“I have lived through an eventful year, yet understand no more of it than a babe in arms. Of all the people of this town I am the one least fitted to write a memorial. Better the blacksmith with his cries of rage and woe.”

“I am—yet what I am none cares or knows; My friends forsake me like a memory lost: I am the self-consumer of my woes— They rise and vanish in oblivious host, Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed”

“I'm fifty-one years old, but I'm not through yet. I have lived a full life, and intend packing in quite a lot more.”

“How can it be that this town is so full of people they're falling off the pavements and yet only in dreams am I in someone's arms?”

“If I can live through the events,” she said, “I can get through the memories.”

“Over the years, Raul remembered many events like if they were TV shows, especially at night, like when he and Alberto cruised around town. The open windows, the wide space of the desert, allowed room for his thoughts to emerge. Some memories played over and over again, like the re-runs he watched during the summer. And depending on the events, he didn’t mind having to sit through them. At least his memories weren’t interrupted with commercials. Click . . . Click . . . Click . . .”