How Much Dose A Patpus Cost

Reality and dreams

Friday, November 19 ARMOR
SALT

Somerset Maugham said, and I like to repeat, it's okay for a gentleman to have sex life after sixty years , but not OK to discuss it.
To me, the true, the sex that I like is what is before sex. I'll be in love, I do not know (I have now at hand the books that keep track of everything), maybe 340 or 350 times, yet each new time it makes me wonder than the first. And nothing makes me happier than the early days, when nothing happened and everything has already happened.
In bad weather, when one has to overcome one of these tests that no one is free, how good are these unexpected dose of endorphins, the lustral water that bathes the world and I returned just created.
know too well what will happen later, when the magic evaporates. I have repeated many times the same story! Does it? No, no: if I fall I fall for the first time.
do not know if I'll be able to resist the big blow. And Chance, who loves me dearly, I suddenly put a shining armor. I know it will not last forever, it will dissolve soon as a reinforcement of salt.
But why complain? An eternal love, if proper care can last a lifetime. You may even up to one year.


Saturday, November 20
NOT KNOW, NO ANSWER

"What happened to that woman who one day got you at home? Did you get rid of it? Still there yet? Or it was all a dream of yours? I mean a woman who was reading the memoirs of Harpo Marx, "I asked my friend Enrique Bueres.
"I also read the memories of the brother moved from the Marx Brothers, which in reality was not dumb, but played the harp, like in the movies. And you should see what I hated as a child, that moment when the action stopped and started the endless melody 's boring. Fernando Rodriguez Lafuente told us at a meeting of the jury of the Prince, who had recorded all of the Marx Brothers movies, but that they had removed all the musical passages. Earn a lot, he said. I think the same. "
"I have answered" answers Bueres.
"And what can I say," I reply. And then I read the only passage to the unknown highlighted in the reports of Harpo: "The memory of my early years on stage is a frightful chaos times and places. Of cities and towns I remember very little. What I remember are the waiting rooms of the seasons, canteens pensions, hotel rooms for a dollar, dressing rooms, billiard rooms and lavatories gentleman quite similar everywhere in any city or town of any part of the country. "



Sunday, November 21
IN MILAN

sometimes amuse me more time than anticipated in the office of Milan and, when I realize, too late at night. Only a few emergency lights illuminate the long corridors, stairways same and different. While you look, it's perfect setting for a horror movie. There is a security guard, true, but she's always missed by the other buildings, when it came, the murderer would have had ample time to do their work.
Sometimes I meet other teachers who also appear here on holidays and at odd hours. San José Eduardo told me two or three Sundays, "If we paid overtime, we'd be rich." I did not say that in my case, I gladly pay to be able to entertain myself with what I love any day, any time of day.


Going down the elevator, to avoid tripping on the stairs, I thought it may be damaged and that in this case, I would be locked up overnight. Not broke, but, inadvertently, I had to dial a wrong button and I found out barred windows instead of the door. I looked for a ladder, you left me, not the low, where the door is operated with the card, but in a narrow hallway, with teachers' offices on either side. I tried to read the names corresponded to see which department. But it was too dark. Towards the bottom there was a chink of light, some worked, maybe it was José Ramón, Romance Philology, who usually find even the New Year's Day.
I called, I heard no answer, pushed the door. The office was empty. On one wall (the others were occupied by shelves) was a picture that caught my attention. I had seen him somewhere, did not know where, but I think even he had photographed. Should serve as a shop sign: "La Malle aux Trésors, an antique shop, perhaps. I suddenly remembered where was this picture: in Geneva, one of the secret alleys and steep rise into the cathedral of San Pedro. I could not help entertain after poking around the books. Were not what one expects to find in a university office. Were children's books, some large appliances down, all very colorful, very bright. "My friend Ernesto would like to shop around here, I thought. Then I felt a kind of shiver and turned toward the door. One woman looked at me with eyes wide open, staring. "Excuse me, I came without warning. I García Martín, professor of literature. I also like working on Sundays. "


