Bunuel_Luis_My_Last_Breath

Madrid-The Raidencia ( I 9 PI 92j ) 77flowering acacias. Suddenly I heard a loud noise in the dining room,as if a chair had been thrown against the wall. I spun around andthere was my father, standing up, an angry look on his face, his armsoutstretched. This hallucination~the only real one I've ever experienced-lastedno more than ten seconds, but that was long enoughfor me to decide that I needed some sleep. It seemed wiser not tosleep alone, so I spent the night in a room with the servants.The funeral took place the following day; and the day after thatI slept in my father's bed. Just in case the ghost decided to reappear,I slipped a revolver-a handsome piece with my father's initials ingold and mother-of-pearl-under the pillow. (Needless to say, mysleep was thoroughly uneventful. )My father's death was a decisive moment for me. My friendMantecon still remembers that for many days afterward, I wore myfather's boots, sat at his desk, and smoked his Havanas. My motherwas barely forty when I took over as head of the household. Had itnot been for his death, I probably would have stayed longer inMadrid, but I'd already passed my philosophy exams and decidednot to continue for my doctorate. All I really wanted was to leaveSpain, but it wasn't until 1925 that the right moment finally camealong.