Sometimes when we write, we wash everything clean, as if by doing so we could advance toward something. We ought to simply describe…those stains on memory. That arbitrary selection, nothing moire. That’s why we lie so much in the end. That’s why a book is always the opposite of another immense and strange book. An illegible and genuine book that we translate treacherously, that we betray with our habit of passable prose.

Ways of Going Home, Alejandro Zambra

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