She seemed suddenly to awaken from a dream, changed his expression, he smiled. "But I do not know? Go forgetfulness yours! ". And then I recognized her, but I still did not know his name. It was the woman who had called one night at my house, who had slept on the couch the next day I had breakfast and then prepared food, but that night when I returned from my usual tour of bookstores and coffee at the Rosal browsing the game killed, had disappeared.
"Ah, you work well in Milan. Sorry I do not recognize. I'm pretty clueless. A friend of Victor Boot, professor of Latin, once greeted me in a tribute we did to boots and then complained that Illán Agnes passed him by without greeting Milan. "
No need to apologize, "he said. I know plenty of you are as clueless as myopic. That store, and pointed to the box-it was my grandparents. When they died, had to close because no one in the family wanted to address it. I brought this panel, and the main thing, the bag of treasure. Because the store had a suitcase, which gave name. A huge suitcase, a Saratoga trunk, closed with many locks. As kids, my siblings and I played to get on him, pretended that there was a mountain to climb. Often ask my grandmother to let us open it. She always said the same thing: "Someday, someday ..." But that day came and we were becoming increasingly impatient. We had a friend whose father was a locksmith. We provided the necessary tools to blow the locks to break the locks. We spent an entire night in the tent, as if we were thieves. When we lift the lid, and had long since dawned, and my grandmother appeared. "How impatient," he said without anger. We were ashamed. "Open, open, if you will." I said, "No, Grandma, the trunk is yours. If you want to open it and show what is inside, very well. And if not, and will be closed until you want. " When my grandmother died, my brothers had forgotten trunk. I stayed with him and the banner of the store. I did not want more inheritance. A carrier led me to my house Castropol. There were problems at the border. Police asked the driver to open that huge contraption, which could hold several bodies and do not know how many secret weapons. He did not know how. The trunk was confiscated. A few weeks later came into my home, unopened and there is, full of treasures.
"What do you teach?" I asked. "I'm no teacher." And before I could he get him to express my surprise at Milan, added: "Come home, it's too late." I took her hand like a small child. And only then I realized it reminded me of someone very familiar.
"Would I ever leave open the treasure chest, Grandma?" I said. "Of course, honey. When you're older. " Then he gave me a kiss on the forehead and I fell asleep, dreaming of that magical time in which everything would be allowed: "When I grow up ...."



Wednesday, November 24
WITHIN ONE YEAR

"You know what I want?", Cristian tells me while we wait in the cafeteria when class. "Founding a library back in my village in Paraguay. I'm preparing to send books there. The saving will go home from a friend. Then when you save, buy some land and get up the building. You need not be large. No, not nonsense. The money from here in my country is worth far more. " How
not going to be a blunder? Cristian, undocumented immigrant, works occasionally as a painter. But he speaks so determined, has both a love of books, which I immediately put me to work in the nonsense. "Could be, could be done. Not a bad idea. Books already have: every month I get from my house, a few hundred to those hard to find where to place me. After a year, more than three thousand: the beginning of a good library. Talk to your friends for Repatriation and is sure to find a venue. A free classroom in a school, for example. Constructing a building is not excluded. But there later. When yield space, send the money to the shelves. Should give a name to the library. " Cristian
teases me that would bear his name. "Better," then added, "something like La Casa de las Palabras." Perfect
. Started. The management is my business. All beautiful things before they actually began as a dream. And I'm not too bad at managing time. So put date: "Within a year, in November or December, when winter approaches here and there the summer, we opened The House of Words with a poetry reading."
As Christian, I had a childhood without books. Maybe that's why nothing makes me happier than to help create a library.
smile and remember a phrase I heard Danni Moretti: "Having had a poor childhood is a treasure that is never exhausted."

What Color Is Faith Evans Hair

Across: The Life and Miracles

Friday, November 12
TOLD YOU NATALIA GINZBURG

For two years we worked together in the editorial, we had tables facing each other. Very friend of my husband, leaning on him as a son of his father, more than a friend in another friend. It was a strange guy. Affectionate with everyone, only cared about two things: the woman whom he loved and the book he was writing. Seemed to choose carefully which women fell in love: they were always authoritarian, harsh, cruel. It never occurred to choose one that was good, sweet, quiet. After each disappointment, I always thought of killing herself. When I met him, was just a kid and I talked about killing himself. He liked to discourse on what the best method: the gun, gas, poison. He often did, apparently in jest. At forty seemed he no longer was any book written. Turin was in a desert sweltering and all his friends we had gone on vacation, and the last woman he had dreamed of marrying decided to return to America. He begged her to stay. She said: "You are a sad, bored me to be with you." And then rented hotel room that Rome knew she would never sleep alone in a hotel room. Or any other party.



