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 peru, now ghosts on vanished horses.

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

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