Mark LottoFeb 19
Umberto Eco (5 January 1932–19 February 2016)
I read this passage in Foucault’s Pendulum, on the floor of someone else’s bedroom in Madrid, when I was 17, and it meant a great deal to me then, and still does now.
She left with a canvas bag, a volume of political economy under her arm.
For two months, she sent me no word, and I made no attempt to seek her out. Then she wrote me a brief, evasive letter, telling me she needed time to think. I didn’t answer.
I felt no passion, no jealousy, no nostalgia. I was hollow, clear-headed, clean, and as emotionless as an aluminum pot.
I stayed in Brazil another year, with the constant feeling I was on the brink of departure. I didn’t see Agliè again, I didn’t see any of Amparo’s friends. I spent long, long hours on the beach, sunbathing.
I flew kites, which down there are very beautiful.
