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343 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1992


[…]I, who watched him step on a porch, push a door, and disappear like a caramel when you get to the end of it, kept asking myself why it is that you, a writer, a man who sells novels, who appears on TV, and whose name is in magazines, are interested in a loser like that, a guy who lives on Rua #8 in a crappy building undermined by vapors from the river and by the sewer stench that peers through the holed in the wall like an animal with nowhere to go. A dump on Rua #8, for Christ’s sake, a hovel for pensioners and housemaids, with crumbling plaster and leaky plumbing, the gate off the hinges, a couple of honeysuckle bushes crying out for help to the ocean’s indifference, miniscule windows, a washbasin where the water comes out in spurts, what do you want, young man, with a trash heap like that, are you sure your mind’s working all right, what kind of book can you make out of a story like that when squalor’s what this city already has too much of?
[…]persecuted by my father’s voice,
“What did I do to deserve such a stupid son?”
the same voice that bullied me at my job, on the streetcar, and in the movie theaters that colored my dreams, my father’s voice that for forty years had been making fun of me, punctuated by sighs from my mother and snickers from Jorge, who came home on weekends from officer training school,
“What did I do to deserve such a stupid son?”
the voices that persecuted me everywhere, like the screams of my sister in the attic and like the eyes in the photos,
“What did I do to deserve such a stupid grandson?”
My own voice, choked by lather during my morning shave,
“What did I do to deserve being so stupid?”