Perfecting the Shot

The most important thing is the breath.
Calm, slow breath, the patience of breath; first you
have to listen to your own body, listen to your heart beat-
ing, to the stillness of your arm, of your hand. The rifle
must become a part of you, an extension of yourself.
Even before the target, the important thing is yourself.
You have to organize the space, whether you’re on a roof,
behind a window, anywhere, you have to control it, make
the space your own. Nothing more annoying than a cat
passing behind you, or a bird flying off. You have to be
yourself and nothing else, eye on the scope, the metal arm
stretched towards the target, to join it. From my roof I
survey the sidewalks, explore the windows, watch peo-
ple living. I can join them by pressing the trigger. It’s not
simple, quite the contrary, it’s a difficult job that demands
precision and concentration. People think only of the
gunshot and the result of the shot. They don’t know that
I listened to their heart beating through mine, that I held
back all emotion, that I stopped breathing, just before
pulling the trigger, as they say, but I don’t pull anything,
on the contrary, I set loose a metal hammer that strikes
a point of percussion that sets fire to powder that pro-
pels a projectile up to 1,200 metres and kills you. Or not.
Sometimes despite making the best shot in the world
there are imponderables, obstacles that stand between
you and the target; a gust of wind can make the shoot-
er’s weapon tremble imperceptibly, a noise in the street
distracts you, an explosion or a car backfiring surpris-
es you. But the shot itself is never the problem. I never
shoot unless I’m sure about it. I don’t fire often. Some
days I send a bird falling into the street after I’ve watched
it wheel in the air for an hour, time enough to prepare,
to foresee its movements, understand the motion of the
air mass beneath its wings, judge its distance, its flight.
Usually I aim at the wing and watch it fall, spinning, or
else I try to graze the bird without hitting it, brush against
it with a gunshot. And it falls all the same. When they’re
high enough, some right themselves before reaching the
ground, but most are shocked and crash down. It’s good
training. No one can shoot as well as I can, because I don’t
shoot often. Never more than ten cartridges a day. Not
because I’ve set myself a limit. But because I only shoot
when I’m absolutely sure of my shot. All the hard work
comes before.
I don’t know why, but I remember all my shots. I don’t
confuse them, they’re all different. I only choose the diffi-
cult ones. At first, when I was a beginner, I played around
like everyone else, but that was to hide my mediocrity.
I only choose the difficult shots because the pleasure is
greater. Those who don’t understand this and shoot at
anything that moves are idiots. (…)