Roulette Sniper For Free

Across: Folly and vanity

Friday, October 22
in the circle

"Is it true what they say?" Ask me to come to the gathering after wearing ties delivery of the Prince of Asturias awards. "Is it true that this year, the Reconquista meal, no one took any notice of the princes and the queen, everyone anxiously awaited the arrival of the players? Is it true that Leticia went unnoticed in a corner, that Philip was walking back and forth with the food on one hand and a glass of beer in the other, that the queen was bored sitting in a Victor de la Concha never stopped talking and a sleepy Manuel Fraga? Is it true that everyone lined up to worship that Sara Carbonero, enthroned in the center of the courtyard, with the world cup in his lap, was the true queen of the party? Is it true that when he finally late, Iker Casillas was in the midst of other players, it was as if suddenly appeared among his disciples Christ? ".
"If that happened, which I doubt, I did not heard anything," I say.
"You do not you find out what does not suit you. The record you would have done in the time of the Journal of Oliver! What I have told Victor Boots! Who has seen and who sees you. An old Republican (mostly old, I think) bowing in court for a pittance: what you pay for jury duty ... "
" If you do not pay anything ... "
" For worse. You might even include verses by José Emilio Pacheco that you like to repeat: We're all that / what we are fighting for twenty years. " Already I'm
everything against which I fought for twenty years? Maybe. It is true that the Queen saw a little boring, between the director of the Academy and the persistent political, that the prince was walking with his plate in his hand without the usual coterie that Leticia did not wake up, let alone, the expectation other times, that all eyes were after the journalist who, on his throne television, hugged the Holy Grail, there were long queues to be photographed with the golden relic, made of such stuff as dreams. But I'd rather talk about the good friends with whom I shared table. I do not know if the old one becomes more wise or just more conformist, but for me there is no prize. Therefore
accept the invitation each year to supply these media awards. So for thirty years, I only missed three Fridays, and by reason of force majeure, to socialize on Fridays.


Saturday, October 23 PROVERBS BULGARIAN


Light a candle for God and two for the devil.

The good word goes a long way, but to bad no one can reach. If not try

evil know no good. Until

eat a kilo of salt with someone does not know what kind of person he is.

If you have good wine and good friends, do not throw any woman at fault.

who pursues two hares does not hunt any.

is better to be in hell with smart people in fools paradise.

Sages spoil the world.

who ignores everything, long known.

If the marriage was a good thing, God would have a wife.



Sunday, October 24
THREE PLAYERS

This hunting scene told you in the Colonial, I phoned a friend reminds me of a story by Amelia Edwards, "The ghost car." Even I remember that the menu served to two hunters lost, fried eggs with ham and a bottle of sherry, is the same. I do not know if your partner is not confuse old readings with reality. Although actually, I know from experience, not always realistic. I also had a few years ago, an experience that I have not told anyone. I'm going to tell you, but just between us. To me then I was very interested in the paranormal. I went several times to record EVP abandoned houses, you know those weird sounds sometimes heard where it should not hear anything. I was also with my recorder to the graveyard of St. Lazarus. Almost always I accompanied a friend who had less fear was Pelayo. But once I was alone. It was a summer night, full moon, with music of crickets, very nice, nothing spooky. I had drunk a bit, everybody had to leave, I wanted to go home (still living with my parents), so without thinking I went to San Lazaro will continue to do experiments. Had already jumped the walls when I realized that I carried the tape recorder. Was equal, would walk among the graves, imagine a poem. You know then I was very Byronic. I went to the tomb of Clarín and I saw that very closely, on a tombstone, three individuals seemed to play cards. Would you believe I scared? Well, a little bit, but before he could think of no one of them looked up and said: "We need one more to the game. Do you sign? ". "Okay" I replied. That husky voice was familiar and at once recognized the son of a law professor and lawyer famous, once we were at the Apollo, I do not remember his name. The other two, one with his white beard, the other with his glasses to Woody Allen, seemed strangely Angel Gonzalez and Victor Botas. They were very silent, with downcast eyes. "I have no money," he said. "No matter, we'll play the clothes. " And I was losing game after game all the clothes. "Well, until one night," said the youngest, the one who spoke. And all three stood up and disappeared, leaving me stunned and naked there. Suddenly I felt cold. I started shaking. I dressed quickly and went home. The next morning, what you thought, that everything had been an alcoholic hallucination.


