What we call absurd is our ignorance.
And do you accept the idea that there is no explanation?
Only by living absurdly is it possible to break out of this infinite absurdity.
The marquise went out at five, Carlos Lopez thought. Where in the hell did I read that?
Only in dreams, in poetry, in play do we sometimes arrive at what we were before we were this thing that, who knows, we are.
What good is a writer if he can't destroy literature? And us... what good are we if we don't help as much as we can in that destruction?
Why have we had to invent Eden, to live submerged in the nostalgia of a lost paradise, to make up utopias, propose a future for ourselves?
Everything can be killed except nostalgia for the kingdom, we carry it in the color of our eyes, in every love affair, in everything that deeply torments and unties and tricks.