This is the greatest sadness of the emigrant. What is there to connect us to the cemeteries in the countries in which we live? [. . .] Don’t you understand ? We are the ones who have observed each and every thought for thirty years. For thirty years we have longed for a lost paradise, a paradise that is unique, special, that is ours. A paradise of crumbling houses and collapsing roofs. A paradise of deserted streets, of unburied dead. A paradise of razed walls, fallen towers and devastated fields [. . .] We are the exiles of Spain [. . .] Leave us our ruins. We must begin again from the ruins. We will get there. María Teresa León, Memoria de la Melancolía (Buenos Aires, 1970) What distinguishes man from the animals is that man is an heir, not simply a descendant. José Ortega y Gasset The women weren’t wearing tights. Their fat, fleshy knees bulged over the elastic of their socks, peeking out from under the hem of their dresses, which were not really dresses but shapeless, collarless smocks made of some lightweight fabric I could not name.
