Enchia-me o peito uma tempestade de soluços.

I want pure colors, melting clouds, accurately drawn details, a sunburst above a receding road with the light reflected in furrows and ruts, after rain. And no girls ... There is one subject which I am emphatically opposed to: any kind of representation of a little girl.

My mouth to him was a splendid cave full of priceless treasures, but I denied him entrance.

She was all rose and honey.

—we were bristling at each other as if she were still mine.

She showed a fierce insatiable curiosity for my past. She desired me to resuscitate all my loves so that she might make me insult them, and trample upon them, and revoke them apostately and totally, thus destroying my past.

She combined a cool forwardness -the overflow of what I think is called “poise”- with a shyness and sadness that caused her detached way of selecting her words to seem as unnatural as the intonation of a professor of “speech.

And I still have other smothered memories, now unfolding themselves into limbless monsters of pain.

... бидний харах мэдрэмжээсээ ямагт хамаагүй доогуур үнэлж байдаг аливааг хүртэж мэдрэх чадвар маань барагтай бол арилж алга болохгүйгээр үл барам амьдралын хамгийн хүнд үед үнэн бодит байдлын хамгийн чухал бөгөөд цорын ганц үнэн, зөв хэмжүүр болж өгдөг ажээ.