The wisdom of the
heart. In an occasion leaving the school, - I finished recovering to me of a terrible accident, in which
there was lost the my left leg while she walked with my inseparable muletas from return to house, went to fall a book in my hands; an old and wrinkled book. The book was not mine - neither it had bought it, nor me had given it, simply was there, left; wire drawing in the ground under a solitary bank of the Maragall seat. One was one old edition of pocket, of some forgotten publishing. Memory that had seated to me to rest; distracted and tormented, put in a corner far from my friends, trying to forget throwing migas of bread the birds, without being aware but the minimum thing to me of its existence. After a good short while was spent; after bending to me to tie cords to me of the right shoe, when I repaired in. So soon I saw, I snatched it of the ground of vertiginous manotazo without hardly occurring time to watch at each one of my sides in case he did not walk its master far. Immediately I read contracubierta with attention. The book was of a certain Henry Miller and, when turning the cover, I could read among other things: . I did not
think. I
returned to watch at a side and another one of the park, now with greater care, verifying the entrances, in case he appeared some stranger. Seeing that one did not approach nobody I opened the book, but or less by half. I did it, like all then, without stopping to think, watching after where; the place was the one of less, this chose my fragile fingers. Then I could observe the tumult of hundreds of tiny words, without repairing for a moment in its complicated meaning. I crossed with cautious the tens of those paginas, like a lost hawk that escudriña the vast desert from the sky, looking for a prey where to direct its attention. Finally, my eyes - I ignore so that reason -, went away to fix to one of so many leaves, settling on small paragraph, to which at that moment it does not lend much interest. I suppose that it considers it boring, like everything what then tapeworm that to see with a book. But as soon as I had finished reading it when one cold breeze crossed the park, a stranger frozen airflow that made me shake the skin. Surprised, I closed the book of palmetazo, it raises and after taking muletas to me, and to assure to have kept me the book in the suitcase I hurried to the step. I left but fast which I could of that place, by that since then I have not returned to cross. Today spent twenty years no longer I conserve the book, I had to mislead it but, strangely I continue remembering those words, already distant in the time and, that when but lack me towards they gave forces me to follow with my sad and compungida life while, night after night read, in one of its lost pages, those words that said to me: The paradise is everywhere and all route, if one goes into the necessary thing by her, leads to that one. ... All man has his own destiny and the only order is that it follows it, that accepts it does not matter where that one wants to take to him.