At The End Of The 1950s, I

Each Day Is A Little Bit Of History

Though I Had Come Into The World On 16 November 1922, My Official Documents Show That I Was Born Two Days Later, On The 18th. It Was Thanks To This Petty Fraud That My Family Escaped From Paying The Fine For Not Having Registered My Birth At The Proper Legal Time.

The Time For Miracles Has Either Passed Or Not Come Yet, Besides, Miracles, Genuine Miracles, Whatever People Say, Are Not Such A Good Idea, If It Means Destroying The Very Order Of Things In Order To Improve Them.

With The Passage Of Time, As Well As The Social Evolution And Genetic Exchange, We Ended Up Putting Our Conscience In The Color Of Our Blood And The Salt Of Our Tears.

The Novel Is Not So Much A Literary Genre, But A Literary Space, Like A Sea That Is Filled By Many Rivers.