on history (unlinkable)

Lives don’t make sense in reality, they come and go and often, like tsunamis, with the same crash, and they sweep away the dregs stagnating in your head like they were relics, which are treasures to you but don’t stand still. What a necropolis of sensations! … these heart throbs of which there’s nothing left… these smiles remembered by a simple wrinkle… what’s the use of all these people one meets and who go by and are no more? … and why forget those it would be pleasant not to forget, these beings with a heart in your image, and who go away from you… transient zombies, how to keep you inside?

- Patrick Chamoiseau, pg. 310, Texaco, trans. Rejouis & Vinokurov