Monday, July 17, 2017

the last book I ever read (The Tunnel by Ernesto Sábato, excerpt eight)

from The Tunnel by Ernesto Sábato:

‘So, you’re a painter,” said the myopic woman, squinting at me through half-closed eyes, as if peering through a sandstorm. That grimace, obviously caused by trying to see without putting on her glasses (as if glasses could make her any uglier), merely intensified her insolent and hypocritical expression.

‘Yes, madam,’ I replied with rage. I was sure she was not married.

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