Letters of a Portuguese Nun:
A Lesson in Debauchery
Copyright 2012 Mariana A.
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Before all things, it should be said (and it is only fair that I shall be the one saying it) that I am not actually a nun and have never been one, though, at a certain point of my life, I pondered the possibility and came close to donning the holy habit. Several decades later, after a life richer in events than in years, even if there have been more of the latter than I care to recount precisely, I can say with a certain ease that it is highly unlikely that I will ever become a nun. My certainty is not absolute only because I do not wish to defy fate and have played upon me some cruel joke that forces me to retract past assurances.
I am, on the other hand, completely and unquestionably Portuguese. Of that there can be no doubts. I express myself in this borrowed language (apologies should be made for the imperfections in its use that you will certainly discover) only because it gives me a slightly increased security that my true identity won't be revealed to my countrymen in general and to my friends and relatives in particular. Not that I am tormented by my past and my memories, but a woman should be absolutely certain that she won't regret assuming in public aspects of her past that may be more lascivious in nature than what the members of her circles are willing to accept.