Streets of Philadelphia

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The Apologizer

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“I’ll be frank. I’ve always felt that it’s horrible to send a person into the world who didn’t ask to be there.” “I know,” Alain said. “Look around you. Of all the people you see, no one is here by his own wish. Of course, what I just said is the most banal truth there is. So banal, and so basic, that we’ve stopped seeing it and hearing it.” -- The Apologizer,  By Milan Kundera The New Yorker Magazine
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"...But as the go game progresses the possibility becomes smaller and smaller, the board does take an order. Soon all the moves are predictable , so so, so maybe, even though we are not sophisticated enough to be aware of it, there is a pattern and order, underlying every go game, maybe that pattern is like the patter in the stock market, the torah, this 216 number thi thi this is insanity Max , or maybe is genius … I HAVE TO GET THAT NUMBER , hold on you have to slow down you’re loosen it, you have to take a breath, listen to yourself you’re connecting a computer bug I had, with a computer bug you might have had and some religious house, you want to find the number 216 in the world you will be able to find everywhere; 216 steps form your street corner to your front door, 216 second you spend ridining in the elevator, because when your mind becomes obsess with anything you will fill everything out and find it everywhere, 220, 450, 22 whatever, you have chosen 216 and yo...
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Es asi como termina todo?. ¿muerte que entra por la nariz en todas partes? qué barato, que plagio. que brutal...vomitó por encima del pecho, demadiado enfermo para moverse. podía sentir el alma flotar allí afuera desde abajo, desde su cuerpo. podía sentirla allí colgando como un gato, los pies clavados en los muelles. ¡ vuelve cabrona! le dijo. Pero su alma soltó una carcajada, "me has tratado demasiado mal durante demasiado tiempo, amigo. tienes lo que mereces". Eran las tres de la mañana. En su caso, no era la muerte lo importante. En su caso, lo importante eran las partes sueltas y sin resolver que se dejaba: una niña de cuatro años en algún campamento hippy de Arizona, calzoncillos y calcetines tirados por el suelo. platos por el suelo, facturas de la luz sin pagar y partes suya abandonadas por casi todos los estados, partes suyas dejadas en coños sin lavar de tantas putas. Es tan triste, tanto, tan trsitisimo. ¿quién podía disipar la tristeza, dadas las circunstancias?....
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