Bunuel_Luis_My_Last_Breath

as she emerges, tanned and smiling, from Mass. There are my motherand father, posing with a parasol; in another, entitled "Flight intoEgypt," my mother sits astride a donkey. And here I at thevenerable age of six, in a cornfield with some other children. Thereare pictures of washerwomen and sheep shearers; of my baby sisterConchita clutching my father's legs as he talks with Don Macario;my grandfather feeding his dog; a gorgeous bird in a nest.Today, in Calanda, there are no more poor people sitting outsidethe church on Fridays begging for bread. The village has becomequite comfortable; people live well. The traditional costume disappeareda long time ago-the wide belt, the cachirulo on the head,the tight pants. The streets are paved and well lit. There is runningwater, a sewage system, movie theatres, bars. As elsewhere, televisionhas contributed to the loss of its viewers' sense of identity.There are cars, refrigerators, motorcyclesÑal the elements of a meticulouslydesigned material well-being-kept in smooth workingorder by that technological "progress" which has exiled morality andspirit to a far distant territory. Chaos, in the form of entropy, hasassumed the demonic disguise of the population explosion.I'm lucky to have spent my childhood in the Middle Ages, or,as Huysmans described it, that "painful and exquisite" epochpainfulin terms of its material aspects perhaps, but exquisite in itsspiritual life. What a contrast to the world of today!