What do you think?
Rate this book


212 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published June 1, 1966
I know nothing of his life. I do not know who he was. I do not even know whether he might have been someone – something more than that puppet we called the Doll. Perhaps now, seated at my desk, I make this act of contrition realizing that when my grandfather began to exist in my memory he was the same age I am as I write this, and yet my remembrance of him is still colored by the fact that he was old and absurd.
…your eyes are too small and close together, the weakest part of your face. You don’t like them because they’re where you most notice the years that haven’t passed in vain, old man, that haven’t passed in vain, the discolored iris, the slightly reddened profile of the eyelids, the scarceness of the lashes that never were abundant… look at your eyes that may be dying. Today they have less strength than ever. As though the metastases already sown in your liver, in your prostate, in your brain, in your knee, in your bladder had sucked all the vigor from your body.
…it’s my birthday and I’m so far from my home in the country and no one here knows or cares, everyone far away, that’s why I want to touch you. Don’t be afraid because I like you to touch me, too, in this house that’s so big and lonely, the two of us alone, embracing in this room so far from everything…
Llegar a casa de mi abuela era por fin quebrar la redoma sin que fuera delito, era por fin fluir, derramarme...
Ella podía contarle lo que es la pasión: cómo se quiebra al primer golpe y uno sigue viviendo sin ella. Uno no mata, uno inventa cosas que toman el lugar de la pasión, y es posible ser feliz así también.