “What do you want to do when this is all over?” “For real?” When I nodded, he lowered his head, dropping a quick kiss on the tip of my nose. “I can’t believe you even have to ask that. I plan to be wherever you are.” My lips immediately curved into one of those big, funny-looking smiles as my heart swelled in my chest like an old-school cartoon character’s. I was waiting for my eyes to turn into exaggerated hearts that popped out. “That is...that is the perfect answer.” “That’s because I am perfect." “Well, that wasn’t the perfect answer,” I said drily.

Why aren't you ever happy? I try to do something nice, and this is how you act? Dios mío, who would have guessed I would have such an ungrateful daughter?" Amá is highly skilled in the art of guilt trips. She could win a gold medal.

In the infinity of life where I am, all is perfect, whole, and complete. I support myself, and life supports me. I see evidence of The Law working all around me and in every area of my life. I reinforce that which I learn in joyous ways. My day begins with gratitude and joy. I look forward with enthusiasm to the adventures of the day, knowing that in my life, “All is good.” I love who I am and all that I do. I am the living, loving, joyous expression of life. All is well in my world.

In the infinity of life where I am, all is perfect, whole, and complete. I believe in a power far greater than I am that flows through me every moment of every day. I open myself to the wisdom within, knowing that there is only One Intelligence in this Universe. Out of this One Intelligence comes all the answers, all the solutions, all the healings, all the new creations. I trust this Power and Intelligence, knowing that whatever I need to know is revealed to me, and that whatever I need comes to me in the right time, space, and sequence. All is well in my world.

De unde derivă adâncimea iubirii, dacă nu din negaţia cunoaşterii? Ceea ce în cunoaştere e plat, iubire devine absolut. Orice cunoaştere obiectivă e plată; e o punere în relaţii prin care obiectele îşi pierd valoarea. Cunoaştem un lucru pentru a-l face ca pe celelalte; cu cât cunoaştem mai mult, cu atât realitatea devine mai comună, mai vulgară şi mai plată, deoarece cunoaşterea nu salvează niciodată nimic, ci distruge progresiv în fiinţă. Există, în orice cunoaştere obiectivă, care consideră lucrurile din afară, le încadrează în legi şi le pune în relaţii, care înţelege totul şi încearcă să explice totul, o tendinţă distructivă, iar când pornirea spre cunoaştere devine pasiune, ea nu este decât o formă de autodistrugere. Iubim în măsura în care negăm cunoaşterea, în măsura în care ne putem abandona absolut unei valori, făcând-o şi pe aceasta absolută. Şi dacă nu ne-am iubi decât dorinţa noastră de iubire sau iubirea noastră, în acest avânt nu este mai puţină negaţie a cunoaşterii. Cunoaştem cu adevărat numai în momentele când nu vibrăm intern, când nu ardem, când nu ne putem ridica la un înalt nivel psihic. Diferenţa aceasta de nivel psihic între cunoaştere şi iubire ne indică suficient pentru ce ele nu pot vieţui niciodată împreună. Când iubeşti o fiinţă, momentele de reală cunoaştere sunt extrem de rare; apariţia lor se datoreşte unui minus de iubire. Când ajungi uneori să-ţi dai seama din afară, cu o perspectivă obiectivă, că femeia care-ţi şerpuieşte ca o obsesie întreaga ta fiinţă, care a crescut organic în tine, seamănă cu oricare alta ca adâncime sufletească, sau când înţelegi că zâmbetul ei nu e unic, ci perfect reversibil, când o poţi încadra în rândul celorlalte şi găseşti explicaţii generale pentru reacţiile ei individuale, atunci cunoaşterea a suplinit dureros elanurile iubirii. Iubirea este o fugă de adevăr. Şi iubim cu adevărat numai când nu vrem adevărul. Iubirea împotriva adevărului, iată o luptă pentru viaţă, pentru propriile extazuri şi pentru propriile greşeli. Pe fiinţa ce o iubim o cunoaştem cu adevărat numai după ce n-o mai iubim, când am devenit lucizi, clari, seci şi goi. Şi în iubire nu putem cunoaşte, fiindcă persoana ce o iubim actualizează, numai, un potenţial lăuntric de iubire. Realitatea primordială şi efectivă este iubirea din noi. Pentru aceasta iubim. Iubesc iubirea din mine, iubesc iubirea mea. Femeia este pretextul indispensabil care-mi aduce într-un ritm intens pulsaţiile timide ale iubirii. Nu poate exista o iubire pur subiectivă. Dar, între abandonarea în experienţa voluptuoasă a iubirii ca stare pură şi abandonarea în culmile unei alte fiinţe, întâia este cea primordială. Iubim o femeie fiindcă ne este scumpă iubirea noastră. Singurătatea sexelor şi lupta sălbatică între bărbat şi femeie îşi au izvorul in această interioritate a iubirii. Căci în iubire ne gustăm, ne savurăm pe noi înşine, ne încântăm de voluptăţile tremurului nostru erotic. Din acest motiv, iubirea este cu atât mai intensă şi mai profundă, cu cât distanţa de persoana iubită este mai mare. Prezenţa ei fizică face din sentimentul nostru ceva prea orientat, cu o direcţie prea determinată, încât ceea ce este în noi cu adevărat trăire erotică pură, elan subiectiv, ne pare a veni din afară, desprinzându-se din prezenţa fizică a persoanei iubite. Numai iubirea de departe, iubirea care creşte alimentată de fatalitatea spaţiului, numai aceasta se prezintă ca stare pură. Atunci ai priză directă pe adânca ei interioritate, atunci trăieşti iubirea ca iubire, adâncindu-te în zvâcnirile unui sentiment, în farmecul lui voluptuos, care face suferinţele fluide, le topeşte ca într-o iluzie.

