I pray. I pray for the future of my daughters. I cannot pass it on. I pray that my children grant me grace.
Now, Tony lay on his back in the sick room in L 315, watching a fly on the ceiling. The fly was clearly bored. This was no surprise to Tony. He was bored too.
He looked back at me, he was taking note of the moment in his head. The moment the fairy tale crumbled.
I’m not convinced of anything. I don’t trust my memory, which tells me that the entire village gathered in front of the house that night. They had come to do something bad. I can still see the whole thing. A tribal ritual.
My very notion of our entire twenty-year relationship went straight to the depths of Hell. None of the roses I had sent her over the years — to her home, to her dressing room — could explain, could excuse, such a colossal misunderstanding.
A fragile ego is a torturous, irredeemable, and irremediable, quality for a writer. And yet, oh so common.
Here, in just a few square kilometers, you can find everything that defines our Europe, the old one and the new.
By the time I reach the café, I manage to wipe the grin off my face somewhat; it’s not right, forcing some desperate woman to see how happy I am.
St Teresa of Ávila was a strong, wilful woman. After her death her enormous popularity led to this humble, handsome, splendid Spanish virgin from a noble family being transmuted by church dignitaries and bureaucrats into a plaster saint.