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100 pages, Paperback
Published April 12, 2021
‘To put it plainly: Hitler and Stalin both wore trench coats, and so did the torturers in sinister sunglasses in Argentina and Chile. Does knowing this lessen my desire to write about the influence of the trench coat on my family history? No, but it forces me to be more of a journalist than a storyteller and to pay a visit to the family closets, which my mother kept pristine with an air of mystery and immense doses of naphthalene.’
‘A sommelier would detect in it notes of disorientation, an aftertaste of panic, and a hint of citrus: the adrenaline of volatile expectations. I am no longer pretending to have a conversation: I am having one. And this entails listening more than speaking, and not rushing and not asking why you studied humanities or what sense of irony led you to pick Shelley and Poe.’
‘I could turn this breakup into an act that will lend coherence to all we’ve lived through without debasing us more than we’ve debased ourselves by staying captive to a now-obsolete respect. When we first knew each other, we were improvising. And so it hits me that in this loveless phase we’ve just inaugurated, we’ll have to be stricter and avoid letting random fits of spontaneity blind us. And the conviction that there will be much more love in this breakup than in the decline that preceded it has an analgesic effect; I don’t know why.’
‘The dinner happened, but at the last moment, the Semprúns dropped out. And though I had prepared for our meeting with clammy hands and a knot of expectation in my stomach, I felt relieved, perhaps because I knew by then that reality can never stand up to an admiration born in childhood and adolescence (with the exception of Johan Cruyff, of course; we are used to saying it’s better not to meet our idols because they’ll always disappoint us, but this never takes into account how much we must disappoint them).’
‘Through the car’s tinted windows, the city looks like the capital of a country of vampires who feed not on blood but on noise and euphoria. The people move in groups, in slow motion, and those not busy tapping their cell phone screens wave at us at the zebra crossings and none of us respects the color of the traffic lights. I suspect that this hallucinatory impression is a flight strategy to avoid admitting that, against medical advice, I am thinking of you more than I can bear to. And I also have the sense that those minutes we were together are insufficient to afford me any precision when eventually I try to recollect you. And so, before it gets too late, I scan your eyes, your hair, and the vertices of your smile in my mind. It’s a smile that portends warm peals of laughter I would love to share, were I not dead and laid out on a stretcher in an ambulance.’
‘Nostalgia is archaeology: it looks for vestiges and interprets them. But instead of applying the scientific method, it draws on the tendentious mechanics of memory.’
‘Despite everything. Despite everyone. Make someone happy. Make just one someone happy. That’s what life is about, reduced to its maximally minimum expression. And you will think how it’s not worth mentioning that over recent years you assembled, almost on the sly, different versions of the song, including the one by Jamie Cullum. And that you listened to the last of these on repeat on your iPod while walking with no other object than to burn enough calories to counter—exercise being one of the pillars of your treatment—the diabetes they’ve just diagnosed you with. And that you are aware that this rendition is too intense, but still majestic, and as addictive as adding more adjectives and adverbs than are pertinent when you write. And you often felt the temptation to wallow in a grief imposed by the culture that loves pain, made worse by the drama of absences we ourselves are responsible for—because, in an example of prosaic justice, the consequence of not knowing how to make someone happy is solitude, you told yourself. And without bothering to note whether it made you feel better or worse, you listened to it over and over again. Make someone happy, make just one someone happy, Cullum repeated with ideal raspiness, in contrast with Durante’s optimistic maturity. And again—because there’s still room in the margins—you will realize that Durante was a match for the way you were then: impatient, excessive, pyrotechnic, sentimental, joyous—’