Mexican Gothic

A woman who is not liked is a bitch, and a bitch can hardly do anything: all avenues are closed to her.

The world might indeed be a cursed circle; the snake swallowed its tail and there could be no end, only an eternal ruination and endless devouring.

It was easy to kiss someone when it didn’t matter; it was more difficult when it might be meaningful.

Noemí’s father said she cared too much about her looks and parties to take school seriously, as if a woman could not do two things at once.

...she was trapped between competing desires, a desire for a more meaningful connection and the desire to never change. She wished for eternal youth and endless merriment.

So I'll be wed in the Church of the Holy Incestuous Mushroom?

One could construct a hundred different narratives, it didn’t make them true.

She wanted to be liked. Perhaps this explained the parties, the crystalline laughter, the well-coiffed hair, the rehearsed smile. She thought that men such as her father could be stern and men could be cold like Virgil, but women needed to be liked or they’d be in trouble. A woman who is not liked is a bitch, and a bitch can hardly do anything: all avenues are closed to her.

She was the snake biting its tail. She was a dreamer, eternally bound to a nightmare, eyes closed even when her eyes had turned to dust.

The future, she thought, could not be predicted, and the shpae of things could not be divined. To think otherwise was absurd. But they were young that morning, and they could cling to hope. Hope that the world could be remade, kinder and sweeter.

Marriage could hardly be like the passionate romances one read about in books. It seemed to her, in fact, a rotten deal. Men would be solicitous and well behaved when they courted a woman, asking her out to parties and sending her flowers, but once they married, the flowers wilted.

Our bodies hide so many mysteries and they tell so many stories without a single word

It’s no good telling tales without a drink.

You’re very silly or very brave, living in a haunted house.

Noemí, just because there are no ghosts it doesn’t mean you can’t be haunted. Nor that you shouldn’t fear the haunting.

The future could not be predicted, and the shape of things could not be divined. To think otherwise was absurd. But they were young that morning and they could cling to hope. Hope that the world could be remade kinder and sweeter.

I have seen the world, and in seeing it I’ve noticed people seem bound to their vices.

It was the house that disfigured the land.

In a sense all dreams foretell events, but some more clearly than others.

For all your intelligence, you don’t think sometimes

I like photos better. They capture the thing in the moment.” “But painting is the repeated exposure to a thing. It captures the essence of the object.

Life bores you, Noemí. You like a hint of danger, but back home they wrap you in gauze, to keep you from breaking. But you’d like to break, wouldn’t you? You play with people and you wish someone would have the guts to play with you.

Noemí was struck with the desire to lean forward and kiss him, a feeling like wishing to light a match, a burning, bright, and eager feeling. Yet she hesitated. It was easy to kiss someone when it didn't matter; it was more difficult when it might be meaningful.

But she liked this man’s quirks and imperfections, the lack of playboy smarts coupled with a quiet intelligence.

The walls speak to me. They tell me secrets. Don’t listen to them, press your hands against your ears, Noemí. There are ghosts. They’re real. You’ll see them eventually.

I’ve never understood that. Once, twice, thrice removed. Who keeps track of such a thing? I always figure if they come to my birthday party we are related and that’s it, no need to pull out the genealogy chart.

She wanted a fairytale and I wanted to give her that.