En esas hojas gigantes nace.
Jakob von Gunten. Robert Walser.
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back cease lessly in to the past.
The great Gatsby. Scott Fitzgerald.
Lecturas a medianoche, con un solo ojo. Borges, relatos. Tenía cincuenta y cinco años cuando comenzó su ceguera, y se refugió en un misticismo más bien de tipo árabe. Sus historias están repletas de metáforas, de ejercicios mentales y crueldades orientales. En ellas el escritor expresa la ira y el odio que le inspira la ceguera: ira y odio hacia la gente que no puede ver, sólo tocar, oír, captar olores.
Diarios. Sándor Márai
The moral backbone of literature is about that whole question of memory. To my mind it seems clear that those who have no memory have the much greater chance to lead happy lives. But it is something you cannot possibly escape: your psychological make-up is such that you are inclined to look back over your shoulder. Memory, even if you repress it, will come back at you and it will shape your life. Without memories there wouldn't be any writing: the specific weight an image or phrase needs to get across to the reader can only come from things remembered - not from yesterday but from a long time ago.
W.G Sebald.
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