I think certain types of processes don’t allow for any variation. If you have to be part of that process, all you can do is transform – or perhaps distort – yourself through that persistent repetition, and make that process a part of your own personality.
Like the sound of a velvet curtain being drawn aside on a peaceful morning to let sunlight wake someone very special to you.
It was not just that he had terrible style: he also gave the impression that he was deliberately desecrating the very idea of wearing clothes.
El destino se lleva siempre su parte y no se retira hasta obtener lo que le corresponde.
Six pull-tabs lay in the ashtray like scales from a mermaid.
Pero, si se me permite formular una anodina teoria general, en nuestra vida imperfecta las cosas inutiles son, en cierta medida, necesarias.
She was the kind of person who took care of things by herself. She’d never ask anybody for advice or help. It wasn’t a matter of pride, I think. She just did what seemed natural to her.
As I run I tell myself to think of a river. And clouds. But essentially I’m thinking of not a thing. All I do is keep on running in my own cozy, homemade void, my own nostalgic silence. And this is a pretty wonderful thing. No matter what anybody else says.
It seemed unreasonable, unfair, that a woman so young and beautiful should be so exhausted. Of course, it was neither unreasonable nor unfair. Exhaustion pays no mind to age and beauty. Like rain and earthquakes and hail and floods.
Defining that special something isn’t easy, but when you gazed into her eyes, you could always find it, reflected deep down inside.
But if I’m with you, I’m not afraid.
Reality was one step out of line, a cardigan with the buttons done up wrong.
You can’t keep counting forever.
When people pass away, do their thoughts just vanish?
There’s that kind of money in the world. It aggravates you to have it, makes you miserable to spend it, and you hate yourself when it’s gone. And when you hate yourself, you feel like spending money. Except there’s no money left. And no hope.
Thinking about lunch. Smoked salmon with pedigreed lettuce and razor-sharp slices of onion that have been soaked in ice water, brushed with horseradish and mustard, served on French butter rolls baked in the hot ovens of Kinokuniya. A sandwich made in heaven.
Time came slowly and passed slowly, so leisurely that at times he could swear it had stealthily doubled back on itself.
Beside the road cows are lazily chewing grass. They show zero interest in the runners. They’re too busy eating grass to care about all these whimsical people and their nonsensical activities. And for their part the runners don’t have the leisure to pay attention to what the cows are up to, either.
I thought about the screws and their happiness. Maybe they were glad to be free of the eggbeater, to be independent screws, to luxuriate on white trays. It did feel good to see them happy.
We truly believed in something back then, and we knew we were the kind of people capable of believing in something – with all our hearts. And that kind of hope will never simply vanish.