Aura by Carlos Fuentes

  • You’re reading the advertisement: an offer like this isn’t made every day. You read it and reread it. It seems to be addressed to you and nobody else
  • But before going in you give a last look over your shoulder, frowning at the long line 41djYIq8e7Lof stalled cars that growl, honk, and belch out the unhealthy fumes of their impatience
  • You discover that you’ve got to follow her with your ears instead of your eyes: you follow the rustle of her skirt, the rustle of taffeta, and you’re anxious now to look into her eyes again
  • You’d like to fix the girl’s features in your mind. Every time you look away you forget them again, and an irresistible urge forces you to look at her once more
  • Wait until her breathing is back to normal, while the involuntary tears run down her parchment cheeks.
  • If the price of your future creative liberty is to put up with all the manias of this old woman, you can pay it easily
  • Now you know why Aura is living in this house: to perpetuate the illusion of youth and beauty in that poor, crazed old lady
  • The red of her lips has strayed beyond their former outlines, as if she wanted to fix them in a happy grimace, a troubled smile; as if, like that plant in the patio, her smile combined the taste of honey and the taste of gall
  • You recall that whenever they’re together they always do the same things: they embrace, smile, eat, speak, enter, leave, at the same time, as if one were imitating the other, as if the will of one depended on the existence of the other


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