Aura

You will never look again at your watch, that useless object that falsely measures a time agreed upon to human vanity, those hands that tediously mark the long hours invented to win the true time, the time that runs with the insulting, deadly speed that no watch can measure. In one of the most vertiginous writings of Carlos Fuentes, a curse garden surrounds a house in which time, untamed, favors bewilderment. This enclave inhabits elements such as the labyrinth, the double, the spectral line between life and death that, when blurred, makes the ominous emerge and generates an Aura populated by ambiguous shadows and moldy silences.