But a few days later, Angel Gonzalez came to Oviedo. Lola Lucio and Juan Benito invited us to dinner with him at home. Were you, Almuzara, Lopez-Vega, I think he Silvia. We had dinner, talked, and then we went for a drink. Everyone retreated, you first, and I accompanied Angel to four. At that time I left the umbrella. The next day, remember we were in the party, and called us concerned Lola Lucio: Angel had not returned home, no one knew anything about him. A spree of more than twenty-four hours was too much partying, even for a poet of the fifties. You know the end of the story: he had entered the cathedral and had fallen asleep on a bench, when he woke up saying Mass, and he thought he had died and attended his funeral. I do not know is what I just said me: "Let's see when we take another game, but try to take money. " Boots Victor did not say anything, Victor boots by the time when he played poker with me on a tomb of St. Lazarus had been dead two years, just below the tomb: the recognized by the epitaph.



Monday, October 25
PRAISE OF THE PLANET

"You are wrong to mess with the Planet," another friend reproaches me. "What always misses? No award was made. Here the Nobel. Now everybody talks about Vargas Llosa, is the story of the century, especially for The Country and Alfaguara. But who remembers Nobel last year, one such Herta Müller? Your friend Colinas has just published two of his books. The titles say it all: The guard pulls out his comb and dwells in the bun lady . Automatic writing, as advocated by Dadaists a century ago. Boring games. I do not know why he has such a bad reputation as the planet and the Nobel good: in both cases correct answers by chance. It is not true what you say that the Metro, when rewards a good writer, she always does her worst novel. If so, Miles would not have obtained world, but perhaps What I know about the little men , but all things considered has other novels to choose from. "


Tuesday, October 26
Pending

Me time t sit back and wait / time passes.

many words / but I only listen to / old silences.

Wait. / From where does not get / have to return.

Night comes / and hidden behind her / the new day.

Do not you know? / When I'm more alone / you are with me.

few words. / What matter what he says / long silence. Time passes

/ shuffling / as another patient. In

the garden / waste their scent / all flowers.

phone rings / in the house with no one / every night.

I've never seen / and the sleepless nights / still remember you.

Do you know who I am? / Half of your soul / and do not know.

Say you love me. / After so many lies / one truth.


Wednesday, October 27 STILL LEARN


I'm not the people who praise themselves, I am not of those who say: "My last issue is like." I'm too vain to engage in such naivete, or reproduce the praise I get (no writer who does not receive praise from other writers generally expect them to be returned immediately and with interest). What I teach are the diatribes floor with my enemies do not flatter me as often as I would like. I know too well that these are the real praise. Nobody takes the trouble of attacking those who do not believe it is important, versus who does not like shade. Lately, everyone I show the broadside I found in the latest book by Miguel d'Ors (great poet, but as fascist seem to warm up the coterie of the COPE).
not do it again. Rereading A Winter in Majorca by George Sand, I find with these lines from the prologue: "If there is folly and vanity publishing compliments you received, is there no more nonsense and vanity to boast of attacks that is the subject?". Under
head in shame. I hope never to engage in such foolishness and vanity.

