Clark Zlotsew

Fernando Sorrentino (Born 1942) - Argentine author with an international reputation for writing short, offbeat, absurdist fiction, There’s a Man in the Habit of Hitting Me on the Head with an Umbrella as case in point. Other internationally recognized absurdist writers who come immediately to mind are Soviet-era Danill Kharms and American Russell Edson.

What is it about absurdist fiction that makes it so unusual? Reflecting on just this question, below are seven reasons. And below the list, I've also included Fernando Sorrentino’s actual story about the umbrella man you can read for yourself.

1. Reason is turned completely on its head: a man climbs up to the apex of his roof, cry giddyup and his house rears up on its back porch and all its bricks fall apart and the house crashes to the ground; actors in a play enter the stage to do nothing but throw-up; someone spends their life receiving bonks over the head with an umbrella. Nonsense? In a way, yes, but these nonsensical happenings provide us with a unique opportunity to examine human nature and modes of behavior.

2. Dark humor, anyone? Absurdist humor frequently deals with themes and issues bordering on nightmare approached obliquely and from unusual angles. In Fernando Sorrentino’s The Return we encounter the eerie repeated appearance of a rag man through the eyes of a distant observer.

3. The absurdist fiction writer does not judge the wacky events in a story or play so much as leaving any judgment to the reader. Characters can be sliced and diced, mangled, beaten or kicked down a flight of stairs with as much regularity as if they were washing their hands or walking down the street - all without receiving any authorial moralizing.

4. In absurdist fiction the hallmarks of traditional plot structure with its arch of ascending and then descending action revolving around a central event or climax is frequently abandoned. I recall one absurdist play where the curtain goes up, a sigh is heard off stage and the curtain goes down. End of play.

5. Frequently the absurdist writer has direct ties to the worlds of Dada and Surrealist art, or, at the very least, embraces the aesthetic sensibilities of the Dadaist and Surrealist. Matter of fact, when reading absurdist fiction, frequently the surreal art of René Magritte or Max Ernst or Salvador Dali comes to mind.

6. Absurdist fiction is usually very short. Here is a Fernando Sorrentino quote from an interview: “Let’s just say that my head can’t imagine plots long enough to write novels. On the other hand, it’s easy for me to imagine situations or conversations that could eventually turn into relatively enjoyable stories. In other words: I follow mere pleasure, simplicity, or, even worse, the “path of least resistance.”” I recall similar statements from other absurdist writers like Russell Edson and Barry Yourgreau: short fiction accomplishes what they have to say.

7. Absurdist fiction tests our comfort zones. How conventional and humdrum are most of our opinions and ways of thinking and moving in the world? There’s no question, nearly all absurdist fiction is “way out there.” Fernando Sorrentino said in an interview that he writes without taking a reader into account, how he writers always to satisfy his own taste in reading and writing. Many people simply do not have a fondness for such stories, no matter how short. But for those of us who do, we can’t read enough of absurdist tales.

THERE'S A MAN IN THE HABIT OF HITTING ME ON THE HEAD WITH AN UMBRELLA by Fernando Sorrentino

There’s a man in the habit of hitting me on the head with an umbrella. It makes exactly five years today that he’s been hitting me on the head with his umbrella. At first I couldn’t stand it; now I’m used to it.

I don’t know his name. I know he’s average in appearance, wears a gray suit, is graying at the temples, and has a common face. I met him five years ago one sultry morning. I was sitting on a tree-shaded bench in Palermo Park, reading the paper. Suddenly I felt something touch my head. It was the very same man who now, as I’m writing, keeps whacking me, mechanically and impassively, with an umbrella.

On that occasion I turned around filled with indignation: he just kept on hitting me. I asked him if he was crazy: he didn’t even seem to hear me. Then I threatened to call a policeman. Unperturbed, cool as a cucumber, he stuck with his task. After a few moments of indecision, and seeing that he was not about to change his attitude, I stood up and punched him in the nose. The man fell down, and let out an almost inaudible moan. He immediately got back on his feet, apparently with great effort, and without a word again began hitting me on the head with the umbrella. His nose was bleeding and, at that moment, I felt sorry for him. I felt remorse for having hit him so hard. After all, the man wasn’t exactly bludgeoning me; he was merely tapping me lightly with his umbrella, not causing any pain at all. Of course, those taps were extremely bothersome. As we all know, when a fly lands on your forehead, you don’t feel any pain whatsoever; what you feel is annoyance. Well then, that umbrella was one humongous fly that kept landing on my head time after time, and at regular intervals.

