Tomorrow in the Battle Think on Me (Vintage International)

It isn’t just the minuscule history of objects that will disappear in that single moment, it’s also everything I know and have learned, all my memories and everything I’ve ever seen

I’m a passive kind of person who almost never seeks or wants anything or isn’t aware that he’s seeking or wanting anything, the sort of person things just happen to, you don’t even have to move for everything to become horribly complicated, for things to happen, for there to be anger and litigation, you only have to breathe in this world, the sligh

everything that had meaning and history loses it in a single moment and my belongings lie there inert, suddenly incapable of revealing their past and their origins;

what a disgrace it is to me to remember your name, even though I may not know your face today, still less tomorrow.

everything is travelling slowly towards its own dissolution in the midst of our vain accelerations and our fictitious delays and only the last time is the last time.

I’m not motivated by any of the things that usually motivate us, finding something out, saving someone, gaining something, supplanting, harming or usurping someone, avenging oneself, atoning for something, protecting or easing or freeing oneself from something; having it off with someone.

the world depends on its storytellers as it does on those who hear the story and occasionally influence it,

everything can be forgiven when there is something to forgive, everything can be overlooked or assimilated or even pitied, such and such happened and we have to learn to live with it once we know that it did happen, we have to find a place for it in our consciousness and in our memory where the fact that it happened and that we know about it will n

I owed it to Eugenio, the boy, who, assuming they had taken him elsewhere that first night, would have returned to his home by now, to his bedroom, where he and his toy rabbit would once more be under threat, while they slept, from the peaceable aeroplanes dangling on threads – that inert oscillation – dreaming now of the weight of his absent mothe