The Hour of the Star Read Online Free PDF

floor. With their, long, wavy hair in pink ribbons, the girls sang: 'Give me one of your daughters . . . maré-marré-deci.' 'I chose your daughter . . . maré-marré.' A pale spectre, the music hovered like a rose of reckless beauty. Yet transient. Pale and transient, the girl was now the sweet and horrifying spectre of a childhood without games or dolls. At such moments, she would pretend that she was running along corridors clutching a doll to her chest and chasing a ball with much laughter and amusement. Her laughter was terrifying because it belonged to the past and it was only revived by a malign imagination, a yearning for what might have been but never was. (I gave you fair warning that this is what is known as popular literature despite my reluctance to betray any emotion.)
    It must be said that the girl is not conscious of my presence. Were it otherwise, she would have someone to pray for and that would mean salvation. But I am fully conscious of her presence: through her I utter my cry of horror to existence. To this existence I love so dearly.
    To return to the girl: the one luxury she permitted herself was a few sips of cold coffee before going to bed. She paid for this luxury by waking up with heartburn.
    She rarely spoke (having little or nothing to say) but she loved sounds. Sounds were life. The night's silence made her feel nervous. It was as if night were about to pronounce some fatal word. At night, cars seldom passed through Acre Street. When they did, the louder their horns the more she liked it. As if these fears were not enough, she was also terrified of catching some dreadful disease down below — that was something her aunt had taught her. Although her tiny ovules were all shrivelled. So hopelessly shrivelled. Her life was so monotonous that by the end of the day she could no longer remember what had happened that same morning. She mused in silence and the thought came to her: since I am, the solution is to be. The cockerel I mentioned earlier heralded yet another day. It sang of weariness. Speaking of poultry, the girl sometimes ate a hard-boiled egg in a snackbar. Her aunt had always insisted that eggs were bad for the liver. That being so, she obediently became ill and suffered pains on the left side opposite the liver. For the girl was most impressionable. She believed in everything that existed and in everything non-existent as well. But she didn't know how to embellish reality. For her, reality was too enormous to grasp. Besides, the word reality meant nothing to her. Nor to me, dear God.
    As she slept, she often dreamed that her aunt was rapping her on the head. More surprisingly, she often dreamed about sex, she, who to all appearances was completely asexual. When she finally woke up, she was overcome by feelings of guilt without being able to explain why. Perhaps because everything that is pleasurable should be forbidden. Guilty and contented. Her doubts confirmed her sense of guilt and she mechanically recited three Hail Marys, Amen, Amen, Amen. She prayed but without God. She did not know Him, therefore He did not exist.
    Leaving God aside, I have just discovered that reality made little sense to the girl. She felt much more at ease with the unreality of everyday life. She lived in slo-o-ow motion, a hare le-e-eaping through the a-a-air over hi— i— ill and da-a-ale, obscurity was her earth, obscurity was the inner core of nature.
    She found consolation in being sad. Not desperate, for she was much too modest and simple to indulge in despair, but that indefinable quality associated with romantics. It goes without saying that she was neurotic. Neurosis sustained her. Dear God, neurosis counted for something: almost as good as crutches. Occasionally she wandered into the more fashionable quarters of the city and stood gazing at the shop windows displaying glittering jewels and luxurious garments in satin and silk — just to mortify the senses. The truth is that she needed to find herself