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128 pages
First published January 1, 1974
He sat in a stuffy carriage of passenger train No. 96 and looked out into the endless darkness of the August night. But there was nothing to be seen. The rectangular, soot-covered pane reflected only the troubled features of his own face, so tormented that they seemed foreign to him. Had he been able at that moment to draw out of the darkness which enveloped everything around him some image of his childhood, some vanished face or long-forgotten voice, he could have more easily understood his sudden decision to die in his homeland. But he could not recall anything. There was no longer any response.
Then he thought that perhaps everything was not yet lost; if he lived every coming moment to the fullest, as if it were his last, his only, breath, then perhaps he would convince himself that he had lived – really lived!
“… el hombre en realidad no ha llegado demasiado lejos a pesar de que avanza cada vez más rápido, que hay algo en nuestra naturaleza que no se puede esconder tan fácilmente”
“Sabía que en su interior estaba creciendo el odio hacia esa gente que reculaba ante él, hacia esa hierba que absorbía su sangre cual rocío, hacia aquel mar que nunca iba a visitar, hacia aquellas mujeres que quería amar, hacia esa luz que se apagaría en sus ojos, hacia todo lo que existía porque todo seguiría existiendo sin él”
“Trataba de escaparse solo porque ellos se esforzaban tanto por alcanzarlo, como si tuvieran algún derecho a ello. Quería negarles ese derecho. ¡por puro encono!”
“De pronto, le pareció que tras de sí dejaba un páramo y un vacío del cual no era capaz de evocar ni una sola escena, ni un solo rostro, ni una sola voz, ningún aroma, nada de todo aquellos que le hiciera convencerse de que realmente había vivido”