The Truce by Mario Benedetti Read Free Book Online Page A

life.
    But what about the rest? There is the opinion that one can have about oneself, which, incredibly, has very little to do with vanity. I refer to the opinion that is completely sincere, the opinion that one wouldn’t dare to confess even to the mirror in front of which one shaves. I remember a time (between the ages of sixteen and twenty) during which I had a good, and I’d almost say excellent, opinion of myself. I felt the urge to accomplish ‘something great’, to be useful to many, to rectify things. It can’t be said I had a cretinous, egocentric attitude. Even though I would have liked to have received the praise and acceptance of others, I think my prime objective wasn’t to make use of others,
but to be useful to them. I know this isn’t pure and Christian charity; but then again I don’t care too much about the Christian sense of charity. I remember I didn’t pretend to help the needy, or the disabled, or the wretched (I have less and less faith in chaotically distributed aid). My intention was more modest; it was, simply, to be of use to my peers, who were more understandably entitled to my help.
    In truth, that excellent opinion of me has decayed quite a bit. Today I feel common, and in some respects defenceless. I could tolerate my lifestyle better if I weren’t aware that I am (on an intellectual level at least) above that commonness. To know that I have, or had, within me, the tools sufficient to scale another possibility, to know that I’m superior somewhat, at my outdated job, my few hobbies, my rhythm of speech; knowing all of this, of course, doesn’t give me peace of mind, but rather makes me feel more frustrated, more incapable of overcoming circumstances. Worst of all is that no terrible things occurred to besiege me (well, Isabel’s death is hard, but I can’t call it terrible; after all, is there anything more natural than leaving this world?), halt my best impulses, impede my development, or tie me to a lethargic routine. I have devised my own routine, but in the simplest way: accumulation. The security of knowing that I’m capable of something better has allowed me to procrastinate, which, when all is said and done, is a terrible and suicidal weapon. Hence, my routine never had character or definition; it has always been temporary, always represented a precarious route, to be followed only as long as my procrastination lasted, and only to endure the onus of the work day during that period of preparation I apparently considered indispensable before finally launching into my destiny. What nonsense, huh? Now it so happens I don’t have significant vices (I hardly smoke, and drink a shot of rum from time to time, but only out of boredom), yet I think that I couldn’t stop procrastinating: this is my
vice, which is, moreover, incurable. Because if at this moment I was to decide to reassure myself, in a kind of belated oath: ‘I’m going to be exactly what I wanted to be’, everything would end up being pointless. First, because I feel I have limited strength, to gamble it on a change of life, and second, because, how valid is what I wanted to be back then to me now? It would almost be like consciously rushing into a premature senility. What I desire now is much more modest than what I desired thirty years ago and, above all, it matters much less if I get it. Retirement, for example. Naturally, it’s an aspiration, but it’s a downgraded aspiration. I know that it’s going to happen, that it’s going to happen on its own, and that it won’t be necessary for me to do anything. It’s easy this way; then it is worthwhile to surrender and make decisions.
Tuesday 9 April
    Blockhead Vignale called me this morning. I asked someone to tell him I wasn’t in the office, but when he called again in the afternoon I felt obliged to speak to him. Regarding this, I am categorical: if I have this relationship (I