I do not keep birds in cages. People resent my attitude as a type of sheer sentimentalism. They remind me that fauna were created for their service and entertainment. As for my vegetarianism, it is a blasphemy against the generosity of a god who sanctioned animal slaughtering. Sheep are kindred spirits, admit the animal-loving, but they were born to be consumed by homo sapiens, not to mention pets that in other realms end up barbecued and on greasy plates. All men kill the thing they love, Oscar Wilde reiterates in my head, some with a bitter look, others with a flattering word, cowards do it with a kiss and brave men with a sword. My personal history abounds with instances of mothers killing their sons and daughters with possessiveness and selfishness, blighting their lives with narrow-mindedness, friends strangulating friendship with jealousy and pettiness, colleagues with envy and competitiveness. My own love was poisoned with large doses of distrust. I was too young for a sagacious head with receding hair and a graying beard. My youth was synonymous with perfidy and impermanence. He froze the blood of every word of endearment with his cynicism. I have always been averse to plucking flowers from a garden or a field, thus my refusal to receive bouquets de-romanticized our short-lived affair.

Next came a friend whose devotedness compelled her to resort to magic and casting spells, in the form of potions and herbs, to sever my newly formed tie with a marital candidate. She must have thought I was too good for him, or he was too good for me, which amounted to the same thing. I never took seriously her assertion of possessing a magician’s skills, which she had inherited from a relative. The sight of the book with which she bewitched people, with its scribbles and marks, instantly poisoned our friendship. I was surprised that the inevitable end of our relationship was not foretold by such a sociable and competent witch.