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 soilder and a better doctor. The latter no longer interests me; I am not such a bad soilder. Nothing has changed in essence, except that I am much more consious.
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 relms of probailities. 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 extremly 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 soilder 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.