Explore "Nietzsche on his Balcony" by Carlos Fuentes on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
That's what María-Águila called the tiny green space behind her house. Though it was only a block off the Great Boulevard, that cacophony did not reach the Garden. She considered that a minor miracle. Nothing could explain a silent garden just a few meters from the busiest street in the city.
Where the three friends could meet. And she could serve them tea, coffee and listen to them, thinking that this would never happen again. Because we'll all grow old and die. Because today's history won't be tomorrow's. Because tomorrow we would be forgotten, though the plane trees and the yellowish sycamores would last a little while longer.