Convinced that I was dealing with a madman, I tried to escape. But the man followed me, wordlessly continuing to hit me. So I began to run (at this juncture I should point out that not many people run as fast as I do). He took off after me, vainly trying to land a blow. The man was huffing and puffing and gasping so, that I thought if I continued to force him to run at that speed, my tormenter would drop dead right then and there.

That’s why I slowed down to a walk. I looked at him. There was no trace of either gratitude or reproach on his face. He merely kept hitting me on the head with the umbrella. I thought of showing up at the police station and saying, “Officer, this man is hitting me on the head with an umbrella.” It would have been an unprecedented case. The officer would have looked at me suspiciously, would have asked for my papers, and begun asking embarrassing questions. And he might even have ended up placing me under arrest.

I thought it best to return home. I took the 67 bus. He, all the while hitting me with his umbrella, got on behind me. I took the first seat. He stood right beside me, and held on to the railing with his left hand. With his right hand he unrelentingly kept whacking me with that umbrella. At first, the passengers exchanged timid smiles. The driver began to observe us in the rearview mirror. Little by little the bus trip turned into one great fit of laughter, an uproarious, interminable fit of laughter. I was burning with shame. My persecutor, impervious to the laughter, continued to strike me.

I got off—we got off—at Pacífico Bridge. We walked along Santa Fe Avenue. Everyone stupidly turned to stare at us. It occurred to me to say to them, “What are you looking at, you idiots? Haven’t you ever seen a man hit another man on the head with an umbrella?” But it also occurred to me that they probably never had seen such a spectacle. Then five or six little boys began chasing after us, shouting like maniacs.

But I had a plan. Once I reached my house, I tried to slam the door in his face. That didn’t happen. He must have read my mind, because he firmly seized the doorknob and pushed his way in with me.

From that time on, he has continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. As far as I can tell, he has never either slept or eaten anything. His sole activity consists of hitting me. He is with me in everything I do, even in my most intimate activities. I remember that at first, the blows kept me awake all night. Now I think it would be impossible for me to sleep without them.

Still and all, our relations have not always been good. I’ve asked him, on many occasions, and in all possible tones, to explain his behavior to me. To no avail: he has wordlessly continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. Many times I have let him have it with punches, kicks, and even—God forgive me—umbrella blows. He would meekly accept the blows. He would accept them as though they were part of his job. And this is precisely the weirdest aspect of his personality: that unshakable faith in his work coupled with a complete lack of animosity. In short, that conviction that he was carrying out some secret mission that responded to a higher authority.

Despite his lack of physiological needs, I know that when I hit him, he feels pain. I know he is weak. I know he is mortal. I also know that I could be rid of him with a single bullet. What I don’t know is if it would be better for that bullet to kill him or to kill me. Neither do I know if, when the two of us are dead, he might not continue to hit me on the head with his umbrella. In any event, this reasoning is pointless; I recognize that I would never dare to kill him or kill myself.

On the other hand, I have recently come to the realization that I couldn’t live without those blows. Now, more and more frequently, a certain foreboding overcomes me. A new anxiety is eating at my soul: the anxiety stemming from the thought that this man, perhaps when I need him most, will depart and I will no longer feel those umbrella taps that helped me sleep so soundly.


"During certain times in my life I’ve had to carry out very unpleasant jobs (for example, I was an office worker), and for that reason I would never let literature (which is, above all, a game and a pleasure) turn out to be a job.”
― Fernando Sorrentino

… (mehr)

I've read this amusing, quizzical short-short tale by Argentine author Fernando Sorrentino over and over again since it reminds me of a number of Zen koans and the below pithy quotes from a wise Greek philosopher.

“Be moderate in order to taste the joys of life in abundance.”

“He who is not satisfied with a little, is satisfied with nothing .”

“The wise man who has become accustomed to necessities knows better how to share with others than how to take from them, so great a treasure of self-sufficiency has he found.”
― Epicurus

AN ENLIGHTENING TALE by Fernando Sorrentino

This was a very honest beggar.

One day he knocked at the door of a luxurious mansion. The butler came out and said, "Yes, sir. What do you wish, my good man?"

The beggar answered, "Just a bit of charity, for the love of God."

"I shall have to take this up with the lady of the house."

