Thursday, June 14, 2018

the last book I ever read (César Aira's The Seamstress and the Wind, excerpt four)

from The Seamstress and the Wind by César Aira:

The skies of Patagonia are always clean. The winds meet there for a great carnival of invisible transformations. It’s as if to say that everything happens there, and the rest of the world dissolves in the distance, useless – China, Poland, Egypt . . . Paris, the luminous miniature. Everything. All that remains is that radiant space, Argentina, beautiful as paradise.

How to travel? How to live in another place? Wouldn’t it be lunacy, self-annihilation? To not be Argentinian is to drop into nothingness, and no one likes that.

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