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Gina has lighted a large candle for her dead. She lit it in the kitchen; the dead are many and not near. It is necessary to return to when she was a child and breakfast coffee was a fistful of [...]

Memory was a literary genre from before the birth of writing. Then it became chronicle and tradition but was already reeking of cadavers. Living memory is not recorded, it neither springs from [...]

Not always or almost never does our personal identity coincide with time measurable with the instruments we have. The room is big, it has friezes and baroque stuccos, and the large back window [...]