The butler consulted with the lady of the house and she, who was very miserly, answered. "Jeremiah, give that good man a loaf of bread. One only. And, if possible, one from yesterday."

Jeremiah, who was secretly in love with his employer, in order to please her sought out a stale loaf of bread, hard as a rock, and handed it to the beggar.

"Here you are, my good man," he said, no longer calling him sir.

"God bless you," the beggar answered.

Jeremiah closed the massive oaken door, and the beggar went off with the loaf of bread under his arm. He came to the vacant lot where he spent his days and nights. He sat down in the shade of a tree, and began to eat the bread suddenly he bit into a hard object and felt one of his molars crumble to pieces. Great was his surprise when he picked up, together with the fragments of his molar, a fine ring of gold, pearls and diamonds.

"What luck," he said to himself. "I'll sell it and I'll have money for a long time."

But his honesty immediately prevailed: "No," he added. "I'll seek out its owner and return it."

Inside the ring were engraved the initials J. X. Neither unintelligent nor lazy, the beggar went to a store and asked for the telephone book. He found that in the entire town there existed only one family whose surname began with X: the Xofaina family.

Filled with joy for being able to put his honesty into practice, he set out for the home of the Xofaina family. Great was his amazement when he saw it was the very house at which he had been given the loaf of bread containing the ring. He knocked at the door.

Jeremiah emerged and asked him, "What do you wish, my good man?"

The beggar answered, "I've found this ring inside the loaf of bread you were good enough to give me a while ago."

Jeremiah took the ring and said, "I shall have to take this up with the lady of the house."

He consulted with the lady of the house, and she, happy and fairly singing, exclaimed, "Lucky me! Here we are with the ring I had lost last week, while I was kneading the dough for the bread! These are my initials, J.X., which stand for my name: Josermina Xofaina.

After a moment of reflection, she added, "Jeremiah, go and give that good man whatever he wants as a reward. As long as it's not very expensive."

Jeremiah returned to the door and said to the beggar, "My good man, tell me what you would like as a reward for your kind act."

The beggar answered, "Just a loaf of bread to satisfy my hunger."

Jeremiah, who was still in love with his employer, in order to please her sought out an old loaf of bread, hard as a rock, and handed it to the beggar.

"Here you are, my good man."

"God bless you. "

Jeremiah shut the massive oaken door, and the beggar went off with the loaf of bread under his arm. He came to the vacant lot in which he spent his days and nights. He sat down in the shade of a tree and began to eat the bread. Suddenly he bit into a hard object and felt another of his molars crumble to pieces. Great was his surprise when he picked up, along with the fragments of this his second broken molar, another fine ring of gold, pearls and diamonds.

Once more he noticed the initials J.X. Once more he returned the ring to Josermina Xofaina and as a reward received a third loaf of hard bread, in which he found a third ring that he again returned and for which lie obtained, as a reward, a fourth loaf of hard bread, in which ...

From that fortunate day until the unlucky day of his death, the beggar lived happily and without financial problems. He only had to return the ring he found inside the bread every day.… (mehr)

This glorious Fernando Sorrentino tale addresses what it means to take the necessary action to shock people out of their routine, standard, humdrum response to life.

Thinking back on something I did to shock, I can recall no better example than reciting one of my bizarre prose poems to an English instructor who asked me to share my writing. I can still see her eyes widen and her mouth gape open in astonishment, What a treat for a writer keen on originality!

And the most extreme stunt I've witnessed - in the film Harold and Maude when Harold gives the impression he has set himself on fire for the benefit of his new date. See for yourself: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZeF18IorXS4&t=6s

Here's Fernando's shorty in its entirety. Have a blast reading!


A PSYCHOLOGICAL CRUSADE
A good system for revealing as yet unknown facets in man consists of placing the subject in a totally new situation and observing his reactions. For example: if I make a phone call and I hear a voice on the other end of the wire say "Hello," the experiment will lack any scientific or informative value since the subject has done nothing more than to react in a routine manner in response to an equally routine situation. Therefore, it does not provide me with the opportunity to investigate any hidden aspects of his personality.

How can I learn, for example, if a particular storekeeper - all amiability and smiles as I make my purchase - might not be capable of strangling me over a matter of a few small coins? The best thing, then, would be to stimulate the man's unforeseeable reactions; these can be quite instructive.

I shall propose several examples.

