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“Black Stone on a White Stone"

I will die in Paris with a rainstorm,
on a day I already remember,
I will die in Paris—and I don't shy away�
perhaps on a Thursday, as today is, in autumn.

It will be Thursday, because today, Thursday, as I prose
these lines, I've put on my humeri in a bad mood,
and, today like never before, I've turned back,
with all of my road, to see myself alone.

César Vallejo has died; they kept hitting him,
everyone, even though he does nothing to them,
they gave it to him hard with a club and hard

also with a rope; witnesses are
the Thursday days and the humerus bones,
the solitude, the rain, the roads. . .”
― César Vallejo, The Complete Poetry

“Well, on the day I was born God was sick, gravely.”
― Cesar Vallejo

“I’d read through the whole thing twice, and I used to go on and on: Marcel, the spectacular writer, my idol, and so forth. I used to blather endlessly about why I adored him, how he, the desperate socialite and party hopper, the inveterate pleaser, was actually the outsider par excellence, how he could be amid all the people he’d always dreamed of befriending yet remain alone in the universe, the loneliest speck of all.”
― Rabih Alameddine, An Unnecessary Woman

“Cioran once said that “one touch of clearsightedness reduces us to our primary state: nakedness.”
― Rabih Alameddine, An Unnecessary Woman