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I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at the lonely moon.

I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghosts that living men have honoured in marble:

my father’s father killed in the frontier ofBuenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs, bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in the hide of a cow;

my mother’s grandfather -just twentyfour- heading a charge of three hundred men in Perú, now ghosts on vanished horses.

I offer you whatever insight my books may hold,whatever manliness or humour my life.

I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal.

I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved somehow -the central heart that deals not in words, traffics not with dreams and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.

I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset, years before you

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