emily’s Reviews > 2666 > Status Update

‘—highways of freedom—evil is like a Ferrari—his laughter—lost among—flower beds—Security is getting more & more expensive, Macario said—as he walked—a path lined w/ bougainvilleas. But I don’t think I’ll have to use the gun—Some people hold grudges for a long time—in Mexico we don’t know how to be good sports. Of course, if you lose you die & if you win sometimes you die too—some of us try to fight the good fight’

‘The idea that some places are the same as others is a lie. The world is a kind of tremor. For example: if the poppy lifts its petals, the weather will be fine. For example: if a poplar begins to quiver, something unexpected will happen. For example: if the little flower with white petals & a tiny yellow corolla, called the pijulí, bows its head, it will be hot—if the little rascal shuts, then rain is coming.’

‘What’s sacred to me? thought Fate. Desert Eagle. The scarred moon still shone in the sky. The house—was always clean, but its cleanliness—lacked any feminine touch—it was a stoic cleanliness—tended toward sparseness, not abundance. The two of them began to eat in silence—The books she read he had never heard of. The music made him—drowsy—nothing ever disappears—she went running into the woods & he lost sight of her’

‘Everything was passed through the filter of words, everything trimmed to fit our fear. That said, words back then were mostly used in the art of avoidance, not of revelation. But they revealed something all the same. On his way out of Patagonia he saw a horse. When—headlights swept over it the horse lifted its head & looked at him. Oil, thought Fate, but he didn’t say it. Time, said Chucho Flores. Who? asked Fate.’

‘The pain doesn’t matter—as long as it isn’t unbearable. & all around him, ghosts. Life is demand & supply—but that’s no way to live. A third leg is needed to keep the table from collapsing into—garbage pit of history. But the sun has its uses—any fool knows—From up close it’s hell, but from far away you’d have to be a vampire not to see how useful it is. Maybe now is the time for a recipe: Brussels Sprouts & Lemon.’

‘We pretend there’s nothing wrong, but there is—We’re being fucking stifled. You let off steam your own way. I beat the shit out of people or let them beat the shit out of me—a fucking apocalyptic mayhem. What kind of music do you like? And what books do you read? I used to read everything—Now all I read is poetry—the one thing that isn’t contaminated—the one thing that isn’t part of the game—only poetry isn’t shit.’

‘People have a thirst to learn about other people’s lives—to know what the old chincuales did—learn something, although they aren’t prepared to jump through the same hoops themselves. The word chincuales, said Augusto Guerra, like all the words in the Mexican tongue, has a number of senses. First, it means flea or bedbug bites, those little red welts, you know? Those cracks in the psyche. The water tasted different—’

‘He was sitting under a larch—smoking w/ absent look on his face. You’ve changed a lot—she said. He recognised her instantly. You haven’t, he said. Thank you, she said. You should stay—It’s too late to go. There aren’t any more trains—he lied. All that exists, or remains, of Duchamp’s stay in Buenos Aires is a readymade—his whole life—readymade—his way of appeasing fate—all Duchamp did—in Buenos Aires was play chess’

‘She whispered: Pylades, Orestes—bluish nimbuses—grey cumulonimbuses—dissolved—or were carried off toward the edge of the grounds where a dark forest rose—branches of the trees silver in the light falling from the hills. And then she told him what she had really come to say: that she—knew that love, no matter how mistreated or mutilated, always left room for hope, and that hope was her plan (or the other way around)’

‘I don’t know how long we’ll last together, she said in her letter. It doesn’t matter to me—Her pretext was a plan to visit her favourite poet—Mondragón, near San Sebastián. He listened to her explanations for a whole night as she packed her bag and promised she’d come home soon—The poet looked her in the eyes and asked for a cigarette—she handed him a cigarette. The poet said thank you, & then he said perseverance.’