Julio Cortázar
[1] He had begun to read the novel a few days before.He had put it aside because of some urgent business conferences, opened it again on his way back to the estate by train; he permitted himself a slowly growing interest in the plot, in the characterizations.That afternoon, after writing a letter giving his power of attorney and discussing a matter of joint ownership with the manager of his estate, he returned to the book in the tranquility of his study which looked out upon the park with its oaks.Sprawled in his favorite armchair, its back toward the door — even the possibility of an intrusion would have irritated him, had he thought of it — he let his left hand caress repeatedly the green velvet upholstery and set to reading the final chapters.He remembered effortlessly the names and his mental image of the characters; the novel spread its glamour over him almost at once.He tasted the almost perverse pleasure of disengaging himself line by line from the things around him, and at the same time feeling his head rest comfortably on the green velvet of the chair with its high back, sensing that the cigarettes rested within reach of his hand, that beyond the great windows the air of afternoon danced under the oak trees in the park.Word by word, licked up the sordid dilemma of the hero and heroine, letting himself be absorbed to the point where the images settled down and took on color and movement, he was witness to the final encounter in the mountain cabin.The woman arrived first, apprehensive; now the lover came in, his face cut by the backlash of a branch.Admirably, she stanched the blood with her kisses, but he rebuffed her caresses, he had not come to perform again the ceremonies of a secret passion, protected by a world of dry leaves and furtive paths through the forest.The dagger warmed itself against his chest, and underneath liberty pounded, hidden close.A lustful, panting dialogue raced down the pages like a rivulet of snakes, and one felt it had all been decided from eternity.Even to those caresses which writhed about the lover’s body, as though wishing to keep him there, to dissuade him from it; they sketched abominably the fame of that other body it was necessary to destroy.Nothing had been forgotten: alibis, unforeseen hazards, possible mistakes.From this hour on, each instant had its use minutely assigned.The cold-blooded, twice-gone-over reexamination of the details was barely broken off so that a hand could caress a cheek.It was beginning to get dark.