“There was a small woven basket waiting on his deskthe next day, still smelling like warmed-from-the-ovensin. A note was attached written with the words“Have a good day!” A drawing of a tiny dog chasinga butterfly completed the absurdity.He stood in front of his desk, just staring at it andthe basket for a full minute. Asps didn’t smell likebaked items, but the latter were no less dangerous.He tented the edge of the cloth cover with hissmallest finger. Three fruit tarts lay inside.Poisoned most likely.”

“When something needs to be ironed I put it in the ironing basket. If a year goes by and the item is still in the basket I throw the item away. This is a good system since eventually I end up only with clothes that don’t need ironing.”

“On those luminous mornings Adela returned from the market, like Pomona emerging from the flames of day, spilling from her basket the coloful beauty of the sun –the shiny pink cherries full of juice under their transparent skins, the mysterious apricots in whose golden pulp lay the core of long afternoons. And next to that pure poetry of fruit, she unloaded sides of meat with their keyboard of ribs swollen with energy and strength, and seaweeds of vegetables like dead octopuses and squids–the raw material of meals with a yet undefined taste, the vegetative and terrestrial ingredients of dinner, exuding a wild and rustic smell.”

“And then one day he realised that of course he was always staring at his hand when he wrote, was always watching the pen as it moved along, gripped by his fingers, his fingers floating there in front of his eyes just above the words, above that single white sheet, just above these words i’m writing now, his fingers between him and all that, like another person, a third person, when all along you thot it was just the two of you talking and he suddenly realized it was the three of them, handling it on from one to the other, his hand translating itself, his words slipping thru his fingers into the written world. You.”

“There was a singlegolden hair on the pillow, curled in on itself as if asleep. Simonpicked it up carefully, then lay down still holding it, his head in itsplace. The bed was cold, but it still smelled warm, like Matt.”

“Life is like a fruit basket. You can eat some of it or wast it and throw some of it out. Only you can chose on wat to do with that fruit basket.”