“Hell”

by

Virgilio Piñera

translated by Mark Schaffer

When we are children, hell is nothing more than the devil’s name on our parent’s lips. Later, this notion becomes more complicated, and we toss in our beds through the interminable nights of adolescence, trying to extinguish the flames that burn us — the flames of imagination! Still later, when we no longer look in the mirror because our faces have begun to resemble that of the devil, the notion of hell is reduced to an intellectual fear, and in order to escape so much anguish, we attempt to describe it. Now, in old age, hell is so close at hand that we accept it as a necessary evil and even show our anxiety about suffering it. Even later (and now we’re in its flames), while we burn, we begin to see that perhaps we could adjust. After a thousand years, a somber-faced devil asks us if we’re still suffering. We tell him that there is far more routine than suffering. At last, the day arrives when we are free to leave, but we emphatically refuse the offer, for who gives up a cherished habit?