«Who conquers in science to Saint Thomas, in genius to Saint Augustine, in grace to Bossuet, in strength to saint Peter? Who as Rafael dos ever put on the canvas inspiration and life? Place people in view of the Pyramids of Egypt, and they shall say: through here has passed a great and marvellous civilization; place them in front of the Greek statues and the Greek temples and they shall say: through here has passed an amusing, mayfly and exceptional civilization; place them in front of a Roman monument and they shall say: through here has passed a great village. Place them in front of a cathedral, and on having seen so many majesty united to so many beauty, so many glory joined to so much taste, so much grace together with a beauty so pilgrim, so severe unit in such a rich variety, so many restraint joined with so much boldness, so many softness in the stones and so many gentleness in the outlines, and so amazing harmony between the silence and the light, the shade and the colors, they shall say: through here has passed the greatest village in the history, and the most magnificent of the human civilizations, this people must have had of the Egyptian the greatness, of the Greek the brilliant, of the Roman the strength; and above the strength, the brilliant and the greatness, something worthier than the greatness, the strength and the brilliant: the immortal and the perfection. »
New sounds, like painful and, to the time, calm perfection makes itself comfortable in this linear time that sometimes I conceive thanks to a part that my original senses dictate me. I visualize, swear that almost exactly, the climate during the too many mornings in which there was controlling itself the refinement of the curves of the wood, the bridge, for the final tension of the ropes.
And distant sleep, at the top of me, the love, or the hate, the disappointments, the spasms, the first fright when it disappeared the rule and a blood absence announced then the Clara advent, and the first look like the first steps of a new angel- non-participating of hell and of any god peoples elector and scornfully of gifts – spilling questions on ancient staves for inaugurating its eyes.
Perhaps all this, because also it weighs me to remember that summer night, with so many beer and AC/DC, Johannes translating from English to Spanish, Goldstein doing of Paganiniana a happy birthday without too many arrangements under the tree, and the old man laugh between cigarette and cigarette, so that the years happen suddenly, suddenly, like a rag that passes on the counter of a snack bar that suddenly has become unfriendly, without notice, and the cold comes to me to the face without pouches of knowing that the boy has committed suicide, that found the violin at the corner of the room, and John wondering why it had done it, if how, and I controlling myself, saying to him that I do not want to speak about that now, old man.