Consciences Keep Silence More Often Than They

At The End Of The 1950s, I Started Working At A Publishing Company, Estudios Cor, As Production Manager, So Returning, But Not As An Author, To The World Of Letters I Had Left Some Years Before.

Though I Had Come Into The World On 16 November 1922, My Official Documents Show That I Was Born Two Days Later, On The 18th. It Was Thanks To This Petty Fraud That My Family Escaped From Paying The Fine For Not Having Registered My Birth At The Proper Legal Time.

Some Drivers Have Already Got Out Of Their Cars, Prepared To Push The Stranded Vehicle To A Spot Where It Will Not Hold Up The Traffic, They Beat Furiously On The Closed Windows, The Man Inside Turns His Head In Their Direction, First To One Side Then To The Other, He Is Clearly Shouting Something, To Judge By The Movements Of His Mouth He Appears To Be Repeating Some Words, No One Word But Three, As Turns Out To Be The Case When Someone Finally Manages To Open The Door, I Am Blind.

Every Novel Is Like This, Desperation, A Frustrated Attempt To Save Something Of The Past. Except That It Still Has Not Been Established Whether It Is The Novel That Prevents Man From Forgetting Himself Or The Impossibility Of Forgetfulness That Makes Him Write Novels.

We Are So Afraid Of The Idea Of Having To Die... That We Always Try To Find Excuses For The Dead, As If We Were Asking Beforehand To Be Excused When It Is Our Turn.