Gee!
We ride a small wooden
slaughtered horse. Our nails are stained with blood because we have killed half
the village with a small crystal knife. We will sell our stockings and throw
our dolls when we grow pubic hair. We will spend fresh mornings in New Orleans
– where people wear wide hats.
You will marry me.
I will marry you.
BOJAN BABIĆ
The Melancholy of
Resistance
Laszlo
Krasznahorkai