“Five wagons smouldered on the desert floor and the riders dismounted and moved along the bodies of the dead argonauts in silence, those right pilgrims nameless amongst the stones with their terrible wounds, the viscera spilled from their sides and the naked torsos bristling with arrowshafts. Some by their beards were men but wore strange menstrual wounds between their legs and no man’s parts for these had been cut away and hung dark and strange from their grinning mouths. In their wigs of dried blood they lay gazing up with ape’s eyes at brother sun now rising in the east.”
Picador, 2010 (publicado originalmente en 1985)
“He shook his head. You’re asking that I made myself vulnerable and that I can’t never do. I have one way to live. It doesn’t allow for special cases. A cion toss perhaps. In this case to small purpose. Most people don’t believe that there can be such a person. You can see what a problem that must be for them. How to prevail over that which you refuse to acknowledge the existence of. Do you understand? When I came into your life your life was over. It had a beginning, a middle, and an end. This is the end. You can say that things could have turned out differently. That they could have been some other way. But what does that mean? They are not some other way. They are this way. You’re asking that I second say the world. Do you see?
Yes, she said, sobbing. I do. I truly do.
Good, he said. That’s good. Then he shot her.”
No country for old men