Saturday, November 13
MIRACLE IN THE MEADOWS

Nearly three hours of bubbling happiness. Two rogues, Norina and Malatesta, take advantage of a miser, Don Pasquale, Ernesto and his naive nephew. Faced with a seductive and hilarious Anna Netrebko, a woman whispers to her husband: "It's like a mix of Victoria de los Angeles and Lina Morgan."
In my local cinema hear Donizetti and all problems are left at the door. Yet raised the curtain. The camera with the stylish entertaining spectators that fill the seats at the Met. Some, worried about who knows what things, lock eyes for a moment, puts his hand to his forehead, unaware that half the world is watching, that his sorrow for a moment becomes huge and fills the screen.


I like to think also that unknown contagious the alacrity with which the singers do their work. And then imagine, in the interval, wandering alone among the groups who laugh and chatter. Those who are not in New York are more fortunate: when the curtain falls, cross the other side and we admire the work of the vast and fascinating stage machinery. And the singers do when they stop acting and believe we do not see: Anna still want to play jokes, even makes a nod to a handsome electrician.
Upon returning home, park across the dark and lonely (in the background, the stubborn rock of San Julián de los Prados), how much gratitude. Collect treasures, and this is not the least of them: nearly three hours outside of my world, another world crazy and happy.


Monday, November 15


CHALLENGE "A nice story that history treasure yours. Because it is a story. So long ago I read that and I've noticed that you do not have your life, tell stories, "says Valdés when I step this afternoon by the Library of Campillín. "And what a way to define you outright that it is your friend!" He adds.
Any life, even the gray, full of unbelievable stories. I remember that fight at the jail have told a hundred times and each time I find less credible. We climbed to the cells from the courtyard, and a bad-looking type bumped into me and insulted me. I would not have made much of either one thing or another. The insult was something like "you are communist bastards" and I had very little communist. But I could not lower his head and move on. I had to reply. There was a hint of coming to blows. Separated us immediately. "Not here, or you'll spend a month in solitary confinement. Tomorrow, the tiger. " The tiger was in services, where officials often did not peep. I spent a sleepless night, terrified. But I could not go back. If not appear, make me a shit in garbage that anyone could trample. My opponent was a bad bug, which was there accused of having killed in a robbery at a civil guard. The next day, after breakfast, when we released in the cold courtyard that I felt like Johannes Dahlmann Borges tale that accepts a challenge to guess what will not come to life. "Dahlmann firmly grasps the knife, which perhaps would not know to handle, and out into the plain", ends the story by Borges. I thought of that phrase, when pale, wanting to run away, but knowing I could not do otherwise, surrounded by curious, I went to the tiger. Guti was already there (I think that was his name). There was expectation. I, skinny, bespectacled, always with a book in hands, it was a strange person in that place: the seventh Carabanchel gallery in the fall of 1974, yet Franco had died or had occurred the previous shootings. Formed a circle around us waiting two. "Let me keep the glasses," said one of the friends I had in those days, a small-time robber who had spent the orphanage and reformatory reformatory prison with brief intervals of freedom. And I hid my fear that a total impassive, I prepared to take them off. My opponent then, unexpectedly, gave me a punch and glasses were blasted into the air. I blind I jumped on him, but only managed to strike at those who had come between us. Because, apparently, in those fights there were unwritten rules and my opponent had violated the. Should have waited for me to remove my glasses as they give the order to start. A voice then told that one of the officers approached, perhaps surprised that there were so few people on the patio. The group dispersed. I nose was bleeding slightly, but the glasses were not broken (they had picked up in the air) and I was the winner. He had proved he had guts, something that in prison, as in life, is fundamental. "Beware of the bastard. Bad people. Do not let it get through. You can stick a skewer in the back, "he warned. But it did not come. And some of the toughest guys in the gallery soon organize a full-scale riot "had a gala to be my friend even asked me to give them kind of Marxism. I went from odd, denied everything, but if it was true what was said, had more black future that none of them. But that's another story, also true and, of course, completely implausible.


Tuesday, November 16
PARIS COFFEE

I'm a bad reader of novels, I've said many times. And most of the novels that I read about what they are novel. What a great book would Celtic's dream of Vargas Llosa, one with which we were told the best way possible the prodigious history of Rogert Casement. But in the end, there are still those who think that a mediocre novel is always preferable to a good biography (especially when sales). Everything
novel has plenty of me within a month within a year , I found Sunday in the Fontan, and whose cover fascinated me: a magical corner of Paris, the terrace cafe Les Deux Magots, with the tower of St-Germain-des-Prés in the background. We in the fifties and is the atmosphere of the time what I try to find in mediocre prose Françoise Sagan.


