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The Light of Asteria: Kailmeyra's Last Hope

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Elizabeth Isaacs

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“You are my blood mate,” he says simply, finding my hand and squeezing it with his own. “I would die for you.” Gah! A little warning before the touching would be nice. Mainly so I can resist the overwhelming urge to morph into a jiggly pile of Jell-O, thank you very much. “You’d … die… for me?”” I manage to choke out. I’ve got to lighten the mood here. “Technically aren’t you already dead?”

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Book:Boys that Bite
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“She smirked and felt the familiar pain of her fangs elongating and piercing through her gums. She inhaled the night air deeply and smiled at the intoxicating aroma. Multiple scents hit her nose at once. They were thick and rich, mixed with booze and teenage pheromones. Her leather jacket fluttered slightly as a night breeze swept under it.”

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Book:Poet Tongue
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“Entonces, un día comencé a escribir, sin saber que me había encadenado de por vida a un noble pero implacable amo. Cuando Dios le entrega a uno un don, también le da un látigo; y el látigo es únicamente para autoflagelarse. [...] La diferencia entre escribir bien y el arte verdadero es sutil, pero brutal. (Capote, pág. 9) »[...] En un cuento de Henry James, creo que “The Middle Years”, su personaje, un escritor en las sombras de la madurez, se lamenta: “Vivimos en la oscuridad, hacemos lo que podemos, el resto es la demencia del arte”. O palabras parecidas. En cualquier caso, míster James lo expone en toda la línea; nos está diciendo la verdad. Y la parte más negra de las sombras, la zona más demencial de la locura, es el riguroso juego que conlleva. (Capote, pp. 12-13) »Los escritores, cuando menos aquellos que corren auténticos riesgos, que están ansiosos por morder la bala y pasar la plancha de los piratas, tienen mucho en común con otra casta de hombres solitarios: los individuos que se ganan la vida jugando al billar y dando cartas. (Capote, pág. 13) »[...] Para empezar, creo que la mayoría de los escritores, incluso los mejores, son recargados. Yo prefiero escribir de menos. Sencilla, claramente, como arroyo del campo. (Capote, pág. 15). »[...] Entretanto, aquí estoy en mi oscura demencia, absolutamente solo con mi baraja de naipes y, desde luego, con el látigo que Dios me dio (Capote, pág. 17)”

VidaBrutalDiosArteEscribirPalabrasLocuraOscuridadJuegoDíaDemenciaAmoBarajasNaipesSutil
Book:Music For Chameleons
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“Feito uma bexiga que perdeu o nó, o sr. Taniguchi foi se esvaziando. Embora Nico tivesse orientado Mayu a procurar um médico, a filha pensou que aquilo logo passaria e foi postergando a consulta. O sr. Taniguchi emagreceu, perdeu o caminho para o banheiro e deixou de prestar atenção nas conversas. Não só esquecia onde colocara as chaves como não entendia mais para que serviam aqueles objetos. Às vezes era visto perambulando na rua e, certo dia, sumiu de casa. Mayu foi dar com o pai sentado no chão do quintal de Teresa, comendo a comida dos cachorros. Quando lhe perguntou o que estava fazendo, ele pareceu não saber.”

Demencia
Book:Noites de Alface
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“I half expected to hear that stupid cackling laugh again, but there was just the fluttering of new leaves blowing in the cooler breeze. The sunken moon sat on the cosmic ledge like a judge sentencing me to doom. In the bright moonlight, I felt the depth of my ineptitude. To throw off my rage at the world, at myself, I picked up a rock and chucked it across the field, and then I went back home.”

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Book:No Winter Lasts Forever
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“Everyone kept moving along, like no bad thing would ever happen to them; that sort of thing was only on Twitter or the news feeds. They were safe. Nothing would happen to them. Even in the very spot where it had happened, people moved on with their lives. It was either impressive human-spirit stuff or just total, impenetrable ignorance: the belief that death naturally wasn’t a part of their lives.”

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Book:No Winter Lasts Forever
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