"For as long as I could remember, I had been transparent to myself, unselfconcious, learning, doing, most
of every day. Now I was in my own way; I myself was a dark object I could not ignore. I couldn’t remember how to forget myself, to reckon myself in, to deal with myself every lifelong minute on top of everything else —but swerve as I might, I couldn’t avoid it. I was a boulder blocking my own path. I was a dog barking between my own ears, a barking dog who wouldn’t hush. So this was adolescence. Is this how people around me had died on their feet —inevitably, helplessly? Perhaps their own selves eclipsed the sun for so many years the world shivered around them, and when at last their inescapable orbits have passed through these dark egoistic years it was too late, they had adjusted. Must I then lose the world forever, that I had so loved? Was it all, the whole bright and various planet, where I had been so ardent about finding myself alive, only a passion peculiar to children, that I would outgrow even against my will?" So this was adolescence. -Annie Dillard

Ni siquiera lo he meditado, pero está es la última cosa que he subrayado estos días. Aburro, ya sé. Denme un tiempo... ¡volveré!

(¿A quién digo esto?)