Movie Where Guy Gets Raped By Guy

the other side: Half-truths

Friday, October 15 A HUNTER


I take morning coffee in my exile from the Colonial. At the client side called the attention of the books I have on the table (the first harvest of the day, evening will others): Letters to the Duchess of Aveiro , John Joseph Viola Cardoso. "I know," he says, "in Ancares have hunted deer, and rabbits in the harvest, near Albuquerque. May I browse it? ". Turns the pages, smiles before a piece, I read a paragraph: "Hunting, Duchess, has the gift of taking some time to those who practice in places where other mortals would not think to put your feet, and find, into the world of God, incredible subject. " "How right he is!" He added after leaving the book on the table and record the title and publisher. ----


happened to me once one of those games that you can not tell anyone if you want make you mad. I had been away all day and had not achieved even one piece. It was December and I was in a vast, cold moor in northern England, where I lived for some years. Fleecy clouds, announcing snow descended on the moors, the leaden night began to fall on the fields, and I was afraid I missed. There was not a column of smoke or a fence, or a herd, nothing that could guide me. I continued walking with the gun on his shoulder, the snow began to fall. Soon the darkness was complete. I remembered those travelers who walk in the snow until they fall exhausted to rise no more. After many miles up, was about to lie on the ground to accept my fate when I thought I spotted a light. Disappeared at once, but I was to where he had shone and, not long after I met with a dark mansion. I jumped the fence and a dog pounced on me immediately. I would have broken if a voice had not stopped. The portal was a man with a gun pointed at me. "Who are you? What do you look? ". Not very good grade, when I told him my situation, agreed to let me pass. In the kitchen, a silent servant gave me dinner. I remember it well: a plate of eggs and ham, a slice of rye bread and a bottle of excellent sherry. I've never eaten more appetite: from breakfast, a coffee alone, she had not eat anything. I was then, before lie on the mattress that I had intended in the kitchen to thank the owner of his attentions. I was in a strange room, next to the fireplace, there were shelves full of great tomes, on the other, a small organ decorated with colored figures of saints and demons in a closet with the door ajar, were crucibles, retorts and pharmaceutical jars, on the shelf of the fireplace, filled with objects, a world map, many of the walls were covered with strange diagrams, there were books and papers scattered on the floor and a large wooden bar, it seemed wise cabinet or a medieval alchemist. I thanked him my name, my profession as an engineer, my address in England and Spain, but my host did not look up, which was fixed on the fire. I moved closer to him, thinking he was asleep, but suddenly turned toward me, irritated. "What right do you dare to bother? Return to the kitchen and leave my house as the snow stops. " I stammered some excuse and got ready to go back to my corner. That's when I noticed the fire in the fireplace. The hypnotic dance of the flames always I was fascinated, but there was something else. I saw myself lying on the snow, bleeding, surrounded by vermin, I saw my wife, black, at my funeral, near here, in the church of San Juan. "Now you know everything," said my host. "Welcome to the realm of the dead. Now go to rest. " And the funny thing is that such was my mood that I'm not surprised those words. Returned to the kitchen, I drank another glass of wine and slept like a saint. When I woke up wearing a bright sunshine, the snow had melted almost completely and at home, which seemed abandoned long ago, there was nobody. I started walking and soon meet with other hunters. When I arrived at the residence he shared with several engineers I was surprised that nobody asked me anything, they were not worried about my absence. They felt they had been long absent, but it was the same day that had started at dawn, just as I like to hunt at times, to clear my head. One day in December, announcing sunny, had lived up to its promise and had been one of the most beautiful of the year, as I confirmed. This story is never told anyone. Twenty years later, after having taken many turns in the head, I still find no explanation.


Saturday, October 16
NORMAL PEOPLE

It's back. Back, many years later, the movies of my childhood, Mary and Martha , miraculously still open in the baroque mansion that Palacio Valdés placed one of his novels, but lost to Mary on the road. Since there are few cinemas and, on the street (my street Rivero), without the wrapper of a mall.


