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"No se quede con Urdaneta," le dijo. "Ni tampoco se vaya con su familia para los Estados Unidos, que son omnipotentes y terribles, y con el cuento de la libertad terminarán por plagarnos a todos de miserias "

"En sus urgencias de amor era capaz de cambiar el mundo para ir a encontrarlas. Una vez saciado le bastaba on la ilusión de seguir sintiéndose de ellas en el recuerdo, entregándose a ellas desde lejos en cartas arrebatadas, mandándoles regalos abrumadores para defenderse del olvido, pero sin comprometer ni un ápice de su vida en un sentimiento que más se parecía a la vanidad que al amor."

"[...] the schismatic convulsion that had gripped America following the triumph of the cackling cartoon narcissist, America torn in half, its defining myth of city-on-a-hill exceptionalism lying trampled in the gutters of bigotry and racial and make supremacism, Americans' masks ripped off to reveal the Joker faces beneath. Sixty million. Sixty million. And ninety million more too uncaring to vote."

"Why even try to understand the human condition if humanity revealed itself as a grotesque, dark, *not worth it*. What was the point of poetry, cinema, art. Let goodness wither on the vine. Let Paradise be lost. The America I loved, gone with the wind."

"[...] and I began to wonder if we were moral beings at all or simply savages who defined their private bigotries as necessary ethics, as the only ways to be."

The moment had passed, the door between the lives we could have led and the lives we led had shut in our faces. Or better to say, in *my* face. Grammar or my life: as a rule of thumb, wherever there appears a plural, correct for singular. Should I ever let slip a royal *We*, put me out of my misery with a swift blow to the head.

[...] infernal plunderers,
satraps a thousand times sellouts
and sellers, egged on
by New York's wolves.
Dollar-hungry machines,
soiled in the martyred
peoples' sacrifice,
pandering merchants
of American bread and air,
slimy executioners, herd
of whoremongering caciques
with no law other than torture
and the people's gnawing hunger.

The gloved jackal, a patient
sacristy bat,
gathers ash and torment
in his silk hat
and plunges his fingernails
into the equatorial rivers' blood.

That's why I'll tell you these sorrows I'd like to put aside,
I'll oblige you to live among their burns again,
not to mark time as in a terminal, before departing,
or to beat the earth with our brows,
or to fill our hearts with salt water,
but to set forth knowing, to touch rectitude
with decisions infinitely charged with meaning,
that severity may be a condition of happiness, that
we may thus become invincible.

He spoke to her with great honesty, the kind two people use after a lifetime of knowing one another. But what was a lifetime? This afternoon? This evening? The kidnappers had reset the clocks and no one knew a thing about time anymore.

How much more delightful it was to smoke when one had not smoked for a day. [...] It was almost enough to make a man quit, so that he could know the pleasures of starting up again.