Bunuel_Luis_My_Last_Breath

It's been four years now since I've been to the movies, becauseof my eyesight, my hearing, and my horror of traffic and crowds. Inever watch television. Sometimes an entire week goes by withouta visitor, and I feel abandoned. Then someone shows up unexpectedly,someone I haven't seen for a long time, and then thefollowing day several friends arrive at the same time. There's Alcoriza,my collaborator, or Juan Ibaiiez, a superb director who drinkscognac all day long, or Father Julian, a modern Dominicart, anexcellent painter and engraver and the maker of two unusual films.He and I often talk about faith and the existence of God, but sincehe's forever coming up against the stone wall of my atheism, he onlysays to me:"Before I knew you, Luis, my faith wavered sometimes, but nowthat we've started these conversations, it's become invincible!"I reply only that I could say exactly the same thing about myunbelief, wondering all the while what the surrealists would say ifthey could see me in a tete-a-tete with a Dominican.In the midst of this rigidly ordered existence, writing this bookwith Carrikre has been but an ephemeral interruption. I'm not complaining;after all, it's kept me from closing the door altogether. Fora long time now, I've written the names of friends who've died in aspecial notebook I call The Book of the Dead. I leaf through it fromtime to time and see hundreds of names, one beside the other, inalphabetical order. There are red crosses next to the surrealists, whosemost fatal year was 1977-78 when Man Ray, Calder, Max Ernst,and Prkvert all died within a few months of one another.Some of my friends are upset about this book-dreading, nodoubt, the day they will be in it. I try to tell them that it helps meremember certain people who'd otherwise cease to exist. Once, however,I made a mistake. My sister Conchita told me about the deathof a young Spanish writer I knew, and so I entered his name in thelists. Some time later, as I sat having a drink in a cafe in Madrid, Isaw him walk in and head in my direction. For a few seconds, I trulythought I was about to shake the hand of a real phantom.