I see social network , David Fincher's film about the origins of Facebook. A Facebook me with what happens to me with Belén Esteban: I see no interest in any part but is sure to have it, millions of people is confirmed every day.
Is the origin of Facebook? A Harvard student Mark Zuckerberg, to avenge a girl who rejected him, it occurs to hack into the computer files of the University and organized a contest in which students are compared with animals. Belén Esteban's origins appear to be no less picturesque: he was married to a bullfighter. Millonarios
accident is called the Ben Mezrich book on which the script. And an inexplicable accident, for me, is that Mambo Kings becomes a student does not take off the nose of your computer and a pert housewife. What interest that a woman can have loud public vent their trivial family conflict? What interest can have a bunch of friends or acquaintances tell me what they do or send me photos of your holidays? For me, none, for most people, it seems a lot.
The truth is I have a reputation for strange, but I'm afraid it's an undeserved reputation. Because for rare, but rare, indeed, normal people.


Sunday, October 17
STILL

"Something is missing the man who does not know the disease, disgrace or prison," said Emmanuel Mounier. More-precise lacks self- the man who has not known happiness.
I have known and even though lately it seems to me turned back and still has, from time to time, give me a goodnight kiss before.


Monday, October 18
PRAISE OF PESSIMISM

Being pessimistic does have its advantages. Whenever I try something, a business or love, I assume failure. So I never surprises me. What always amazes me is success. Suddenly, the clouds black these days, the sun rises. "You know you have exactly three times the age that I have? I too was born on June 17. " What
I know too well: I add, subtract, multiply and divide. And close your eyes when it suits me and enjoy the present, without past or future, that suddenly occurs to me.


Tuesday, October 19
THE IMAGINARY LOVER

"You keep telling stories. I think all your love is imaginary, "a friend tells me skeptical. "Well I think that all loves are imaginary, except perhaps the imaginary," I reply.



Thursday, October 21
AWARD

I interviewed in a corner of Reconquista and me on Amin Maalouf gives the impression that even the two radio announcers without too many listeners are the questions I hear what I say. And no wonder I can only say what kind banalities? But then mentioned other awards and see my favorite monster. "What think you have been granted to Metro Eduardo Mendoza?". ----
Planet is never wrong. Mendoza's last novels ever had any interest, the award certifies that the decline is irreversible. I remember at a meeting of the jury of the Prince of Asturias, they spoke of the eternal candidate, Juan Marse. "It is incomprehensible that a novelist in its class has no award," Who said I do not know, maybe Rosa Montero. "It is true that has no prize, has the Planet," someone answered. Then I: "But that's not an award, but a disgrace." From my right from my left I felt two killer looks. It turns out that when I did that grace was seated just two Planeta prize, and Fernando Sanchez Drago Delgado, two famous novelists, as is well known. The story of the alleged prize is pure surrealism. Will soon be in court on charges of plagiarism against Camilo Jose Cela. But the strangest thing is that he is accused of having plagiarized, not any work, but an unpublished novel submitted to the same award that was granted to him. Planet of novels specifically handle a renowned author and often delivered after the deadline is not no secret. I was a direct witness to one of those cases. "Martin, Martin", I telephoned a young novelist who now looks more plump in front of the programs on national television, "that the Metro will be next to me," Martin, Martin, that the first chapter he liked Carlos Pujol. " "Martin, Martin, now I have almost finished," I said two months after completing the delivery. Is normal (normal for the executives of Metro) that a novelist has lost its ability to tell stories, if they ever had, but his mannered style, will facilitate the plot canvas for one of their stylish fantastic, but you pass one of the unedited original presented at the same prize that seems intended to give that goes beyond any level of stupidity. But in the end, everything is possible in an award that is never wrong, even if they give a good writer (sometimes happens), surely is his worst novel.