Looking at all the cities and towns below reminds me of borders, which remind me of Esteban and his perfect white teeth. Part of me wonders if he will ever cross over here. It’s his dream to live in the U.S., but I almost wish he won’t. Even if he makes it alive, this place is not the promised land for everyone.

Is there something you're not telling me?" she says, feeling my forehead. "I said no! Jesus Christ, leave me alone," I snap, which surprises both of us. "You're going to be sorry when I'm not around, you'll see." Amá turns back to the sink. She is always going on and on about how she'll be dead one day. Do all mothers do that?

I love art almost as much as I love books. It’s hard to explain the way I feel when I see a beautiful painting. It’s a combination of scared, happy, excited, and sad all at once, like a soft light that glows in my chest and stomach for a few seconds. Sometimes it takes my breath away, which I didn’t know was a real thing until I stood in front of this painting. I used to think it was just some saying in pop songs about stupid people in love. I had a similar feeling when I read an Emily Dickinson poem. I was too excited and threw my book across the room. It was so good that it made me angry. People would think I'm nuts if I try to explain it to them, so I don't.

But not Olga. Saint Olga, the perfect Mexican daughter. Sometimes I wanted to scream at her until something switched on in her brain. But the only time I ever asked her why she didn't move out or go to a real college, she told me to leave her alone in a voice so weak and brittle, I never wanted to ask her again. Now I'll never know what Olga would have become. Maybe she would have surprised us all.

