‘What can damage us more? The blunt honesty of hatred, or the thwarted objective of reconciliation?’
‘I heard the news from a nurse with a piece of tinsel tied around her waist: my father had become a hypochondriac.’
‘It is a reluctant kind of disregard that stems from a feeling of shame.’
‘In the 1930s I wanted to travel and I wanted to write. In 1935, I published my first book—about a journey to Spain’.
‘I only stopped playing with him when he began biting the fingers of anyone who tried to pet him.’
‘Here in space you don't often get the chance to meet women.’
‘Free play is when you have fun instead of playing kickball.’
‘Your husband dies, you’re a widow. There’s almost joy in it. Why not scream it? Glory.’
‘I began to think, for no particular reason, about what the exact series of events would be were I to die at that moment – before, even, my coffee went cold.’
‘Partial, our protagonist, to the palatal; prone, too, to the plosive; and apt, you’ve heard, to alliterate.’
‘Evil, she told herself. That was the name of the flower.’
‘When I think about it, it was terrible the way we behaved when Victor died. We behaved as if we were ashamed of him, or angry.’
‘This was the morning I discovered the anatomy of a hair.’ New fiction by Guadalupe Nettel, translated from the Spanish by Rahul Bery.
‘Late June, scorched grass and sprinklers, the sky as if scuffed and beaten. Too hot to work, too lazy to think.’
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