All love measures the universe in its own way, attending only for its own expectations, its own discoveries. All love is modified after itself: nothing precedes it; we learn nothing from it. When it dies, there is no point remembering it. It can’t be shared with anyone, or with the rest of our lives, or with future loves. It belongs neither to the past nor the future.
from “Distant Cousin” by Federico Vegas, translated by Lisa Dillman
Bomb’s Literary Supplement, p.16, 2010
[This post appears too in Viole(n)t Mugs | pransisem.blogspot.com]
from “Distant Cousin” by Federico Vegas, translated by Lisa Dillman
Bomb’s Literary Supplement, p.16, 2010
[This post appears too in Viole(n)t Mugs | pransisem.blogspot.com]
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