Recalling that I, like everyone else, I sat in the corner before the march seemed the entire universe, I open the novel:
Bernard came into the cafe, hesitated a moment under the eyes of some customers disfigured by the neon light and went to the cashier. He handed his phone card without smiling wearily. It was about four o'clock. I knew it was stupid to call someone at that time. He leaned against the wall and took out his pack of cigarettes. A sleepy voice answered from man. In the background she heard her voice: "Who's calling?". Bernard stood for a moment motionless, terrified. Then hung up. While walking along the Seine, tried to calm down: "After all, is free and you're not even her lover." He had said he was single, had talked about life and books, had spent a night together. Now going to go home, where he would meet with the drafts of the novel he was unable to write about his work table and in bed with his sleeping wife with a blond baby face turn toward the door as if fearing that he never come back, waiting for him in his sleep as expected during all day, anxiously. "



Thursday, November 18 ANCIENT HISTORY


As I discuss in class, new classes of the old school of teaching which I enjoy so much to give, Ángel González's poem "Address to the youth "and spoke of Franco and irony as a means to circumvent censorship, I think it happens that students who listen to me is ancient history to me is autobiography. Makes me want to tell you that when I was his age and sit where they sit, back in 1968, students and pupils were strictly separated, went in different doors, floor classrooms were distinct and isolated. One day, for the first time since the civil war, we went on strike. The next day was a grand assembly in law, who was then in the central building of the university. We went there to look around a few naive freshmen every day we moved by train from Avilés. From the square of the Escandalera saw that there were several gray vans at the gate of the university. We did not dare to approach. We stayed there, watching and commenting, amazed and frightened. We did not reach the half dozen. The police entered the university, sirens sound, people running out ... I looked at everything from a distance. Of Suddenly a car stops beside us down several police officers and begin to pound. We looked stunned, unfinished believe it. A woman passing by stares and exclaims: "That, that. Studying, studying. "
When looking back, I smile. Turns out I also had my May 68, but not in Paris but in the Place de la Escandalera. And without eating or drinking, without trying to change the world, being a naive teenager who had learned everything from books and not sure what happened or what was next.
In these things I think, as commented Ángel González's poem. Resist the temptation to talk about it. Fortunately still I'm not old enough to go around boring others with my battles.

Poem Of How To Ask For Money For Birthdays

Ullastret, La Bisbal, and Palau-Satorllas Preratallada

On November 2 we had asked for a holiday and took the opportunity to make a getaway Gerona my wife and me leaving the kids at home, as it was a normal working day and weekday.

Ullastret

The route began visiting the C ITY Iberian located on a small hill, Puig de Sant Andreu, on a former lake, now dry. VI century BC and from the end of this century was defended by walls and towers that still retains much of them. Within the grounds you can see remains of houses and tanks used to store the grain and you can visit the complete templos.La visiting the museum where we can see, capitals, paintings, coins and all kinds of utensils found in the excavations that began more than 40 years.

After

Visit the people we get to see him and find a place to eat. We really enjoyed strolling through the streets, it seemed we were at one time, very nice. Found on the Internet a restaurant (Restaurant Iberian), with a spiral above the entrance very tempting, when we saw the prices, between about 35 to 40 € per person, for the comments you eat very well, but we'll leave for another occasion and decided to look for something cheaper.

La Bisbal d'Empordà

We took the car and moved to this town, larger and more sites to choose from, and we were hungry. We took a little walk and we decided on a restaurant located on one side of the new bridge, menu for 13 € with drink and dessert included, ate very well but in a simpler plan. To lower the food and burn calories were walking around the old town, being a working day it was very quiet with few people on the streets, not like in Barcelona, \u200b\u200bwith the noise of cars and people up and down.

Empordà La Bisbal del (Catalan and official La Bisbal d'Empordà, popularly reduced to La Bisbal) is a English municipality in the province of Gerona, Catalonia, and capital the region of the Baix Emporda. It sits on the plain of Empordà, adjacent to the solid Gavarres and watered by the river Daró. Its origin is in the Roman villa "Fontanetum." Its current name is the transfer of the town to the bishop (bisbe in Catalan) Girona during the Carolingian domination.

Traditionally, agriculture and livestock have been the main sources of wealth of the population. In the early twentieth century emphasized the cork industry. Currently, industrial ceramics and art represent the main economic and tourist registration. He is also known by its popular sweet pastry.

