“El amor es el estado en que el hombre ve las cosas, más que ningún otro, tal como no son. En él se manifiesta cabalmente el poder de la ilusión, lo mismo que en la transfiguración. Quien ama soporta más que de ordinario; aguanta todo. Habría que inventar una religión en la que se pudiera amar, pues donde se cumple este requisito ya se ha vencido lo peor de la vida.”
To young Mark. Always with one hand ocuppied. Children of thirty two try to tell me what is a good cigar and what isn’t. Me, who never learned to smoke, but always smoked; me, who came into the world asking for a light. Me, who when asked by a waitress about the kind of beer I would prefer, sweet, sour, toasted or fruity, always respond: cold. Me, who began going out when I was seven. Me, that have lived four hundred and fifty six weekends without throwing up once. Me, who stole my parent’s condoms right after my last brother was conceived. Me, who came from the uterus dancing and when the nurses left the room, lighted a ciggy.
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