I’m Not Sure Any More

September 30, 2025

I can’t forget anything. That’s my problem, or so I’ve been told.

I am the mother of Mexico’s poets. I am the only one who held out in the university in 1968, when the riot police and the army came in. I stayed there on my own in the Faculty, shut up in a bathroom, with no food, for more than ten days, for more than fifteen days, from the eighteenth to the thirtieth of September, I think, I’m not sure any more.

I stay there with a book by Pedro Garfías and my satchel, wearing a little white blouse and a pleated sky-blue skirt, and I had more than enough time to think things over. But I couldn’t think about Arturo Belano, because I hadn’t met him yet.

Roberto Bolaño, Amulet

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Thought:

“Members of the human race bring destruction on each other: they make murderous instruments that can sever hands and feet and slice limbs from torsos. Most of those not killed by fate are killed by their fellow men, and since nowadays men disdain the old ways of war as inadequate, they are constantly thinking up new techniques and dreaming of ways to increase the damage they cause. It has truly reached the point that in every stretch of countryside and in every town the killing never stops.”

Matteo Ricci | Jiren shipian