A Certain Lucas is not a book of short stories, nor is it a novel, nor is it a miscellaneous work. It is a book by Julio Cortázar. And it is a true manual against solemnity. A Certain Lucas is a spiritual itinerary of the everyday, a civic navigation chart full of winks, mischief, and signals directed at the reader as an invitation to participate in the game. A game that one can begin wherever they wish, opening the book wherever they please, skipping its pages. Under the name of Lucas, a certain Julio expounds on his favorite pianists, the lives of some eccentric artists, the customs of certain Argentine families, love, and friends. An inexhaustible transgressor, he also offers advice on shining shoes, writing reversible poems, giving lectures, getting kicked out of a concert, or swimming in a pool of gofio. It could be that this A Certain Lucas had already done everything he had to do and now stops from time to time to record, benevolently or malignantly, something of what he did. Capriciously, yes, but also with the admirable rigor of one who was, in truth, a master.