I do not want to die without having seen Europe happy

As one’s arms run around the girl’s waist like crooked, decayed Iron Age scissors in the display cases of museums, one’s legs and back wish to scatter in the world, to dance at one and the same time in a thousand widely separated places.

Watching the small, humpbacked man coughing and spitting up blood, his waxen countenance corpse-yellow, his skin covered in black blotches, a black-clothed nun pulled a rosary from a leather case and kissed one of its black joints.