Was reading the passage about Tereza and Karenin, where Milan Kundera wrote that our love for animals was our link to paradise, where everything was pure, including love. Then I was suddenly reminded of an early episode in my life and was seized by an enormous remorse. The remorse was so great I could not believe I had buried it in my heart among all the other insignificant memories. It concerned the first guinea pig we had. I was probably seven or eight. We were so excited by this little creature we kept grabbing it and throwing the poor thing about with our gloved hands, laughing and screaming all the while. The same evening it was dead. My mother just dumped it together with the other household garbage, its lifeless body out-stretched and half visible through the white garbage bag. We could have at least given it a decent burial, but instead it was just there, cramped together with the leftover of our dinner, its white belly pressed against the plastic film. The worst part of the remorse was that I could not recall my feeling remorse for killing a life. The next guinea pig lived a long life with us, if that was any kind of consolation.