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My father. I closed the book and closed my eyes. How different it would be if he was still with us. Maybe someone imagines that I love Hemingway as much as a father. It is not so. My father was strict honest, absolute moral uprightness; punctuality, discipline and severity always combined with a deep understanding and love.

Hemingway belongs to another culture, to a different civilization. He has the courage of my father but he uses it differently. As he does his intelligence. I often have the impression of being next to a large child. Sometimes I feel the desire to protect him against himself. Sometimes I have the impression that, in me, he is looking for an answer to his restlessness. If I said that, between the two of us, I feel the oldest from time to time, everyone would laugh. And yet it is so.

I was still with the closed book in my hands, thinking, when my mother entered the Casita. "First Special Edition," I said. "Here in Havana you have more time than I do: please read it and tell me what you think. See you later: Mary and Papa are waiting for me to go to the Floridita."