Monuments and attractions

castle in La Bisbal

Church of Santa Maria

The Jewish Quarter Les Voltes

Convent Images city \u200b\u200b[1]

Sant Pol de la Bisbal

Peratallada

We got into the time machine and transport us to medieval times. It is good to compare, so we will not, what had hitherto been viewed very cool, but I loved it, I think it's going to cost me choose which photos to

Peratallada , is a small village in the municipality of Forallac, Baix Emporda. It was declared a Historic-Artistic be one of the core of medieval architecture important and best preserved in Catalonia.

History The first written which takes the place refer to the Castle Peratallada tenth century, at that time, the lineage of the first building Peratallada and has reference to the place, around which the population grew. Landmarks

Peratallada

Castle, X-XI century.

Church of Sant Esteve de Peratallada, the early thirteenth century.

"L'Homage Tower."

Peratallada Palace, the fourteenth century.

Palau-Sator

The same day and the darkness above and sunset as dark earlier in winter, we went to another village with medieval atmosphere Romans in their streets.

We took a little walk and bought some bread, cake typical of the place and we set off at nightfall, with a stop to buy some sausages, bread not want to eat alone, bugger off to Barcelona.

Palau-sator is a English municipality in the province of Gerona, Catalonia, located in the Bajo Emporda.

Located in the center of the flat Empordà, is the mountain backdrop of Gavarres populated by pine trees.

History The town of Palau-sator, as demonstrated archaeological discoveries of its surroundings is of Roman origin. He was named palatii Murorum, as recorded in a document dated 878. The castle belonged to Peter's secretary the Ceremonious, Miquel Bernat and his descendants, from the year 1380 until the end of 1600. It retains a medieval atmosphere in its streets, with remains of walls and a tower (hours call to have at the top of its facade a clock), which stands above the rest of its buildings and forced their way to enter population.

Attractions

Parish Church of San Pedro. XII-XIII century castle

Palau-sator. X and XI centuries, declared a national cultural interest.

Monasterio de Sant Pau de Fontclara. XI century, linked to a Benedictine monastery, inside there are wall paintings of XII and XIII, partially preserved.

Church of Sant Feliu. Sixteenth century former possession of the monastery of Sant Esteve de Banyoles, late Gothic style, has a single nave, vault and a polygonal apse.

Church of San Julián de Boada. Pre-Romanesque. Historic-Artistic Monument in 1931 and National Cultural Property.

The main bisbal. It is noteworthy that the orchestra cobla main bisbal originate from the people of Palau Sator.

Birthday Cakesdirtbikes

Across: Across

Friday, November 5
TREASURE


After gathering in the East, back home in Gascon. Someone greets me from one of the terraces that night despite the inclement, the outdoor dining. "Do not you know me? How will you know if a century ago have not seen ... I Salvador, your best friend Aldeanueva. " Salvador! We were best friends in the world between nine and twelve or thirteen. I did the schoolwork and he defended the town bully. I was so helpless child as now, but also a bit Quixote. Three or four boys and older boys were picking on a girl on the track, opposite the school. Other children watched and did nothing. I, with glasses, the most squalid and run riot in all, I set out to defend. They left the girl alone, she went crying home, but began to play me like a ball, darting from one to another. It was then when he came Salvador. Then I got left alone, and not just because his punches, but because he was the son of one of the people's civil guard, a grumpy sort who did not enjoy much sympathy. Since then we were friends. "You have half wafer, but you have balls", I said more than once. I was doing homework and he helped me in other things, how to feed silk worms kept in a shoebox. Eat mulberry leaves, which were not always at hand. We had to get them with stones, breaking some branches, or climbing on trees growing on the road from the station. I was useless for both. Salvador took a minute not to provide food for the insatiable critters. He also was among those who were thrown into the river from atop the Roman bridge while I had barely learned to swim. But he liked me because thanks to my aid began to get good grades and his father, who was a brute, left giving beatings. Also because I could tell stories. I remember endless summer afternoons, when all the people took naps lethargic, and he came to my house, a little lower than hers, also on the road, and called me with a pebble throwing the balcony. "Are we going for a ride?". And the two walked up the track boring, where we stayed in the shadow of one of the great elms, supported by its huge trunk and twisted. "Tell me something," he said. And I spoke of a besieged city and a large wooden horse filled with soldiers, a king who pursued their enemies and who was saved because a spider weave its web at the entrance to the cave where he had taken refuge, of brigands hiding in the nearby mountains ... They were the stories I read in school books, I heard or dreamed. I listened with eyes wide open, without any doubt that it was all true. But when I told him he had found a treasure near the Maiden Bridge not believe me. "A treasure! What nonsense! Think I'm a kid, or worse, I'm stupid. " I took him to see. He had found by the roadside, as if he had thrown from a car. As I did not dare take it home, I hid behind some rocks, under some branches, a little further. And he was there when I arrived in Salvador. It was not very large package wrapped in brown paper and tied with a rope. "Go treasure!" Said Salvador. But the paper had a tear and she looked a ticket thousand. It required little imagination to guess the wads of cash. "A fortune! Here are millions! Where will it come from? ". "Sure, some bank robber." "There will be delivered to the civil guard." "My father? Before the burn! ". We decided to hide them better to decide what we would do. I wanted to go around the world Salvador would like nothing more than long as far as possible, where his father could not find him. But where you buy tickets for a trip? What you have to carry luggage? In these questions we were when I came across an old newspaper, one of the newspapers dismissing the barber and I read avidly. He talked about con artists who had defrauded an elderly man in Cáceres. And that he was tried again in Plasencia. But there, someone had recognized and had to flee. Explained what it was the thymus. "I fear that our treasury has gone up in smoke," said Salvador. "How that has gone up in smoke? Here still! ". "Open it." The envelope was opened and filled, as I had guessed, of newspaper clippings. Salvador I looked stunned, but then I had an idea and I searched among the papers until I found the true note that we had seen the wounds. "We have a treasure, but we are rich." At that time the pay they gave to a child on Sundays, when it gave was of a quarter and a thousand were a fortune. The lap that gave the world those thousand pesetas, the things we buy, what we enjoy with that ticket a week kept one and the next one!


