What are my eyes for if they can see but see nothing? (Madre). What are my ears for if they can hear but hear nothing?(Madre). Why all this strangeness inside my head? (Madre).
All of it must be thought into nothingness (desde que tú no estás), one whorl of gray matter at a time, until in the end a spoonful of me will be left glistening at the bottom. I must seize memory like a knife and turn it against itself, stabbing memory with memory. If I can. (Madre).
The Book of Words, Jenny Erpenbeck. (Los paréntesis y el vacío, sin embargo, son de mi autoría).
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