torsdag, november 18, 2010

Duras


It was barely thirteen years ago that these things happened and that our family broke up, except for my younger brother who never left my mother and who died last year in Indochina. Barely thirteen years. No other reason impels me to write of these memories, except that instinct to unearth. It’s very simple. If I do not write them down, I will gradually forget them. That thought terrifies me.

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