By William Markiewicz
I was in Patagonia, perhaps the last corner of a pioneer land. There is nothing exotic in the climate for a European. So, it's 'otherness' consists in being like a spot on a more beautiful planet. In a tavern in an isolated countryside, my Argentinian companion started a conversation with some local character of undetermined age. They certainly knew each other. He seemed more worn out than old. He told me that he was of German extraction, first generation Argentinian. Like many in Patagonia he was probably a descendant of those Nazi refugees who found a haven in Argentina, especially in Europe-like Patagonia. He talked about his divorce, his solitude, his life without prospects. He also talked about the new lady he'd met. "So, it isn't so bleak for you as you say," I commented. "Yes, but she still dreams!" he answered. I looked at this pathetic, already half-existent, young/old man and I thought: "He must be under 40 ; If a man at this age dreads a woman who 'still dreams' what kind of image must he have of himself and what happened to his own dreams? Is this some poetic justice -- or rather injustice because nobody should pay for somebody else's sins -- that he pays for the crimes of his father? Or perhaps his own father destroyed his son's personality after having killed -- how many? Only his son, a pathetic banner, manifested that something had gone very wrong."
(From "Written Portraits" by William Markiewicz)
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