Abstract
Since the dawn of this century, this man has gone through hell and died several times over. Now, from exile, he still energetically accompanies his people in their war. The dawn light always finds him up, shaved and conspiring. He could just as easily keep turning in the revolving door of memory; but he doesn't know how to be deaf when the voices of these new times and the roads he still hasn't travelled call out to him. And so at seventy-nine every day is a birth for Miguel Marm6l, old master of the art of constant rebirth (Galeano, 1988: 275).
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