“And the city, now, is like a map
Of my humiliations and failures;
From this door, I have seen the twilights
And at this marble pillar I have waited in vain.”
Remember the walks around the cities. Oaxaca, Mexico City, Puebla, San Cristobal, New York. Sometimes you just need the coolness embracing you as you walk into nothingness.

For a man whose personal life was often unhappy, libraries provided a kind of consolation: “I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library,” he wrote in a poem

“. . . I can only compare the body’s single-mindedness, its cold indifference and absolute contempt for the well-being of the spirit, to some unyielding, authoritarian regime. And you can petition it all you like, offer up the most heartfelt and dignified and logical sort of appeal – and get no response at all. If anything, a kind of laugh is what you get.”


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