Wickes Installationbedroom

Across: Another return

Wednesday, October 6
WHERE EAGLES

Under the gentle rain, I have the whole city around me. North beyond between the gray glow of the golden domes of the cathedral, on the right, closer, the mole demolished (lacks the large red star) of the former Party headquarters, on the south, yet more tomes, with its modern age, the National Palace of Culture. And everywhere, a labyrinth of rickety heights, terraces and attics, avenues and alleys, the brilliant green of the large parks or small woodlands.
This place, on top of the Ministry of Transport, once reserved for the leaders of the Party, is now a restaurant available to anyone who can afford it. Few, it seems: there are only two tables occupied. The feeding of melancholy eyes.
The National Palace Culture was the latest rave old regime. The minister who built it was the daughter of the dictator, he aspired to be a new Eva Peron, died, say they murdered, before seeing it finished. Has endless rooms, corridors, elevators, stairs that go nowhere. It's easy to get lost in it. I know from experience. In my nightmares, when they open their wings closed for a while due to lack of staff or money for lighting and heating, are one body: mine. A bird's eye view, not scary.
try to recognize in this impressionistic haze, some places. There, at the end of Zhenski Pazar, the Ladies Market is the Bridge of Lions, and the other side, near the University, the Bridge of the Eagles. Flyby, as an eagle again, the familiar places, especially tree-lined streets and silent where, after crossing a neglected yard, climbing stairs, walking down a dark hallway, there is a hidden door, or hiding, all the light in the world. Liliana
Tabakova listen to tell the story of Orlin Vasilev, his stepfather, a marginalized writer during the communist for wanting to remain faithful to the ideals of communism and now doubly forgotten. I scored one of his titles: "Guard well the treasure of your unhappiness." Is he correct? Should not that happiness?
While I keep my treasure unhappiness. I'd rather be unhappy and I knew you, be happy and to have passed, the day of yesterday or a lifetime ago, by a shadowy street, not having sought a direction pointed shakily on paper, not having called a bell not sound, have not beaten with the hand on the door ... Liliana Tabakova keep talking, but I just heard, I am dedicated to getting drunk with melancholy echoes in my memory as a verse of Verlaine: "Il pleure dans mon coeur / Comme il pleut sur la ville .... " Yes, crying my heart like rain on the city.



Thursday, October 7 Animae

Rerum
about to enter the Archaeological Museum, I'm surprised the shrill hum of a procession. But there is a procession which was about the great avenue, although the head of a rough wooden cross and the participants wear a tunic purple: they are left-wing trade unions protest against the government's intention to delay the age of retirement and other anti-crisis measures. Near the cross, I see the flag of Bulgaria. There are other flags, but no red, no sign of its recent communist past. Even in the museum there is evidence of the long centuries of Islam. Oh yes: the museum, the Bujuk Mosque, Grand Mosque, as admirable as the most admirable parts it contains. And wonders how many locks: the weapons of the Thracians who fought in the verses of Homer tombstones where anonymous faces harm us with its serenity, the gold mask which may have led Agamemnon, the bas-relief, as a sign announces the show Serdika's amphitheater, the Roman Sofia (on the remains, recently discovered, have built a hotel), the prodigious bust a refined barbarian king ... But to me what most caught my attention is a piece that does not bear any indication (or at least I have not found it): a man and a woman behind, their faces blotted out, that seem to move towards us. Maybe it's Orfeo Joyful returning from hell with a Eurydice that will vanish forever as he returns his gaze. I do not know what I do know is that now this man and this woman will keep walking tireless dream.
The Museum Cafe, while the rain falls on the garden, think about my life, the pointlessness of any life, and memory verses of a forgotten poet: "Looking at the blurred landscape Sadness and feelings of my soul dark dull pain, / I do not know, confused terror and fright, / if I cry their agony or my sentences if he cries. "


What is unreal it all: the protesters who have replaced the hammer and sickle a crude cross, the soldiers in uniform stand guard operetta that outside the presidential palace, the museum faces that I still look like I recognize, this quiet coffee out of the world where I write some lines that do not know where I read and I have remained forever in the memory: "I do not know if it is the shadow who fills my soul / and if my soul is emerging in the shade."


