Read Online The Day I Killed My Father by Mario Sabino - Free Book Online

table, a small, carefully stacked pile of papers and a chrome pencil holder only highlighted the lack of clutter. The sofa on which Antonym had woken up stood against the wall opposite the desk. It was covered in black leather, and was brand-spanking new. In front of the sofa, a centre table on a white rug held some magazines and newspapers, also stacked with the same fastidiousness. The publications were dated from the previous week, which reinforced the impression that the room wasn’t used very much . Maybe it’s just where Hemistich brings his pussy for the kill , thought Antonym.
    After remaining quiet for a few minutes, Hemistich came away from the window.
    â€˜Could it be that we’re wrong about you, Antonym?’
    â€˜We’re wrong?’
    â€˜That I’m wrong, I mean.’
    â€˜Most probably, yes. My mission on Earth is to disappoint.’
    Hemistich walked over to Antonym and looked straight into his eyes, as if searching his retinas.
    â€˜No, I’m not wrong. There’s something in you that begs to be set free.’
    â€˜You’re freaking me out, Hemistich. Someone stared at me like that last night, before I passed out. Was it you?’
    â€˜No. Do you want me to go on with my story?’
    â€˜Please do. It begs to be told.’
    â€˜You must be asking yourself whether I’d never noticed my limits before then. Yes and no. I’d sensed my cowardice, but intellectual arrogance is peculiar: we are only able to be arrogant with others when we are arrogant enough with ourselves. The right amount of arrogance is that which leads us to believe that we make a difference. After the revelation that I was really just a big farce (because it really was a revelation), I started taking a closer look at the intellectuals around me. They were mirrors of my fragility. It became glaringly obvious to me that, even when armed with total arrogance, they always found a way to avoid straightforward statements and original reasoning. Their articles and essays were amphibological, so to speak; full of emergency exits, of which the most common were the expressions “to a certain extent” and “so to speak”. Have you ever noticed how intellectuals overuse them? Much more than stylistic crutches, they’re existential ramparts.
    â€˜These discoveries were, obviously, followed by the question: What to do? Put a distance between myself and my peers and go to live in another city, where I could reconstruct myself? Vulgar avoidance: I’d just be sweeping my problem under the carpet. I fell into a state of aboulia. It wasn’t a depression, although it had things in common with the depressive state I was already familiar with. So I took leave from the university where I taught. I went to Europe. Perhaps contact with beauty, with history, would jog me out of my state of numbness. I went to museums, visited ruins, and admired architectural monuments. In Paris, I watched the best films by French, German, and Italian filmmakers.
    â€˜But the trip only served to underline how out of touch with the world I was. Have you ever felt detached from your surroundings, Antonym? Because this was the feeling that had come over me. I came back from Europe with an urge to look for a solution in nature. Yes, I told myself, what I was missing was direct contact with reality in its rawest state. I needed something visceral. I spent two months visiting beautiful, remote places — beaches, forests, mountains, caves, waterfalls. But, no matter where I was, it was as if I wasn’t there. There was a barrier between my conscious mind and my senses. I said “barrier”, but perhaps “discontinuity” is more accurate. The noise of the rapids and waterfalls was dull when it reached my eardrums. I’d touch a leaf, and it would have no texture. I’d smell a flower, and its perfume would be a memory. I’d look at a green valley, and my gaze would go