She sensed it, saw my eyes wet with tears, and only then must have discovered I was no longer the man I had been, and I endured her glance with a courage I never thought I had.
The truth was that I could not manage my soul, and I was becoming aware of old age because of my weakness in the face of love.
Blood circulated through her veins with the fluidity of a song that branched off into the most hidden areas of her body and returned to her heart, purified by love.
I must warn you that the books I like are not necessarily the ones I think are the best. I like them for various reasons not always easy to explain.
The only thing he could do to stay alive was not to allow himself the anguish of that memory. He erased it from his mind, although from time to time in the years that were left to him he would feel it revive, with no warning and for no reason, like the sudden pang of an old scar.
Fatality makes us invisible.
The people one loves should take all their things with them when they die.
As I kissed her the heat of her body increased, and it exhaled a wild, untamed fragrance.
He pleaded so much that he lost his voice. His bones began to fill with words.
It was the year they fell into devastating love. Neither one could do anything except think about the other, dream about the other, and wait for letters with the same impatience they felt when they answered them.
The fact is that being seductive is an addiction that can never be satisfied.
She wanted to be herself again, to recover all that she had been obliged to give up in half a century of servitude that had doubtless made her happy but which, once her husband was dead, did not leave her even the vestiges of her identity.
He was carrying a suitcase with clothing in order to stay and another just like it with almost two thousand letters that she had written him. They were arranged by date in bundles ties with colored ribbons, and they were all unopened.
Shame has poor memory.
Her laugh was sad and taciturn, seemingly detached from any feeling of the moment, like something she kept in the cupboard and took out only when she had to, using it with no feeling of ownership, as if the infrequency of her smiles had made her forget the normal way to use them.
In some way impossible to ascertain, after so many years of absense, Jose Arcadio was still an autumnal child, terribly sad and solitary.
Very well, I will marry you if you promise not to make me eat eggplant.
I want the same one, the way she always is, without failures, without fights, without bad memories.
Once again she shuddered with the evidence that time was not passing, as she had just admitted, but that it was turning in a circle.
It was then that she realized that the yellow butterflies preceded the appearances of Mauricio Babilonia.