That was the difference that didn’t end not only assimilating, or understanding, and much less to comprehend; that was the difference that was being refused to suspect that it existed: the one that was dividing the subnormal from the quite born ones. She was lacking poetry, undoubtedly, so although she was censured by it, whenever she saw a cross she had a good time imagining her husband tortured on ittill death.If she would have read to Juana or to Alfonsinashe would have thought about her son, rather than in her husband. But the poetry is not an area for the people who boast of being people.
Later there came another imbecile, who of being an imbecile was never tired. The type of imbecile that we all know,who as boys they sell to us under the image of “good gentleman”and who, before coming to that, goes through “the good boy”. It’s the ones that let the natural pusillanimous condition with which they were born to, vigorously, become what they never wanted to be, to be what nobody forced them to be, a heap of masks and fragrant layers under which only a stinking absence of proper speech exists.
Then, I came,who already knew what was like to be chase by the gray hair and to run to the park and there to turn round the situation and that the cops would be the ones running.I, who had already made the jaw of a priest crack, and the morality of more than two theologians. I, who already knew about abortions, and of spending Christmases in public hospitals without my family. With that height that gives you having scars in the two eyebrows and in the two forearms, I came to it almost without voice to say: it’s not up to me to stay or to get bored