That tempest in Augusto’s soul was finished, like in a dead calm, with the decision to commit suicide. He wanted to put an end to himself, the source of his own miseries. But before carrying this out, like a castaway who clings to a weak board, it occurred to him that he could consult with me, with the author of this entire tale. Around that time, Augusto had read one of my essays in which, although superficially, I discussed suicide; it seemed to have made such an impression upon him, as well as other things that he had read about me, that he did not want to leave this world without having met me and talked to me for a while. He embarked, therefore, on a trip hither, to Salamanca, where I have lived for more than twenty years, in order to see me.
When they announced his visit to me, I smiled quizzically and I ordered him to come into my office-library. He entered like a ghost, looked at an oil portrait of me that presides over the books of my library, and on my signal he sat down, opposite me.
Continue reading ‘From Mist (Niebla), by Miguel de Unamuno (Chapter XXXI Part 1)’
