April first, 1965
Dear old folks:
Once again I feel beneath my heels the ribs
of Rocinante*. Once more, I’m on the road with my shield on my arm. Almost ten
years ago I wrote you another farewell letter. As I recall, I lamented not
being a better soldier and a better doctor. The latter no longer interests me;
I am not such a bad soldier. Nothing has changed in essence, except that I am
much more conscious.
My Marxism has taken root and become
purified. I believe in armed struggle as the only solution for those peoples
who fight to free themselves, and I am consistent with my beliefs. Many will
call me an adventurer, and that I am….only one of a different sort: one who
risks his skin to prove his truths. It is possible that this may be the end. I
don’t seek it, but it’s within the logical realms of probabilities. If it
should be so, I send you a final embrace. I have loved you very much, only I
have not known how to express my affection. I am extremely rigid in my actions,
and I think that sometimes you did not understand me. Nevertheless, please
believe me today.
Now a willpower that I have polished with an
artist’s delight will sustain some shaky legs and some weary lungs. I will do
it. Give a thought once in awhile to this little soldier of fortune of the twentieth
century.
A kiss to Celia, to Roberto, Juán Martín and
Patotín, to Beatriz, to everybody. For you, a big hug from your obstinate and
prodigal son,
Ernesto
*Rocinante was Don Quixote’s horse.
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