Gaspar had started researching. He knew of several poets who had died before the age of thirty, but he had to hit the library to find more. His father’s books also helped a lot. His list for Pablo grew every day. Sylvia Plath, she was thirty, she just makes it. She killed herself by sticking her head in the oven, her kids were in the next room and she closed the door off with tape, towels, and rope so the gas wouldn’t reach them, and she left them milk. Why’d she kill herself? asked Vicky, who didn’t come to the cultural center much because medicine was a demanding program. Sylvia had just gotten separated, and apparently that made her really depressed. Emily Brontë also just squeaks through, thirty, she died of tuberculosis. Keats. He was my dad’s favorite, and I love him too. He died of tuberculosis when he was twenty-five. I had a hard time reading him when I was younger, but now he’s one my favorites. Chatterton, I think he was seventeen, he killed himself with arsenic. Shelley drowned at thirty, he was the husband of Mary Shelley, the one who wrote Frankenstein. Novalis, tuberculosis, twenty-eight. There’s one who’s older, thirty-five, he fell down when he was drunk, in London, but hold on, he was a closeted gay guy and a cousin of Bosie, Lord Alfred Douglas, Oscar Wilde’s boyfriend. Lionel Johnson was this drunk’s name, he was really crazy. I like him a lot. A book of my dad’s had a selection of his poems chosen by Yeats. You don’t know Yeats? He won the Nobel. Doesn’t matter. Use Lionel Johnson, he’s old, but he fits. Asunción Silva shot himself in the heart, he made his doctor mark the place he had to shoot. What an ass the doctor was, if he didn’t realize, said Vicky. Georg Trakl, twenty-seven, died of a cocaine overdose, can you believe it, in those days? Teresa Wilms Montt, a high-class Chilean girl. She killed herself in Paris at twenty-eight. I found her in the library and I photocopied everything. You see one photo and you fall in love. There’s one from around here, too, from La Plata, this is really crazy, apparently they found his body mummified at the Tolosa Cemetery. His name was Matías Behety. He died crazy and drunk, but they put the mummy in the chapel for a while and he had believers, apparently he could cure illnesses and they set up a kind of altar to him. He was also over thirty, but just tell me the story isn’t fantastic. I looked up his poems, but the poor guy was really bad. Why don’t you quote the poems, the good ones, I mean? Trakl has some tremendous poems, really dark. You could put the photos or drawings and a quote. Yeah, said Pablo, only I don’t want it to be too systematic. Quotes if they fit and from the ones that make sense. You choose the quotes for me; you have a clearer idea. Then I’ll veto them or not. And don’t bring me older ones, even if they have really good stories. Especially not that one about the mummy, I don’t want to hear anything about mummies.