–16–

When my mother was still alive, I read to acquire enough knowledge to impress her and humiliate my father. When she died, I abandoned my books for a good while. I only went back to them when I was about fourteen. I think I started reading again because it was a more efficient way to pass the time. I read so voraciously that, instead of toys and junk food, I used my hefty allowance to buy books. My father always gave me a lot of money. Not out of generosity, but insouciance. It was a way of saying, To hell with it. Let him look after himself. I had to start my collection almost from scratch, since one of the first things my father did when my mother died was donate most of her books to a charity — just as he did her clothes, jewellery, and all her other belongings. Even her photographs ended up with my aunt. I got them back as an adult, and keep them in the cupboard I have here.

I spent my adolescence reading — not least because it irritated my father, who blamed it for the fact that I’d turned into a skinny, pale teenager. At the country club, he couldn’t hide his envy of his friends who had strong, suntanned sons who’d already had a string of girlfriends, and who engaged in vile banter. To further set myself apart from them, I opened my mouth only to say that the days of the bourgeoisie were numbered, and that the only thing worse than robbing a bank was founding a bank. Not that I was some snot-nosed wannabe communist. I’d read the Communist Manifesto, and other nonsense of that sort, just to have ammunition when I wanted to provoke my father and his rich friends. It was more or less like wearing torn trousers and dirty t-shirts, which I also did.

Concerned that I wasn’t like the idiots he considered models of healthy youth, my father decided to, in his words, ‘help me become a man’. He started bringing up smutty subjects, and one night dragged me off to a ‘special restaurant’ — an upmarket brothel. ‘Take your pick, and I’ll pay,’ he said, showing me the girls. To get out of it, I pretended I was dizzy, really dizzy, and that I’d faint if I stayed. My father obviously didn’t fall for it. He only agreed to leave because he didn’t want to risk becoming a supporting actor in a ridiculous fainting scene. On the way home, he hurled insults at me. He said I was a poof, abnormal, sick, and that he’d never go out in public with me again. Not even to the country club.

To my immense satisfaction, he kept his word. We only went out together again when I started seeing the woman I eventually married … How old was I when I lost my virginity? It was after my father tried to initiate me — I was about seventeen and a half. I went by myself to a downtown brothel. The whore I chose had a broken arm, and after we had sex, to complete the hour I’d paid for, she started telling me a weird story. She said that where she came from, there were women who gave birth to children who were half human, half animal. She must have been crazy.

Coming back to my reading … I read so much that it affected my performance at school. I neglected my studies to concentrate on novels, short stories, and plays — some of them impenetrable to a teenager … Did my books make me happy in any way? On the contrary, they helped me to become even unhappier. But it was a special unhappiness; that of one who believes himself better than others. Turning to books to make oneself feel especially unhappy — there’s nothing uncommon about that. I’d even go so far as to say that it makes the most sense. I don’t want to dwell much on this, because it’s not our topic. I’d just like to say one thing: I think literature confirms human unhappiness for those who are already prone to it. Or, at least, it shows how limited happiness can be. It’s possible to compose beautiful symphonies overflowing with the purest joy, and to paint magnificent canvasses in which radiant morning light is the only protagonist. But there is no great book whose main subject is not unhappiness … Why is that? Because one must be unhappy, in essence, to write a book, and to seek, in the interregnum of writing, some happiness. Clarice Lispector, remember? And me.

The ironic thing is that, because of my devotion to books, I ended up living the illusion that I could be happy full-time. It is an indirect association, but it can be made. They — books — led me to the place where I was to meet my wife … No, I don’t think the expression ‘ex-wife’ is more appropriate. It’s true that we live far apart, but on paper we’re still married. From a legal point of view, it was the best way our lawyers could find for me to continue to avail myself of a share of my father’s fortune, which is now limited to the payment of my monthly fees here. As I’m sure you know, I lost all right to any direct inheritance when I murdered him.

I can, therefore, call her my wife. And I will do so until the end of my days.