Memoirs of old age, by Ernesto Sabato

I think I have summarized something of a feeling that afflicts a man standing with his feet on the edge of a pit of death. And here I am offering my apology to the readers; if they find it more than just broad lines – sketches – or barely drafts. Diary writing seems to be a kind of writing that sits somewhere between imagination and article. When megalomania - paranoia - or humility, or shyness dominates, I am about to raise my critical sense - and I do so - and make the necessary adjustments to correct mistakes and errors, and try to distance myself from that dark, gloomy, contradictory, and weak side of existence. And I strive to do something with strength. When – as now – my desire to put something to confess what comes out dominates, I speak without thinking. And there is no doubt that there are always masks; except when pain, or anger, or ingratitude and denial of goodness strip us of our spirits.