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...the name of the baby girl, the names of her parents and godparents, the date and hour of her birth, the street and the number of the apartment where she first saw the light of day and first felt pain, the same beginning as everyone else, the differences, great and small, come later, some of those who are born become entries in encyclopedias, in history books, in biographies, in catalogues, in manuals, in collections of newspaper clippings, the others, roughly speaking, are like a cloud that passes without leaving behind it any trace of its passing, and if rain fell from that cloud it did not even wet the earth. Like me, thought Senhor Jose. He had a cupboard full of men and women about whom the newspapers wrote almost every day, on the table was a birth certificate of an unknown person, and it was as if he had placed them both in the pans of a scale, a hundred on this side, one the other, and was surprised to discover that all of them together weighted no more than this one, that one hundred equaled one, that one was worth as much as a hundred.
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