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In your misty bedroom, the sunlight, having penetrated the lowered Venetian blinds, formed two golden ladders on the floor. You said something in your muted voice. Outside the window, the trees breathed and dripped with a contented rustle. And I, smiling at that rustle, lightly and unavidly embrace…

I recall you within a chance patch of sunlight. You had sharp elbows and pale, dusty-looking eyes. When you spoke, you would carve the air with the riblike edge of your little hand and the glint of a bracelet on your thin wrist. Your hair would melt as it merged with the sunlit air that quivered ar…

[...] Art is that which is written without knowing what will happen, and thus has to be written while docilely discovering and then resolving each situation, each problem of action or expression. [...]

[...] What makes Macedonio's story remarkable is how earnestly he wrestles with tigers that we all face. It isn't the felicity of his prose, or the prescience of his ideas -- though his prose is often felicitous and his ideas often prescient. Rather, it's the open heart with which he takes up his p…

[...] in his essay The Last Reader, Ricardo Piglia writes that "Borges's greatest lesson is perhaps the certainty that fiction doesn't only depend on the person who constructs it but also on the person who reads it." And he adds: "What is particular to Borges (if such a thing exists), is the capa…