Cea mai minunată femeie din lume este cea care te iubeşte cu adevărat şi pe care-o iubeşti cu adevărat. Nimic altceva nu contează. Odată, pe vremea liceului, umblam pe bulevard cu un prieten, doi puşti zăluzi şi frustraţi care dădeau note «gagicilor» şi vorbeau cu atât mai scabros cu cât erau, de fapt, mai inocenţi erotic. Ce fund are una, ce balcoane are alta... Femeile nu erau nimic altceva pentru noi decât nişte obiecte de lux, ca automobilele lustruite din vitrinele magazinelor «Volvo» sau «Maserati»: nu ne imaginam cu adevărat că vom avea şi noi una vreodată. Prin dreptul cinematografului Patria am zărit o tipă trăznitoare. Am rămas înlemniţi: ce pulpe în ciorapi de plasă neagră, ce fund rotund şi ce mijloc subţire, ce ţoale pe ea, ce plete de sârmă roşie, răsucită în mii de feluri... Ne-am învârtit în jurul ei ca s-o vedem şi din faţă: cum putea avea aşa pereche de ţâţe, aşa de perfecte cum numai în albumele de artă — care pe-atunci ne ţineau loc de Penthouse—mai văzuserăm? Pentru cine era o astfel de fiinţă, cum putea fi o noapte de sex cu ea? Până la urmă ne-am aşezat la coadă la bilete, fără s-o scăpăm din ochi şi fără să-ncetăm comentariile. Când, îl auzim pe unul, un tip destul de jegos care stătea şi el la coadă, mâncând seminţe, înaintea noastră: «E bună paraşuta asta, nu? V-ar place şi vouă, ciutanilor... Da' ascultaţi-mă pe mine, c-am fumat destule ca ea: cât o vedeţi de futeşă, să ştiţi că e pe undeva un bărbat sătul de ea până peste cap! Poa'să fie cea mai mişto din lume, poa'să fie şi Brijibardo, că tot i-e drag vreunuia de ea ca mie de nevastă-mea...» Am fost mult mai şocat de remarcile astea decât mi-aş fi imaginat. Cum să te plictiseşti de frumuseţea însăşi, de neatins şi de neconceput? De cea pentru care ţi-ai da şi pielea de pe tine? Ce ar putea dori un bărbat mai mult decât să-şi poată trece braţul în jurul mijlocului ei, să poată privi minute-n şir în ochii ei, să o întindă încetişor pe pat... Să o scoată din învelişul ei de dantelă mătăsoasă... De-aici încolo imaginaţia mea se bloca, nu-mi puteam închipui cum e să faci dragoste. De câte ori mă gândeam cum ar fi, vedeam doar un ocean roz care se răsuceşte asupra ta şi te sufocă... Am cunoscut apoi femei reale, femei imaginare, femei din vis, femei din cărţi, femei din reclame, femei din filme, femei din videoclipuri. Femei din revistele porno. Fiecare altfel şi fiecare cu altceva de oferit. M-am îndrăgostit de câteva şi de fiecare dată a fost la fel: primul semn că aş putea-o iubi a fost mereu că nu m-am putut gândi, văzând-o, «cât de futeşă e». Chiar dacă era. Bărbaţii au creierul impregnat de hormoni. Nici cel mai distins intelectual nu e altfel, până şi el, la orice vârstă, îşi imaginează cum ar face-o cu fata plictisită, necunoscută, de lângă el. Dar când cunoşti cea mai minunată femeie din lume, care e cea pe care o poţi iubi, semnul este, trebuie să fie, că nici pulpele, nici «balcoanele» nu se mai văd, de parcă hormonii sexului şi-ai agresivităţii s-ar retrage din creierul tău tumefiat şi l-ar lăsa inocent ca un creier de copil şi translucid ca o corniţă de melc. Facem sex cu un creier de bărbat, dar iubim cu unul de copil, încrezător, dependent, dornic de a da şi a primi afecţiune. Femeile minunate din viaţa mea, toate cele pe care le-am iubit cu adevărat şi care-au răspuns cu dragoste dragostei mele, au fost într-un fel necorporale, au fost bucurie pură, nevroză pură, experienţă pură. Senzualitatea, uneori dusă până foarte departe, nu a fost decât un ingredient într-o aventură complexă şi epuizantă a minţii. Pentru mine nu există, deci, «cea mai minunată» în sensul de 90-60-90, nici în cel de blondă, brună sau roşcată, înaltă sau minionă, vânzătoare sau poetă. Cea mai minunată este cea cu care am putut avea un copil virtual numit «cuplul nostru», «dragostea noastră».

Uneori, copiii se pot simți respnsabili față de așteptările părinților chiar și atunci când aceștia nu le cer , în mod explicit și clar, ceva anume. Atunci când adulții semnificativi sunt deprimați o perioadă mai lungă de timp, dependenți de diferite substanțe sau nu sunt cu adevărat prezenți, din diferite motive, copiii pot interpreta acest gen de situații ca pe o nevoie a adultului de ajutor, și, mânați de loialitatea invizibilă pe care o manifestă față de cei care le-au dat viață, încep să preia din responsabilități fără să mai aștepte, în schimb, să primească iubirea părintească. Deseori am fost prins și eu în acest mecanism relațional în care, preocupați de propriile dureri psihologice, părinții îmi ofereau atenție doar atunci când deveneam o sursă de suport emoțional și ajutor practic; mai concret, atunci când adoptam comportamente care nu erau potrivite pentru vârsta mea, fenomen care în cărțile de terapia familiei este cunoscut ca parentificare. În timp, am învățat că pot să contribui la schimbarea stării emoționale a părinților mei, dar și a altor adulți din jur și că atunci sunt șanse mai mari să fie liniște în familie și poate - poate voi căpăta și eu puțină alinare emoțională. Însă cel mai dureros mesaj distorsionat pe care l-am dobândit a fost că eu pot fi acceptat doar dacă mă abțin de la a cere, dacă renunț la nevoile mele și mă străduiesc să țin cont de ale celor din jur. La maturitate, am ajuns să caut plăcerea în relații complicate, fiind atras de adulții care erau în căutarea unui colac de salvare. Și culmea sau nu, ajunsesem să mă simt bine în aceste diade unilaterale, în care mă dedicam trup și suflet pentru ca celorlalți să le fie bine. Nu este vorba doar despre conexiunile sentimentale, același obicei îl manifestam și în relațiile de prietenie și cele profesionale. Convingerea bazală fiind aceea că, dacă sunt perfect, mai devreme sau mai târziu, voi ajunge să primesc și eu ceva. Trăind astfel după principiul - Nu te accepta pentru ceea ce ești, deoarece nu ești suficient, tu trebuie să fii ceea ce cred alții că ești. Iar aceasta este o variantă a dependenței de nefericire.