Wednesday, November 17, 2010

He often drank too much and went home to his room, and there he’d fume, spinning, angry at the stupidity that had brought him to this freezing hell of a country, angry that a man his age had to masturbate when he had a wife, and angry at the blinkered existence of his jobs and the City imposed on him. He never had time to sleep, let alone to go to a concert or the museums that filled entire sections of the newspapers. And the roaches. The roaches were so bold in his flat that turning on the lights did not startle them. They waved their three-inch antennae as if to say, Hey puto, turn that shit off.

Junot Díaz, Drown.

2 comments:

v./ November 17, 2010 at 2:39 PM  

Habria que ver si esta en audiobook y si lo lee Junot himself. No te puedo explicar lo increible que es leyendo. Si alguna vez lo enganchas en Argentina, te recomiendo ampliamente ir a verlo. Es un GENIO.

Estudiante crónica November 18, 2010 at 3:51 PM  

off topic: hay jacarandaes (jacarandas?) en flor en plaza san martin, pza italia, parque los andes...en todo bs as.

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