"I played you save when I came to Asturias. What did you do with them? ". "What did you want to do? Continue saving until we see you. Were more yours than mine. Here you go. " He opened his wallet and pulled out a crumpled bill thousand. "I do not serve you to buy many things," he said, smiling. And I hugged him pleased to have recovered the treasure forgotten childhood.



Monday, November 8
CAN NOT BE POET

Paul Brown sent me a book of variations on Achilles and the tortoise, some of them early in the journal Clarín . With the famous paradox of Zeno I can think of something funny: when I first heard, I was a child, it seemed silly, and it still seems to me many years later. Common sense argues that the reaches running more and running less reflections of Zeno (for a distance must be traveled before the first half and half half and so on to infinity) does not contradict because they speak another thing, Achilles and the tortoise.
In beetle Wittgenstein, Martin Cohen, explains the paradoxes of Zeno: "Before Achilles can catch up with the tortoise, it is clear that you first need to reach the place where it was before. And the turtle slow progress, for sure during that time has moved a bit more on your way. And it does not matter now the advantage is only a few meters, Achilles also have to visit them. And when it does, the turtle will have moved again, if only a few centimeters. And again and again, in countless smaller and smaller steps. At first glance, Achilles never travel the distance. "
"At first view? If the turtle is a few inches in front of Achilles, this will just take a step forward. That is what I said when I was ten, the teacher explained to me the alleged paradox. "This race distressed philosophers for many centuries," the good of Martin Cohen. But it does not take Einstein to realize that "when the propositions of mathematics refer to reality, not true, and when some do not refer to reality." The line has infinite points (and one-dimensional) is an abstraction of the geometry, the track at the conclusion of the race of Achilles and the tortoise has a limited number of meters and a fixed width.
"Someone with a mind so attached to the logic and so down to earth can not be a poet," he complains a friend.



Tuesday, November 9
VISIT

Past midnight, when he was about to go to bed, the doorbell rang. "Who will be at this hour?" He said. "Open, I am." She was a woman's voice, I did not recognize. "Opens at once, it's cold." "But by whom question?". "As for you. Who do I ask? Is not this the fourth right? ". And without thinking twice I opened the door, but thinking good look through the peephole before leaving home to enter this unknown impatient. Opened, however, as I heard the sound of the elevator. He gave me a hug and affectionate kisses. "You have not changed anything." She was dark, not too high, not very pretty, but nice smile, about forty years (or maybe more, but looked younger) and carried a small bag. He was sure he had not seen in my life, but came into the floor as if it were not the first time. "Anytime you have more books, will not soon be able to go from one room to another." He sat where I usually feel: that habit seemed not to know or did not care. "I'll sleep here, I will not intrude," he said. "It's too late for you, sure as you were about to go to bed. Then follow, follow your custom. I read just before sleep. Tell me where you have the blankets so that then you do not mind. " From the bag he produced a book, memories of Harpo Marx, then lay down on the couch, wrapped himself with the blanket I brought and began to read quietly. I was left standing in the doorway, looking at her not knowing what to do or say. She looked up from her book and smiled: "Did not you read? I like it. Notice how it starts: I do not know if my life has been a success or a failure and I have no hurry to find out. I just take things as they come and so much time left me to enjoy life. "



