Daniel Centeno

“Soñé que asistía a mi propio entierro, a pie, caminando entre un grupo de amigos vestidos de luto solemne, pero con un ánimo de fiesta. Todos parecíamos dichosos de estar juntos. Y yo más que nadie, por aquella grata oportunidad que me daba la muerte para estar con mis amigos de América Latina, los más antiguos, los más queridos, los que no veía desde hacía más tiempo. Al final de la ceremonia, cuando empezaron a irse, yo intenté acompañarlos, pero uno de ellos me hizo ver con una severidad terminante que para mí se había acabado la fiesta. «Eres el único que no puede irse», me dijo. Sólo entonces comprendí que morir es no estar nunca más con los amigos.”
― Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez, Doce Cuentos Peregrinos

“I don't know why, but I suddenly felt a long way away from everybody I had known and loved when I was a girl. I missed people. For a minute I stood there and wished I could get back to that time. Then with my next thought I understood clearly that I couldn't do that. No. But it came to me then that my life did not remotely resemble the life I thought I'd have when I had been young and looking ahead to things.”
― Raymond Carver, Beginners

“They were just bones, bones in a box, but their bones were his bones,
and he stood as close to the bones as he could, as though the proximity
might link him up with them and mitigate the isolation born of losing his
future and reconnect him with all that had gone. For the next hour and a
half, those bones were the things that mattered most. They were all that
mattered, despite the impingement of the neglected cemetery's environment
of decay. Once he was with those bones he could not leave them, couldn't
not talk to them, couldn't but listen to them when they spoke. Between him
and those bones there was a great deal going on, far more than now
transpired between him and those still clad in their flesh.”
― Philip Roth, Everyman

“A veces escribir es un trabajo: trazar oblicuamente el camino de ciertas ideas que nos parece indispensable poner en la mesa. Pero otras es conceder lo que queda, aceptar el museo y contemplar el saldo en espera de la muerte, pedirle perdón al mar por lo que se jodió. Poner en la mesa nuestras cajitas y saber que lo que se acabó era también todo el universo.”
― Álvaro Enrigue, Hipotermia