Love (24)

That week, in tribute to December, I wrote another bold column: “How to be Happy on a Bicycle at the Age of Ninety.

On the night of her birthday I sang the entire song to Delgadina, and I kissed her all over her body until I was breathless: her spine, the side with the mole, the side of her inexhaustible heart. As I kissed her the heat of her body increased, and it exhaled a wild, untamed fragrance. She responded with new vibrations along every inch of her skin, and on each one I found a distinctive heat, a unique taste, a different moan, and her entire body resonated inside with an arpeggio, and her nipples opened and flowered without being touched. I was beginning to fall asleep in the small hours when I heard something like the sound of multitudes in the sea and a panic in the trees that pierced my heart. I went to the bathroom and wrote on the mirror: Delgadina, my love, the Christmas breezes have arrived.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Memories of My Melancholy Whores (originally Memoria de mis putas tristes, Colombia, 2004

Sorry for disappearing for a bit, currently doing my best not to abandon this blog. The name change is a sign of that, as well as a quote from an absolutely superb bit by W. H. Auden, which I’ll post around here soon enough. If you’re reading this, thanks for sticking around.


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Filed under Letterlove, Love, Pseudointellectual

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