Death of the Leader

November 25, 1975

There are certain events that are awaited for such a long time that when they finally occur they seem unreal. For years and years, since the time I was first a university student, I have waited, like millions of my compatriots, for this day, the day par excellence that would divide—a little like the birth of Jesus in the egocentric perspective of Christianity—my life, our life, into two eras: Before and After; Limbo and Heaven; Fall From Grace and Redemption.

I’m not a man particularly given to bitter grudges. I honestly believe that hatred does not figure in the list of my faults and character defects. I have, throughout my life, tried to prevent the moral or ideological conflicts inherent in my participation in Spanish cultural affairs from degenerating into personal battles. When the opposite has occurred, in the rare cases of enmity I can remember, my ability to forget has always been stronger than my anger.

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