I offer you lean streets， desperate sunsets， the moon of the jagged suburbs.
I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at the lonely moon.
I offer you my ancestors， my dead men， the ghosts that living men have honoured in bronze:
my father’s father killed in the frontier of Buenos Aires， two bullets through his lungs，
bearded and dead， wrapped by his soldiers in
the hide of a cow;
my mother’s grandfather --
just twentyfour-- heading a charge of three hundred men in Peru， now ghosts on
vanished horses.
I offer you whatever insight my books may hold， whatever manliness or humour my life.
I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal.
I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved， somehow
--the central heart that deals not in words， traffics not with dreams， and is untouched by time， by joy， by adversities.
I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset， years before you were born.
I offer you explanations of yourself， theories about yourself， authentic and surprising news of yourself.
I can give you my loneliness， my darkness， the hunger of my heart;
I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty， with danger， with defeat.