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Conversation about a<br />
Conversation<br />
A: Absorbed in puzzling out immortality, we’d let<br />
the dusk gather without lighting a lamp. We could<br />
no longer see each other’s face. With a casual<br />
gentleness more convincing than any vehemence,<br />
Macedonio Fernández’s voice reiterated that the<br />
soul is immortal. He assured me that the death of<br />
the body is of no significance and that dying must<br />
be the most meaningless incident that can befall a<br />
man. I was toying with Macedonio’s old-fashioned<br />
razor; I opened and shut the blade. A nearby accordion<br />
kept pumping out ‘La Cumparsita’, that<br />
appalling piece of inanity which so many people<br />
delight in because they are told wrongly that it’s<br />
old. I suggested to Macedonio that we commit suicide<br />
so we could go on talking in peace.<br />
Z (scoffing): But in the end I suspect you didn’t.<br />
A (with a detached air): That night? Frankly, I can’t<br />
remember.<br />
[1936]<br />
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