Bunuel_Luis_My_Last_Breath

MemoryDURING the last ten years of her life, my mother graduallylost her memory. When I went to see her in Saragossa,where she lived with my brothers, I watched the way she readmagazines, turning the pages carefully, one by one, from thefirst to the last. When she finished, I'd take the magazine fromher, then give it back, only to see her leaf through it again,slowly, page by page.She was in perfect physical health and remarkably agile for herage, but in the end she no longer recognized her children. She didn'tknow who we were, or who she was. I'd walk into her room, kissher, sit with her awhile. Sometimes I'd leave, then turn around andwalk back in again. She greeted me with the same smile and invitedme to sit down~ras if she were seeing me for the first time. Shedidn't remember my name.When I was a schoolboy in Saragossa, I knew the names of allthe Visigoth kings of Spain by heart, as well as the areas and popillationsof each country in Europe. In fact, I was a goldmine ofuseless facts. These mechanical pyrotechnics were the object of countlessjokes; students who were particularly good at it were called