Friday, October 8 Koprivshtitsa


this sunny autumn day on a road between mountains (next to the Balkans, the other the Cordillera del Medio) came to Koprivshtitsa, a town whose architecture reminds me of the Old Plovdiv. They tell me that is one of the holy places of Bulgarian history, took place here in 1876, the April uprising was the beginning of liberation from here sent the "blood letter" written with the blood of a Turkish killed, encouraging cities to revolt. The great statue of Todor Kableshkov, one of the heroes, committed suicide in prison twenty-five, wielding a gun. "Hero? After independence hero. Before, a terrorist who denounced their own neighbors, rich merchants, to prevent the city was destroyed by the Turks in order to remain wealthy merchants (it ruined the separated from the empire).
"This is the real Bulgaria," I say, but I see a theme park, an ethnographic museum, the colorful scene of a patriotic story. The church of the Assumption, which dilutes its almost blue in the blue sky, was built in eleven days, according to legend, and looks like a fragile model, in its twilight colored light a few candles. I ask nothing, if God existed, he would know very well what I want more than anything. Beside the church is the cemetery. That these dead happy outside, caressed by the splendor of autumn. At the tomb of the poet Dimcho Debelyanov, a statue of his mother, who is still waiting for the war as when dreaming coming back and she went to greet the backyard. A beautiful patio, where even be possible that encounter. I know of no Debelyanov poem, but here, with his grave, not difficult for me to imagine any "Silence ... Not a leaf quivers in the wind. / Everything sleeps in the silent calm of the afternoon. / You can hear the grass grow and the soul feels to be opened like a flower a sweet thought. "



Saturday, October 9
POSSIBLE HAVENS

With its glass facades and all its lights on, in the icy nights of winter seems a picture of paradise. And somehow it is: capitalist paradise that dreams of entering this country.
But it's just a mall, the Mall of Sofia, the first one opened in the city. Finally I get to take a coffee in it (my Bulgarian friends, as my English friends, they hate these cathedrals of consumption). The windows overlook the Stambolisiiski Boulevard, where he lives Panchovska Rada, which now accompanies me, one wall is occupied by bookshelves. It's nice here, with good lighting, adequate heat, and pleasant company. It would also be at home alone, as so often in so many other malls. If I lived in this city, would come every day to read for a while and go through life feeling. I'm a loner, but I hate being alone alone, I prefer to be alone among the people. We


around the various floors. "I do not know what you may be interested, all these sites are equal." Same and different as human beings. I watch films in cinemas, and in part overlaps with that of Los Prados. I like being at home, so far from home.
Back at the hotel, in the newly opened subway station near the University, Rada shows a new library. Is large and comfortable and has an old section is like a maze crammed with treasures. What treasures? I cherish the books, as usual, but with difficulty I can hardly spell any title. How strange to be surrounded by books and not read any. I think of Tantalus, parched by a spring, and Borges, to whom God gave irony of both the blindness and the direction of the National Library.


Sunday, October 10
THERE TWO CITIES

Whenever I return to this land, I insist on going to Plovdiv as my hosts were struggling to take elsewhere. A Veliko Tarnovo, for example, that stands between the meanders of the Yantra river and was destroyed by the Turks in 1393. But I am the least adventurous person in the world. I never go for the first time anywhere, except under compulsion. In this country I Cervantes and Victor brought boots, and it was love at first sight. I'll be back whenever I can, but at the same hotel, opposite a park with archaeological remains, three or four corners of Sofia, Plovdiv. I like the pedestrian streets, the square with the statue of Philip on the Roman Amphitheatre Dzhumaya mosque, one of those places where the pain subsides, the Maritsa river and the Grand Theatre.


descend the steep stairways to the stage, and there set to represent (some children, above him, are the only amazed spectators) vested interests. "Great city must be this, Crispin, is warns all his dominion and wealth. " "Two cities have, heaven forbid that we have given the best," he answered Crispin, I mean, Almuzara. "Two cities say? I understand, old and new, one part of the river. " "What matters the river or the old or new! I say two cities and in every city in the world: one for the money arrives and the other for coming like us. "


Two cities are in every city in the world. One for those who live in it and another for those who pass through it. Sometimes only the latter, if they can listen with your eyes, he revealed his secret.