Wednesday, November 10
SHELTER FROM THE STORM

This morning I had class early. When I peeked into the room, the stranger was still there, sleeping peacefully. The blanket had fallen to the ground, so I went to wrap her and pick up the book had also been dropped carelessly.
Then I forgot about it, I forgot all immersed in the pleasant daily routine, now, however, was a novelty to explain literature beginning in Teaching. Accustomed to the few students of Philology, I am pleased to meet again with a classroom full and restless.
Before commencing, take a coffee in the cafeteria, I thought: "The last class I gave here in 1993, the first in 1977 and the first time I walked into this building, as a student, was in 1968." I felt a little dizzy. But in the classroom, as he put in play old tricks to attract the attention of the students felt the intoxication of starting an adventure. I am the guide, I have the treasure map, I hope to be able to discover the wonders of literature. The classroom is one of the places where less than it costs me to be happy: the problems, however serious, is always left out.
Upon arriving home, shortly before two o'clock, just in time to put in microwave dish and get pre-cooked to lunch at two o'clock, as I always do, I caught a delicious smell. The table was set and the unknown (not me his name, I dared not ask because surely I must know) had cooked for me. "You see that I have not forgotten the time you eat or what you listen to while eating: I have news of Radio Nacional. Even if you were a gentleman, you should turn off the radio and talk to me. "

Highschool Initiation Ideas

Returns: Beginning without end

Thursday, October 28
SUCCESS IN LITERATURE

call me not to know what radio station: "We are preparing a program on largemouth and writers wanted to have their participation. " "What?" I reply less irritated than fun. "We are preparing a program on the statements of Perez-Reverte and Sanchez-Drago and would like to give us their views and talked to us and to other outspoken writers."
reassuring to know that I have not thought of myself as a writer largemouth. Perez-Reverte review once a novelette prefaced and annotated by Andrés Amorós. No he should like very much what I said because of the illustrious scholar, interviewed shortly after by Nuria Azancot, said great respect for the serious critics, but in As heard appoint García Martín García Posada or "took out the knife." I imagine it would be a metaphorical knife, although I'm not sure.
I was once asked, in a meeting with aspiring young writer, what were the two qualities most needed to succeed in literature. And I answered that the same as in any other field: combining know flattery and threats, the stick and carrot. Is the method Cela-Capone, success assured. In the magazine Cuadernos Hispano appeared a note on one of his most expendable, Izas, colipoterras short ends and it was said that she abounded in the "considerations shallow, as humorous. " She immediately wrote to the director, Luis Rosales, "in Papeles de Son Armadans never published a vile about you like that, about me, you welcome to your October issue. In any case, nothing bad is I know what to expect in the future. " And in answer to his apology, not accepted, he warns that soon the alleged attack have adequate reply in his journal, "he knows to be to the mutual." The sticky
art of flattering the powerful and the assault against who permitted the slightest hesitation Cela had a good disciple, Francisco Umbral. But it was not the only one, although perhaps At its best, the most lyrically repulsive. Fortunately for him, Perez-Reverte has nothing lyrical, his is the rough and manly bullying.


Saturday, October 30 PICTURES


The lights of the boats piled like jewels in the darkness of the port.

After the large window that whine carelessly blurred pine, brown land of the tennis courts on the merits desolate hills dirty sky.

A collapsed house, away from the road, with the color of old wood eaten by the sun and rain.

A car driving in the wind of twilight as the sun sets behind the city, leaving a golden sky and blood and stained a dark sea stretches of pink wine.

swinging masts of sailboats looking for a star not just found.



Sunday, October 31 TIME TOO


I am of those people who do it all quickly and so I always have spare time. The gift of an hour I do not think a good gift. The day, black, rainy, dreary as my soul, I becomes infinite. I do not know what to do to pass the time and just writing a poem. The devil when he has to do kill flies with its tail: I write poems. I
put in a good mood this recidivism. My poems are always talking about things that I do not like talking. I hope not to offend. At least until I get another day with hours to spare.



