Rifle barrels pointing at me/ Jean-Paul Sartre
I didn’t want to think any more about what would happen at dawn, at death. It made no sense. I only found words or emptiness. But as soon as I tried to think of anything else, I saw rifle barrels pointing at me. Perhaps I lived through my execution twenty times; once, I even thought […]
A paseo in nineteenth-century Cádiz/ Pio Baroja
(Original Spanish text at the end of this post. Louis Villalba translated it into English) On a winter Sunday afternoon at dusk, I did not know why I decided to leave the San Fernando stage and stay in Cádiz. There was the Sunday sadness of the seaports on the dock. I did not feel happy […]
