Lucrecia writes an intimate diary, notes on loose papers.
Few know it is medical. He studied some topics in the history profession. She feels the conflict between her work as a health worker and her calling as a historian. He talks all the time about the Argentine and European past. He devotes himself to astrology for fun. But he is more interested in the past than in the future.
One day I told her she was a doctor like the writer Celine. He looks at me with indescribable hatred. I’ve never seen her with those fiery eyes. Selene despises. You cannot accept that the writer takes racist positions. He says he’d rather not read it, and changes the subject.
Some time ago, I found some excerpts from Lucrecia’s diary and copied them into my autobiography. In the newspaper he talks about his mother. She says it’s a nympho:
“My dear mother was a nymph. That was my pleasure and his main problem. It was my pleasure.”
Lucrecia has a loose and light scattering. Do not stick to words as if you are not afraid of them. His condition is the opposite of that of a typical and arrogant writer: The author respects the words. Lucrecia treats them as if they were the sick corpse of a thief. He has no connection with them. To tell the truth, he has no association with anything. Religious doctors are free animals that bind them to the body as a fiction writer glorifies an escape from reality: the body is nothing but a pretext to glorify the soul they presume to be immortal.