Asi es como la pierdes by Junot Díaz

By Junot Díaz

As es como l. a. pierdeses un libro sobre mujeres que quitan el sentido y sobre el amor y el ardor. Y sobre l. a. traicin porque a veces traicionamos lo que ms queremos, y tambin es un libro sobre el suplicio que pasamos despus 'los ruegos, las lgrimas, los angeles sensacin de estar atravesado un campo de minas' para intentar recuperar lo que perdimos. Aquello que creamos que no queramos, que no nos importaba. Estos cuentos nos ensean las leyes fijas del amor: que los angeles desesperanza de los padres, los angeles acaban sufriendo los hijos, que lo que les hacemos a nuestros ex amantes nos lo harn inevitablemente a nosotros, y que aquello de 'amar al prjimo como a uno mismo' no funciona bajo l. a. influencia de Eros. Pero sobre todo, estos cuentos nos recuerdan que el ardor siempre triunfa sobre l. a. experiencia, y que el amor, cuando llega de verdad, necesita ms de una vida para desvanecerse.

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I offer him my hand; he does not take it. “I doubt you know me, Mr. Hyde. I am a writer, of tales. I wish to write of you—your duress: a serial for The London Magazine and, later, a novel. ” I ignore the silent probing gaze, the glint of teeth, the roaring in my ears issuing from 34 Love Among the Particles & Other Stories a rapidly accelerating heart. Opening my portmanteau, I show him a manuscript. ” He continues to regard me in silence. Suddenly, although his manner seems benevolent, I am afraid.

Where’s the harm? she says to herself. The Mummy’s Bitter and Melancholy Exile 57 The Mummy’s Dream The Mummy Plays the Piano The Mummy goes to a party on Fifth Avenue. He admires the bare shoulders of the women, who are moving searchingly— dreamily—from room to room. How bright their eyes, how musical their laughter! Their dusky shoulders are powdered with light. He admires also these men, who inhabit their evening clothes as if they wore no other. He feels graceless and unprepossessing in his, and leans on his stick as one would a prop to keep from falling—so heavy the weight of judgment in their eyes.

Not for refreshment does a mummy sleep, for refreshment is impossible, but to relieve awhile the tedium of incessant thought. He sits on the edge of the bed while shards of past and present circle his mind like pale vegetables in a soup stirred by a slow hand.  .  .  . an obelisk at Memphis in whose shadow the Mummy played with a leather ball . .  .  .  . Tey, the Mummy’s wife, whose face he can no longer recall except as a radiant haze.  . In the space between two knocks, he remembers his tomb and how he would rummage there among the tokens of his life: his sword and chariot, a gold cup and plate, a stuffed falcon and a mummified dog, a ball and stick, his library of papyrus scrolls, which he read by sunlight and moonlight entering through a shaft—alms scattered liberally by Ra and Thoth.

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