For the rest of the day, Rousselot felt that he really was an Argentine writer, something he had begun to doubt over the previous days, or perhaps the previous years, partly because he was unsure of himself, but also because he was unsure about the possibility of an Argentineliterature.
In any case, Rousselot loved literature as much as any Argentine writer of his generation, or of the preceding and following generations, which is to say that he loved literature in a reasonably disillusioned manner, like many of his compatriots.