1. I pay for the meager amount of a half kilogram of bread with a bill of the largest denomination in circulation and I flatly refuse to accept the change. I attentively observe the baker's covetousness, willing as he is to take advantage of my presumed insanity. I leave. Five minutes later I enter the store once more, this time accompanied by a police officer, and I accuse the baker of having refused to hand over my change. I study his anger at my bad faith, his disappointment at the foiled rip-off. Fearful, perplexed, he stammers incomprehensible excuses under the suspicious stare of the policeman, who does not believe that someone would refuse to accept that kind of change. He humbly hands me the necessary amount and I magnanimously declare that I prefer to consider the unpleasant episode closed. The officer, somewhat disappointed, says "Whatever you say." I observe with satisfaction the immense relief on the baker's face.*

2. I invite a friend of mine to have dinner at my home. When he arrives, I prevent him from entering with the accusation that he had - twelve or fourteen years earlier - stolen my girl with whom, of course, I was madly in love. I observe his astonishment (we've known each other for only a few months), his hesitation (could I possibly be the one who ...), his sorrow, his rage ...

3. I get on the bus and say "To such and such a place." When the driver - who is busy keeping his eyes on the traffic - opens his hand to collect the fare, I drop a chess rook and a sprig of parsley into it. The question is: how will the busdriver - a person of habitually unstable nerves - interpret this enigmatic offering?

4. I take a trip to the resort city of Mar del Plata and check into one of the most luxurious hotels. Just as soon as the maid leaves, I put the bed out in the hallway and take a refreshing nap, particularly well deserved after such a tiring trip, right there.

5. By means of a skeleton key, I let myself into any house when the owners happen to be absent. I await them placidly seated, smoking, drinking whisky, watching television. The subjects arrive. Then I harshly rebuke them, I shake my fist at them, I say "How the devil do you have the nerve to walk into my house?," paying no attention to their explanations, or paying attention (it makes no difference), I demand that they show me their deed to the house, I do not allow them to open the drawer in which they ridiculously claim the deed is since that drawer is an inalienable part of a piece of furniture which, in turn, is an inalienable part of my house and, consequently, in no way could possibly contain the deed to a house belonging to people who are strangers, suspicious characters and perhaps criminals and well-known members of the underworld, etc.

6. I become acquainted with a prim, rather silly and let's say quite pretty girl. I ask her for a date, I tell her I love her, I become her fiance and thus the date of our engagement arrives; the celebration takes place at her house. Someone makes a toast. Then there's another toast. There's a third toast. Finally, the long-awaited moment arrives in which the fiance - a well-mannered boy, if such an entity can be said to exist - offers his betrothed the beautiful surprise that has been talked about so much. Smiling with love and happiness, I hand over a package of considerable dimensions. The bride-to-be tests its weight; it seems great to her. The keenest curiosity is etched on the guests' faces. Everyone forms a circle and the women squeeze around the ecstatic bride-to-be. The fancy gift wrapping goes flying and so does the bow with which it's adorned. Now a rich case lined in black chamois comes into view. "An expensive jewel!" my sweetheart thinks and that gleam of covetousness that I see in her eyes justifies me in advance. Her fingers rush to unsnap the automatic lock. The lid rises with a plush click and a beautiful, multi-colored, cheery extremely venomous coral snake sinuously slides, in search of freedom, along my sweetheart's ivory arms.

7. I wait until the manager of the firm for which I work is in his impressive, carpeted office, conversing with his most important client who is about to close the deal on a purchase worth an astronomical sum. I rap timidly on the door; I hear "Come in;" I enter with discrete and modest steps; I say with a circumspect hint of a smile, "Pardon me, sir;" I walk to the imposing wooden cabinet, open it and urinate torrentially upon portfolios, books, equipment, contracts, documents and papers which may or may not be important.

Of course, there are a few simpler variants which I bequeath to those who may still lack the necessary practice and who may want to take up this psychological crusade. Here are a few:

Making passionate and even erotic remarks to members of the Salvation Army without regard to sex or age. Standing on the drugstore scale and staying there all day without allowing anyone to weigh himself. Buying two hundred grams of salami, sliced very thin, opening the package and, using the beautiful red slices, outlining a heart and writing I LOVE YOU on the delicatessen counter. Traveling on the bus, seated next to the aisle; waiting for the time your neighbor, man or woman, has to get off and says "Excuse me;" and you answer categorically, "No," and you absolutely refuse to allow him or her to pass.

