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“What the road really was, she fancied, was this hypodermic needle, inserted somewhere ahead into the vein of a freeway, a vein nourishing the mainliner L.A., keeping it happy, coherent, protected from pain, or whatever passes, with a city, for pain.”

“There's something obscene in this love of the past which ends in breadlines and dugouts.”

“All the way to Dijon I got to reminiscing about the past. I thought of all the things I might have said and done, which I hadn't said or done, in the bitter, humiliating moments when just to ask for a crust of bread is to make yourself less than a worm.”

“I liked the way Collins moved against this background of literature continuously; it was like a millionaire who never stepped out of his Rolls Royce. There was no intermediate realm for him between reality and ideas.”

“He's like a machine throwing out newspapers, millions and billions of them every day, and the front page is loaded with catastrophes, with riots, murders, explosions, collisions, but he doesn't feel any-thing.”

..I look up at this softly enameled sky, so faintly tinted, which does not bulge today with heavy rain clouds but smiles like a piece of old china..

We have no need for genius - genius is dead. We have need for strong hands, for spirits who are willing to give up the ghost and put on flesh…

“The fact that a woman could completely rob him of his freedom, filled him with fear and a sense of mystery, yet in spite of it he felt a longing for the very thing which was such a trouble to him.”

“And Cesárea gave me a look, a brief little sideways glance, and said that the search for a place to live and a place to work was the common fate of all mankind.”

Such a cool way to read and imagine so many individuals lives, especially people who wander- work where they can, read when they can and move on whenever they want. I wonder how many of these characters are real. If they are, there is more kindness in strangers than I’ve given them credit for.

it was honestly as if I'd found a soul mate, a real poet, a poet through and through, who could explain clearly what I'd only sensed and wished and dreamed, and that was one of the best nights of my life, and when we got home we couldn't sleep, Xóchitl and I, and we talked until four in the morning

“I pulled whoever it was to me and searched for her face in the dark. It was Lupe and she was smiling like a spider.”

“That very night I dragged him to the Hotel Los Claveles, where I still live, and we fucked until we dropped. Actually, Rafael doesn't have much stamina, but I do, and I kept him going until daylight came down along Niño Perdido, like something swooning or struck by lightning, dawn is so weird in this fucking city.”

FIRST LIGHT WAS STILL a long way off. The sky was filled with stars, fat ones, swollen by the long night. The moon had come out for a short while, before disappearing again. It was one of those sorrowful moons that no one gazes at, no one notices. It had hung there for a time, disfigured, giving off no light, before rushing to hide behind the hills.

“Thou carest for is the soul. And what I want from him is his body. Naked and warmed by love, simmering with desire, massaging the trembling of my arms and breasts. My transparent body suspended by his. My slender frame supported by and lost in his strength. What am I to do with my lips now when l don't have his mouth to occupy them? What am I to do with my aching lips?”

Innocuous, soothing, silly, homey, wistful dialogue

“Sure, I remember, but let me sleep. The sun’s still not up.”
“It will be soon. The reason I’m talking to you is so you’ll wake up. You asked me to rise you before dawn. That’s what I’m doing. So get up!”

So far so good. - Ciara :)

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