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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