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:

“A cushion has that cover. Supposing you do not like to change, supposing it is very clean that there is no change in appearance, supposing that there is regularity and a costume is that any the worse than an oyster and an exchange. Come to season that is there any extreme use in feather and cotton. Is there not much more joy in a table and more chairs and very likely roundness and a place to put them.”

Gertrude Stein | “A Substance in a Cushion”