George

“How odd I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words.”
― David Foster Wallace, The Pale King

“In a thousand years nothing will be left
of all that’s been written this century.
They’ll read loose sentences, traces
of lost women,
fragments of motionless children,
your slow green eyes
simply will not exist.
It will be like the Greek Anthology,
but even further away,
like a beach in winter
for another wonder, another indifference.

Dentro de mil años no quedará nada
de cuanto se ha escrito en este siglo.
Leerán frases sueltas, huellas
e mujeres perdidas,
fragmentos de niños inmóviles,
tus ojos lentos y verdes>
simplemente no existirán.
Será como la Antología Griega,
aún más distante,
como una playa en invierno
para otro asombro y otra indiferencia.”
― Roberto Bolaño, The Unknown University

“I am now 33 years old, and it feels like much time has passed and is passing faster and faster every day. Day to day I have to make all sorts of choices about what is good and important and fun, and then I have to live with the forfeiture of all the other options those choices foreclose. And I'm starting to see how as time gains momentum my choices will narrow and their foreclosures multiply exponentially until I arrive at some point on some branch of all life's sumptuous branching complexity at which I am finally locked in and stuck on one path and time speeds me through stages of stasis and atrophy and decay until I go down for the third time, all struggle for naught, drowned by time. It is dreadful. But since it's my own choices that'll lock me in, it seems unavoidable--if I want to be any kind of grownup, I have to make choices and regret foreclosures and try to live with them.”
― David Foster Wallace, A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again: Essays and Arguments

“The Suicide

Not a single star will be left in the night.
The night will not be left.
I will die and, with me,
the weight of the intolerable universe.
I shall erase the pyramids, the medallions,
the continents and faces.
I shall erase the accumulated past.
I shall make dust of history, dust of dust.
Now I am looking on the final sunset.
I am hearing the last bird.
I bequeath nothingness to no one.”
― Jorge Luis Borges, Selected Poems