Friday, July 19, 2013

the last book I ever read (Roberto Bolaño's The Skating Rink, excerpt five)

from Roberto Bolaño's The Skating Rink:

. . . She had only seen him about three times since he started work, and that wasn’t normal. I tried to reassure her by explaining that he was a poet; she replied that her boyfriend, the Peruvian, was a poet too, but he didn’t behave like that. Like a zombie. I didn’t feel like arguing with her. Especially when, examining her fingernails, she remarked that poetry was a waste of time. She was right; on the planet of happy eunuch and zombies, poetry is a waste of time . . .

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