“But I only found shelter in the word. —THE WRITER’S NOTEBOOKS Florindo Makwala leads me to the dead lion, as if it were an excursion to my own failure. I didn’t hunt any of the lions. My brother Roland can relax: This wasn’t my last hunt. It wasn’t even a hunt. And my mother, wherever she may be, can take pride in her prophecy: Hunting and I have gone our different ways. * * * On the way, we pass by to pick up Gustavo Regalo. I find him immersed in his usual papers. Leave your work, and let...’s go and see the lion that’s been shot. It’s not my work—I’m looking over your diary. Is it worth the trouble? Listen, I’m a writer, I know how to judge: Whoever writes like this doesn’t need to hunt. I feel a lump in my throat. Gustavo can’t imagine the value of his reward. It was just a short note that began my story with Luzilia. It was the letters that caused my father to get down on his knees in front of his beloved wife. It was envy that I felt for Roland when he remained at home, seated like a king in the company of his books.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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