I was always surprised by the opinions this book offered — three characters, three perspectives and three different modes of prose lend to an extremely detailed and complex analysis of the same relationships, hinging on blame and remorse, nostalgia and the inevitable intertwining of people over so much time. Benedetti conceded to the truth that to have characters reflect meaningfully on themselves in anyway they must be pompous and narcissistic to an extent, and yet he sewed these traits naturally into their relationships, making it important to the way these relationships have operated and their perceptions of one another have been created. Lucas’ part especially commented on the act of writing itself, which all the characters partook in, and called into question its inherent unreliability, and whether this unreliability extends beyond the page and into the psyche or if the two exist separately, somehow, if there is more we still cannot know. 

If with her violent beatings my mother taught me not to have any illusions, I've learned for myself not to have any great hopes. Lucas is here, a limited, extraordinary but accessible source of happiness, and I, with the excusable feelings of guilt that both you and I are aware of - that only bother me like a minor ailment, a toothache or lumbago - I want to seize this opportunity, I want to offer myself to him, because he is the present, and I believe in the present. After all, it's the only religion I have to hand.