In the books I've written about my childhood I can't remember, suddenly, what I left out, what I said. I think I wrote about our love for our mother, but I don't know if I wrote about how we hated her too, or about our love for one another, and our terrible hatred too, in that common family history of ruin and death which was ours whatever happened, in love or in hate, and which I still can't understand however hard I try, which is still beyond my reach, hidden in the very depths of my flesh, blind as a newborn child.
Nire liburuetan, nire haurtzaroari buruzko kontakizunetan, oraintxe ez dakit zer ezkutatzen saiatu naizen, zertaz hitz egin dudan, esango nuke gure amarengana sentitzen genuen maitasunaz aritu naizela, baina ez dakit harengana orobat sentitzen genuen gorrotoaz aritu naizen, edota elkarrengana sentitzen genuen maitasunaz eta gorrotoaz, izugarria baitzen gorroto hura, hondamendi eta heriotzazko historia amankomuneko honetan, halakoxea izan baitzen gure familiaren historia nolanahi ere, nola maitasunezkoa hala gorrotozkoa, nik neuk ere ez baitut oraindik ulertzen, eskuragaitza baitzait, nire azalaren alderik sakonenean ezkutatua, itsu, haur jaio-berri baten gisan.