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But when a woman decides to sleep with a man, there is no wall she will not scale, no fortress she will not destroy, no moral consideration she will not ignore at its very root: there is no God worth worrying about.
I would not have traded the delights of my suffering for anything in the world.
No matter what you do this year or in the next hundred, you will be dead forever.
Just as real events are forgotten, some that never were can be in our memories as if they happened.
I never had intimate friends, and the few who came close are in New York. By which I mean they're dead, because that's where I suppose condemned souls go in order not to endure the truth of their past lives.
Morality, too, is a question of time.
Because he had not done what she, with her heart in her mouth, had hoped he would do, which was to be a man: deny everything, and swear on his life it was not true, and grow indignant at the false accusation, and shout curses at this ill-begotten society that did not hesitate to trample on one's honor, and remain imperturbable even when forced with crushing proofs of his disloyalty.
I discovered the miracle that all things that sound are music, including the dishes and silverware in the dishwasher, as long as they fulfill the illusion of showing us where life is heading.
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.
It was, at last, real life, with my heart safe and condemned to die of happy love in the joyful agony of any day after my hundredth birthday.
The truth is I'm getting old, I said. We already are old, she said with a sigh. What happens is that you don't feel it on the inside, but from the outside everybody can see it.
Jealousy knows more than truth does.
I became aware that the invincible power that has moved the world is unrequited, not happy, love.
She likes to try everything, out of curiosity, but she'll be sorry if she isn't guided by her heart.
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.
He shook my hand and said goodbye with a sentence that might have been either good advice or a threat: "Take good care of yourself.
Her nakedness was not absolute, for like Manet's _Olympia__, behind her ear she had a poisonous flower with orange petals, and she also wore a gold bangle on her right wrist and a necklace of tiny pearls. I imagined I would never see anything more exciting for as long as I lived, and today I can confirm that I was right.
I want the same one, the way she always is, without failures, without fights, without bad memories.
Why were you so old when we met? I answered with the truth: Age isn't how old you are but how old you feel.
It is a triumph of life that old people lose their memories of inessential things.
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