donât want our bond to drag along with it the absurd situation of a betrothal headed towards matrimony, nor that it acquire the semblance of a common and vulgar
affair
(second middle ground); I donât want the future to condemn me to be an old man disdained by a woman in full use of her senses, nor do I want, through fear of that future, to remain on the margin of a present time such as this, so attractive and inexchangeable (third middle ground); I donât want (fourth and final middle ground) to roam from motel to motel, nor do I want us to create a home, with a capital H.
Solutions? First: rent a little apartment, but without abandoning my house, of course. Well, first and done. There are no other solutions.
Monday 10 June
Cold and windy. How foul. To think that when I was fifteen years old I liked the winter. Now I start to sneeze and lose count. I often have the feeling that instead of a nose, I have a ripe tomato, with that ripeness tomatoes have ten seconds before they begin to rot. As I sneeze for the thirty-fifth time, I canât avoid feeling inferior to the rest of mankind. I admire the noses of saints, for example, those thin and unencumbered noses of, for example, the saints of El Greco. I admire the noses of saints because they (itâs evident) never had a cold, nor were incapacitated by a series of sneezes. Never. If they had sneezed in sequences of twenty or thirty consecutive outbursts, they wouldnât have been able to avoid completely surrendering to cursing out loud or to themselves. And whoever curses â even during the simplest of their bad thoughts â is closing off their path to Glory.
Tuesday 11 June
I didnât tell her anything, but I threw myself into the search for an apartment. Iâve got one in mind thatâs ideal. Unfortunately, there are no bargains available on ideals, theyâre always expensive.
Friday 14 June
It must be about a month since I last had more than a five-minute conversation with Jaime or Esteban. They come home grumbling, lock themselves in their rooms, eat in silence while reading the newspaper, they leave cursing, and then return at dawn. Blanca, on the other hand, is kind, chatty and happy. I donât see Diego very often, but I recognize his presence in Blancaâs face. Indeed, I was not mistaken: heâs a good man. I know that Esteban has a second job. Someone at the club found it for him. I have the impression, nevertheless, that heâs starting to regret letting himself become completely ensnared. Someday heâll lose his temper, I can see it already, and heâll tell everyone to go to hell. I hope itâs soon. I donât like to see him involved in an enterprise that apparently contradicts his old convictions. I wouldnât like him to become cynical, one of those fake cynics who, when the time for reproaches comes, makes excuses for himself, saying: âItâs the only way to make progress, to be someone.â Jaime, on the other hand, does work, and is good at his job. Also, they love him there. But Jaimeâs problem is something else, and whatâs worse is that I donât know what it is. Heâs always nervous and unsatisfied. Apparently, he has character, but sometimes Iâm not too sure whether itâs character or a passing fancy. I donât like his friends either. Thereâs something posh about
them. Theyâre from the upper-class Pocitos area and perhaps deep down in their hearts they despise him. They take advantage of Jaime because heâs clever, clever with his hands, and heâs always doing something theyâve entrusted to him. And for free, too, as it should be. None of them work; theyâre all daddyâs boys. Sometimes I hear them complaining: âHey, too bad youâve got to work. We canât count on you.â They say âjobâ like someone who is performing a heroic deed, like a Salvationist who approaches a drunken beggar and,
affair
(second middle ground); I donât want the future to condemn me to be an old man disdained by a woman in full use of her senses, nor do I want, through fear of that future, to remain on the margin of a present time such as this, so attractive and inexchangeable (third middle ground); I donât want (fourth and final middle ground) to roam from motel to motel, nor do I want us to create a home, with a capital H.
Solutions? First: rent a little apartment, but without abandoning my house, of course. Well, first and done. There are no other solutions.
Monday 10 June
Cold and windy. How foul. To think that when I was fifteen years old I liked the winter. Now I start to sneeze and lose count. I often have the feeling that instead of a nose, I have a ripe tomato, with that ripeness tomatoes have ten seconds before they begin to rot. As I sneeze for the thirty-fifth time, I canât avoid feeling inferior to the rest of mankind. I admire the noses of saints, for example, those thin and unencumbered noses of, for example, the saints of El Greco. I admire the noses of saints because they (itâs evident) never had a cold, nor were incapacitated by a series of sneezes. Never. If they had sneezed in sequences of twenty or thirty consecutive outbursts, they wouldnât have been able to avoid completely surrendering to cursing out loud or to themselves. And whoever curses â even during the simplest of their bad thoughts â is closing off their path to Glory.
Tuesday 11 June
I didnât tell her anything, but I threw myself into the search for an apartment. Iâve got one in mind thatâs ideal. Unfortunately, there are no bargains available on ideals, theyâre always expensive.
Friday 14 June
It must be about a month since I last had more than a five-minute conversation with Jaime or Esteban. They come home grumbling, lock themselves in their rooms, eat in silence while reading the newspaper, they leave cursing, and then return at dawn. Blanca, on the other hand, is kind, chatty and happy. I donât see Diego very often, but I recognize his presence in Blancaâs face. Indeed, I was not mistaken: heâs a good man. I know that Esteban has a second job. Someone at the club found it for him. I have the impression, nevertheless, that heâs starting to regret letting himself become completely ensnared. Someday heâll lose his temper, I can see it already, and heâll tell everyone to go to hell. I hope itâs soon. I donât like to see him involved in an enterprise that apparently contradicts his old convictions. I wouldnât like him to become cynical, one of those fake cynics who, when the time for reproaches comes, makes excuses for himself, saying: âItâs the only way to make progress, to be someone.â Jaime, on the other hand, does work, and is good at his job. Also, they love him there. But Jaimeâs problem is something else, and whatâs worse is that I donât know what it is. Heâs always nervous and unsatisfied. Apparently, he has character, but sometimes Iâm not too sure whether itâs character or a passing fancy. I donât like his friends either. Thereâs something posh about
them. Theyâre from the upper-class Pocitos area and perhaps deep down in their hearts they despise him. They take advantage of Jaime because heâs clever, clever with his hands, and heâs always doing something theyâve entrusted to him. And for free, too, as it should be. None of them work; theyâre all daddyâs boys. Sometimes I hear them complaining: âHey, too bad youâve got to work. We canât count on you.â They say âjobâ like someone who is performing a heroic deed, like a Salvationist who approaches a drunken beggar and,
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