In my childhood I came to fervently worship the tiger: not the yellow tigers of the Panará River and Amazonian tangles, but the striped, asiatic, royal tiger which only armed men can confront from a fort on the back of an elephant. I would forever hang around in front of one of the cages of the zoo; I would prize the huge encyclopedias and natural history books for the majesty of their tigers. (I still remember those illustrations; I who cannot rightly recall a woman’s face or smile.) Childhood passed, the tigers and my passion for them faded, but they are still there in my dreams. In the subconcious or chaotic dimension they persist, and in the following way: While asleep, some dream disturbs me and I know at once it is a dream. Then I’ll think: This is a dream, a pure diversion of my will, and now that my power is unlimited I am going to cause a tiger. Oh incompetence! Never can my dreams engender the craved and desired creature. A tiger appears indeed, but dissected or enfeebled, or with imperfect variations of form, or of an unacceptable size, or ephemeral, or in the semblance of the bird or of the dog.