In the quiet of my room, I tackle the problem again, in vain; all I find is the line of my inauthenticity as a sin.

The old lady taps me on the shoulder. Dear Lady, I'd give my life for you. I'm late. I'm afraid I'll be left behind.

He was apt to score unbelievable goals whenever he could keep his balance on the field, something that didn't always happen: occasionally he fell over while fighting for the ball and couldn't get back up again because he was too drunk.

How can I playWhen language has been eclipsed by imagination’s neediness?

The astronomer had been promised immortal glory if he could complete this assignment.

Then, without ever knowing why, trees raise their naked arms to the King of the Sky.

I will never forget how Sebastián was dressed one morning, the first time he told us about the Water Cathedral.

Heaven rains down bread in little hard crumbs of dough, and whoever catches them may either become happy or choke on them.

But his canvases were irresistible, hypnotic, and no sooner did his greatest critics lay eyes on them than they rushed to have their own portraits executed by that magical hand.

The eyes of the Roma know exactly when the earth's heart begins to stir deep down at spring's root, reviving the shoots of grass and the buds of trees until the green sap bursts with love before the Sun's eyes.

I found a white bean: where did I plant it?

What became of the brindled cow? I traded her for money.

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE: La remontee des cendres (The Rising of the Ashes) is the title of a small text, written in French by the Paris-based Moroccan author Tahar Ben Jelloun. It was published by Editions…

The driver peers into his rearview mirror. / You are not there.

One day I came back and he wasn't there.

I’m from where I was born. I’m from elsewhere. –João Guimarães RosaI read Mundo’s letter in a bar in the Beco das Cancelas, an alley-way where I found refuge from the hubbub of…

The long, heavy ladle was lying on the floor when he discovered the murder.

Don't stare, he hissed in his ear.

He was not above melodrama. He would cry at westerns and gangster films.

I looked at my watch. I felt distressed. It's five o'clock.

The only sound to be heard in the little room was the snoring of the landlord interspersed with the quiet tick-tock of the clock on the wall...

People aren't born delinquent; they become so according to the accidents of their lives and their response to them.

A woman . . . foreign . . . was murdered, he replied out of breath as he was tying his faded necktie.

We are rescued here the way dust is rescued / from the river.

Listen, fellows, the driver says, we should notify the police, or else they'll frame us for it.

I don't usually talk about my religion.

I don't want to go for nothing. Have they really given up all hope for her? I ask with my eyes fixed on the desk, forcing myself not to stutter, not to rush.

She grows old, my friend, outside the heart / in others' eyes.

I stepped into the circle and, without thinking, shot . . .

Short said nothing, and no one found a word of comfort.