
Rain over the Catumbi estate in August 1869, and at sixty-four you are dying of pneumonia with an unfinished formula on the bed: a poultice meant to relieve humanity and make its inventor famous. Your sister wants you to rest, a priest waits downstairs, and Virgilia arrives with a boy she will not let you question. You play Bras Cubas, deciding between coughs how a man might open the memoir he can only write afterwards.
Read The Posthumous Memoirs of Bras Cubas