The psychological crusade can cause a certain amount of anxiety (as does any crusade), implies one is involved in serious difficulties (as does any crusade). But, what do these inconveniences mean compared with the delight of observing the reactions to which the psychological crusade gives rise?

This is, at any rate, what I imagine, for - I confess - I'm nothing more than a mere theoretician and it's probable that I'll never put my ideas into practice. But you can - and should - do it.

* Note that we are dealing in mere hypothesis. This baker would react in the manner indicated, the one down the block perhaps would not be intimidated by the presence of the police officer and would impudently affirm that he had given me the change, etc. As can be seen, by repeating this experiment - with different bakers and, especially, with different policemen - we can succeed in plumbing the depths of bakers' souls. This is true to a lesser extent with respect to policemen's souls.… (mehr)

Fernando Sorrentino (Born 1942) - Argentine author with an international reputation for writing short, offbeat, absurdist fiction, “There’s a Man in the Habit of Hitting Me on the Head with an Umbrella” as case in point. Other internationally recognized absurdist writers who come immediately to mind are Soviet-era Danill Kharms and American Russell Edson.

What is it about absurdist fiction that makes it so unusual? Reflecting on just this question, below are my seven reasons. Below the list, I've also included Fernando Sorrentino’s actual story about this umbrella man as well as a link to another of his well-known pieces, “The Return,” which, to my mind, highlights his peculiar absurdist sensibility.

1. Reason is turned completely on its head: a man climbs up to the apex of his roof, cry giddyup and his house rears up on its back porch and all its bricks fall apart and the house crashes to the ground; actors in a play enter the stage to do nothing but throw-up; someone spends their life receiving bonks over the head with an umbrella. Nonsense? In a way, yes, but these nonsensical happenings provide us with a unique opportunity to examine human nature and modes of behavior.

2. Dark humor, anyone? Absurdist humor frequently deals with themes and issues bordering on nightmare approached obliquely and from unusual angles. In Fernando Sorrentino’s “The Return” we encounter the eerie repeated appearance of a rag man through the eyes of a distant observer.

3. The absurdist fiction writer does not judge the wacky events in a story or play so much as leaving any judgment to the reader. Characters can be sliced and diced, mangled, beaten or kicked down a flight of stairs with as much regularity as if they were washing their hands or walking down the street - all without receiving any authorial moralizing.

4. In absurdist fiction the hallmarks of traditional plot structure with its arch of ascending and then descending action revolving around a central event or climax is frequently abandoned. I recall one absurdist play where the curtain goes up, a sigh is heard off stage and the curtain goes down. End of play.

5. Frequently the absurdist writer has direct ties to the worlds of Dada and Surrealist art, or, at the very least, embraces the aesthetic sensibilities of the Dadaist and Surrealist. Matter of fact, when reading absurdist fiction, frequently the surreal art of René Magritte or Max Ernst or Salvador Dali comes to mind.

6. Absurdist fiction is usually very short. Here is a Fernando Sorrentino quote from an interview: “Let’s just say that my head can’t imagine plots long enough to write novels. On the other hand, it’s easy for me to imagine situations or conversations that could eventually turn into relatively enjoyable stories. In other words: I follow mere pleasure, simplicity, or, even worse, the “path of least resistance.”” I recall similar statements from other absurdist writers like Russell Edson and Barry Yourgreau: short fiction accomplishes what they have to say.

7. Absurdist fiction tests our comfort zones. How conventional and humdrum are most of our opinions and ways of thinking and moving in the world? There’s no question, nearly all absurdist fiction is “way out there.” Fernando Sorrentino said in an interview that he writes without taking a reader into account, how he writers always to satisfy his own taste in reading and writing. Many people simply do not have a fondness for such stories, no matter how short. But for those of us who do, we can’t read enough of absurdist tales.

-------

There's a Man in the Habit of Hitting Me on the Head with an Umbrella by Fernando Sorrentino

There’s a man in the habit of hitting me on the head with an umbrella. It makes exactly five years today that he’s been hitting me on the head with his umbrella. At first I couldn’t stand it; now I’m used to it.

I don’t know his name. I know he’s average in appearance, wears a gray suit, is graying at the temples, and has a common face. I met him five years ago one sultry morning. I was sitting on a tree-shaded bench in Palermo Park, reading the paper. Suddenly I felt something touch my head. It was the very same man who now, as I’m writing, keeps whacking me, mechanically and impassively, with an umbrella.

