The Death of Che Guevara (2011)
“He took it back to his room immediately, and spent the rest of the night reading. I could see his light, a thin strip underneath the door.
That light kept me awake, fidgeting in my bed, twisting the sheets about my body to cover myself. I couldn’t get comfortable; either the sheet stuck to my skin, or, kicking it away, I was too chilly, too exposed. It was not exactly, I think, a writer’s vanity that made me turn in my bed, not “What does he think of my work, my talent?” not even “What does he ...think of me, how does he, knowing these secrets, judge me?” But I felt as if I weren’t in my own hands anymore; I wondered, what does he make of me? Behind that door, in that light, he was reading me; I was entering his imagination; he was creating a version of me.
I was up before Ponco, sitting at the table, drinking mate when he came in, waiting for him. I wanted his version; I wanted to gaze at that funny reflection of myself. “What did you think of it?” I asked. “I’ve written history before but never in this way.MoreLess
That light kept me awake, fidgeting in my bed, twisting the sheets about my body to cover myself. I couldn’t get comfortable; either the sheet stuck to my skin, or, kicking it away, I was too chilly, too exposed. It was not exactly, I think, a writer’s vanity that made me turn in my bed, not “What does he think of my work, my talent?” not even “What does he ...think of me, how does he, knowing these secrets, judge me?” But I felt as if I weren’t in my own hands anymore; I wondered, what does he make of me? Behind that door, in that light, he was reading me; I was entering his imagination; he was creating a version of me.
I was up before Ponco, sitting at the table, drinking mate when he came in, waiting for him. I wanted his version; I wanted to gaze at that funny reflection of myself. “What did you think of it?” I asked. “I’ve written history before but never in this way.MoreLess
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