Tuesday, November 2
MEMORIES OF A SACRISTÁN

Presenting both worlds , Xuan Bello, I read the first of his poems was translated into Castilian (in 1983, when the author was eighteen years old): "Feeling, nostalgia for what is not, / tyrant of our desires, / shy arms dusk / flush around the unwritten lines, / While thou, burning Eros, the god of hell / Of exasperated thirst flood over my words /-those who, fleeing from you, are looking for you. "
I have witnessed how Xuan was given shape to their particular maze, how the precocious poet became an outstanding prose writer, both in Asturian and Castilian. As anyone I know its greatness and its weaknesses: continuous improvisation, rhetoric of victimization, imaginative scholarship. That's why I always fear a little when he spoke in public. I like that clean dust sexton of the holy image and that is why I can not believe in miracles. But I believe in the miracle of a restless writer, who spends his life repeating itself, which never has time to sit leisurely to make a book and yet we never get tired of listening. Are the vagaries of literature, that formal and precise writers may prefer incorrigible, irresponsible, improvisational magic.



Wednesday, November 3 A POET


José Ángel Gayol he released his first book, which interested me very little. "What you should have made it inadvisable to publish it," I say. "I was so excited ..." he responds. And I: "You know the advice I usually give young poets do not write that phone." Today
making a coffee with me in this young Colonial poet, Cristian David Lopez, and I regret how hard I tried his verses. At twenty years is still allowed to write bad poems. Cristian was born in a remote area of \u200b\u200bParaguay. From the four years he was educated in a religious community, people of God, which is to continue the lifestyles of early Christianity. They live far from cities, villages themselves. Common practice prayer and believe that even the Holy Spirit continues to send prophets. Cristian read his first book at age seventeen. It was The Great Gatsby. Not a bad way to start reading, but what a strange due to be the evocation of the Roaring Twenties labored in the midst of desolation. Just


had books in places where people pray and work from dawn to dusk and still with bad crops and hungry. There were no books, but Internet, and Cristian got several Shakespeare plays and sonnets. Still a teenager wanted to create a library for the community. Wrote a petition, sought the signatures of his companions and took the bus once a day (and always full to the brim) came to Asuncion. They searched the various embassies and was giving his writing. Nobody answered. But one day, had spent more than a year, a terrifying night of storm, remembers it well, yet flooded and without electricity, phone rang miraculously, one of the first they had. Called the U.S. embassy, \u200b\u200bthey donated books worth six thousand dollars. Then came the tales of Poe and Whitman's verses, all of Shakespeare and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn down the Mississippi. A shipment of wonders. But he just might enjoy it. He emigrated to Buenos Aires, where malvivió in a slum, and was dazzled by the bookstores on Corrientes overflowing onto the sidewalk.
wanted to be a writer since childhood. Publishing a book seemed the greatest feat. When was in Asturias, and earned some money working as a painter, with his first savings sought who edited. "Now I repent," he says.
I now read his verses, which I browsed contemptuous, with new eyes: "To be good is how not to die, / to be good is the way to be immortal, / not to die in the heart of the people."
"sometimes went hungry," he says smiling. "There was what we call a common pot, a canteen, but if you got your turn delayed when it was over food. And sometimes not coming to eat me because I felt that I had not worked hard enough, that I had cattle. Before it was more humble now I'm going to be less. "
teaches me to just buy books: Goethe's Werther, Tables of the Law of Thomas Mann and The Hound of the Baskervilles of Conan Doyle. "I am excited about Sherlock Holmes. Taught me to reason. "
Before returning to Milan, I point the way to the bookstore Don Quixote. Looking for Whitman's poems. How
not identify with the child before having a book in hand, and dreamed of books? Cristian worth more than his poems, but not surprise me that very soon his poems were worth as much as worth it.


Thursday, November 4
OTHER LIFE

I like stories that start when a stranger knocks on the door. Or those others in which a car breaks down near an abandoned mansion. I like to open a book at random, read a few lines, close your eyes and continue my life away from my life: "Everyone waited eagerly on Tuesday when the boat in Sydney made his entry into the port. The nervous tension in which they lived became irresistible at times. "
I also wait, pacing up and down, the arrival of a ship to go away far in to start another life. O someone to fall back inside out my life.
And when everyone has left, when nobody but me, waiting on the docks, the ship appears. It is a night without moon and stars. Boat lights green, red, blue-glow as though it came loaded with magnificent treasures. Little by little is coming ...
( For your life, the sailor, / dígasme hours that song.)
Slowly, as if not to move. I like stories that are just beginning without end.