miércoles, 24 de agosto de 2016

Fragment II of Harvard Square by André Aciman

And yet, what finally cemented our friendship from the very start was our love of France and of the French language, or, better yet, of the idea of France –because real France we no longer had much use for, nor it for us. We nursed this love like a guilty secret, because we couldn’t undo it, didn’t trust it, didn’t even want to dignify it with the name of love. But it hovered over our lives like a fraught and tired heirloom dated back to our respective childhoods in colonial North Africa. Perhaps it wasn’t even France, or the romance of France we loved; perhaps France was the nickname we gave our desperate reach for something firm in our lives– and for both of us the past was the firmest thing we had to hold on to, and the past in both cases was written in French.
We blamed Cambridge for not being Paris, the way over the years I’ve blamed many places for not being Cambridge, which is like blaming someone for not being someone else or for not living up to who they never claimed they were.

-          André Aciman (Alexandria, 1951)

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