Selected Cronicas

WITHOUT ANY WARNING

There were so many things which I did not know at the time. No one had told me, for example, about this fierce sun at three o’clock in the afternoon. Nor had anyone told me about this dry rhythm of living, this relentless dust. They had vaguely warned me it might be painful. But I had no idea that what would bring me hope from afar would spread over me like an eagle’s wing. I had no idea what it meant to be protected by great outspread, menacing wings, an eagle’s beak lowered towards me and smiling. In adolescence, when I triumphantly wrote in my diary that I did not believe in love, that was precisely when I loved most of all. I had no idea how harmful lies could be. I began to lie as a precaution, and because no one warned me about the danger of being wary, I was no longer able to rid myself of the habit of lying. And I told so many lies that I began to lie even to my very lies. And this — I was amazed to discover — was the same as telling the truth. Until I became so degenerate that I would tell the most shameless lies: I was telling the naked truth.