On that occasion I turned around filled with indignation: he just kept on hitting me. I asked him if he was crazy: he didn’t even seem to hear me. Then I threatened to call a policeman. Unperturbed, cool as a cucumber, he stuck with his task. After a few moments of indecision, and seeing that he was not about to change his attitude, I stood up and punched him in the nose. The man fell down, and let out an almost inaudible moan. He immediately got back on his feet, apparently with great effort, and without a word again began hitting me on the head with the umbrella. His nose was bleeding and, at that moment, I felt sorry for him. I felt remorse for having hit him so hard. After all, the man wasn’t exactly bludgeoning me; he was merely tapping me lightly with his umbrella, not causing any pain at all. Of course, those taps were extremely bothersome. As we all know, when a fly lands on your forehead, you don’t feel any pain whatsoever; what you feel is annoyance. Well then, that umbrella was one humongous fly that kept landing on my head time after time, and at regular intervals.

Convinced that I was dealing with a madman, I tried to escape. But the man followed me, wordlessly continuing to hit me. So I began to run (at this juncture I should point out that not many people run as fast as I do). He took off after me, vainly trying to land a blow. The man was huffing and puffing and gasping so, that I thought if I continued to force him to run at that speed, my tormenter would drop dead right then and there.

That’s why I slowed down to a walk. I looked at him. There was no trace of either gratitude or reproach on his face. He merely kept hitting me on the head with the umbrella. I thought of showing up at the police station and saying, “Officer, this man is hitting me on the head with an umbrella.” It would have been an unprecedented case. The officer would have looked at me suspiciously, would have asked for my papers, and begun asking embarrassing questions. And he might even have ended up placing me under arrest.

I thought it best to return home. I took the 67 bus. He, all the while hitting me with his umbrella, got on behind me. I took the first seat. He stood right beside me, and held on to the railing with his left hand. With his right hand he unrelentingly kept whacking me with that umbrella. At first, the passengers exchanged timid smiles. The driver began to observe us in the rearview mirror. Little by little the bus trip turned into one great fit of laughter, an uproarious, interminable fit of laughter. I was burning with shame. My persecutor, impervious to the laughter, continued to strike me.

I got off—we got off—at Pacífico Bridge. We walked along Santa Fe Avenue. Everyone stupidly turned to stare at us. It occurred to me to say to them, “What are you looking at, you idiots? Haven’t you ever seen a man hit another man on the head with an umbrella?” But it also occurred to me that they probably never had seen such a spectacle. Then five or six little boys began chasing after us, shouting like maniacs.

But I had a plan. Once I reached my house, I tried to slam the door in his face. That didn’t happen. He must have read my mind, because he firmly seized the doorknob and pushed his way in with me.

From that time on, he has continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. As far as I can tell, he has never either slept or eaten anything. His sole activity consists of hitting me. He is with me in everything I do, even in my most intimate activities. I remember that at first, the blows kept me awake all night. Now I think it would be impossible for me to sleep without them.

Still and all, our relations have not always been good. I’ve asked him, on many occasions, and in all possible tones, to explain his behavior to me. To no avail: he has wordlessly continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. Many times I have let him have it with punches, kicks, and even—God forgive me—umbrella blows. He would meekly accept the blows. He would accept them as though they were part of his job. And this is precisely the weirdest aspect of his personality: that unshakable faith in his work coupled with a complete lack of animosity. In short, that conviction that he was carrying out some secret mission that responded to a higher authority.

Despite his lack of physiological needs, I know that when I hit him, he feels pain. I know he is weak. I know he is mortal. I also know that I could be rid of him with a single bullet. What I don’t know is if it would be better for that bullet to kill him or to kill me. Neither do I know if, when the two of us are dead, he might not continue to hit me on the head with his umbrella. In any event, this reasoning is pointless; I recognize that I would never dare to kill him or kill myself.

On the other hand, I have recently come to the realization that I couldn’t live without those blows. Now, more and more frequently, a certain foreboding overcomes me. A new anxiety is eating at my soul: the anxiety stemming from the thought that this man, perhaps when I need him most, will depart and I will no longer feel those umbrella taps that helped me sleep so soundly.


Link to The Return by Fernando Sorrentino: http://www.eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/UBooks/Retu.shtml… (mehr)