The White Book

Person to whom the cure of this crying is as yet unknown.

Flustered, she takes its swaddled self into her arms.

I hold nothing dear. Not the place where I live, not the door I pass through every day, not even, damn it, my life.

ointment applied to a swelling, like gauze laid over a wound.

ointment applied to a swelling, like gauze laid over a wound.

Don’t die. For God’s sake don’t die.

At times my body feels like a prison, a solid, shifting island threading through the crowd. A sealed chamber carrying all the memories of the life I have lived and the mother tongue from which they are inseparable.

Certain objects appear white in the darkness.

There was no snow covering it, no soot-streaked ice. The buildings had been smashed to pieces, literally
pulverized

Why do old memories constantly drift to the surface here in this unfamiliar city?