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exchange, I’d give her the letter from Violeta that was (mistakenly) delivered to my address. I must read, read.
    (A little drunk, Alicia asked me who this Carlos was that I’d been talking about. I told her that I’d send her another letter that would endeavor to explain this inexplicable thing. She told me that I’m evil. In spite of myself, I came up with a sentence from the intolerable La nueva novela by the homonymous Carlos Fuentes, regarding Cortázar, Oliveira, and Traveler: “Confronting the double incarnation there are only two answers: murder or madness.” I think about how fond J and I were of Hopscotch at one time, just like Alicia, who told me that when she was sixteen she did a sort of pilgrimage through the streets of Paris where the drama of Oliveira and Maga unfolded, I don’t want to laugh at such innocence. Talita and Maga, Oliveira and Traveler. The problem with doubles is that they must inevitably exterminate each other. At some point I’ll write about Goytisolo’s State of Siege ,where he claims that everyone has a virtual enemy. Who am I going to kill if I’m my own enemy! The only part of Hopscotch that’s worth the effort is the part that takes place in Buenos Aires. The final schizophrenia.)

    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  August 18 th
    In the dining hall at the university I kept repeating the phrase “this is not a good year” and P got pissed off, she almost threw her food in my face. During my thesis seminar, while the professor was talking, making sterile attempts to provoke some sort of response from us students, I observed the faces of my colleagues: heads down, eyes inert, hands hidden. Smug mouths: we’ve already heard this too many times, this is interesting but it’s too early in the morning and the sky is very gray; what the professor was saying was external, we’re in our final year of studying literature and in one way or another we’ve made up our minds to forget that we don’t want to be here. The book was actually entertaining, like TV, parties, the cinema. The photocopies had a distinct smell, we can simulate an analysis of the mythical structure of One Hundred Years of Solitude , for two hours we drink down lessons of generative linguistics with our coffee, the rest of the day we live! We walk around the campus, holding hands with our girlfriends, we go to a theater performance, then suddenly a book appears in the display case. One book. We touch it, it’s a beautiful edition. I sit down in the plaza and run my eyes over every line, every letter, I enter that historical world, I’m just another one ofthose characters on the edge of the abyss and my skin is crawling, I convince myself of repulsive human uncertainty, of suffering, of the declamation, of the verbal chaos, and of the silence of the last paragraph; ominous, death. I turn off the light above my head and think in silence: “If God doesn’t exist then this is all there is: disappointment, depopulation, the asepsis of the word end .” You don’t think about the courage of writing a novel in a Santiago on the brink of collapse, it doesn’t occur to you that the only valid thing would be to make up poems in your mind, like Borges, entire verses in your mind, go over them a couple times before falling asleep, and the possibility of their publication evaporates forever; you enjoy yourself for a while fantasizing about how publishers and critics should be executioners of benevolent smiles; you don’t think, you just feel. You turn the last page, the image of the protagonists curled up together, cynical, afraid to pierce the moment with the word; the question “how are you, are you still sad?” actually means “I can’t hold you any longer, we can’t spend our lives holding each other, sheltered from the world”; which actually means that when you turn off the light above you, you