In this column I will take the deviations of fiction: I will comment on a series of authors and books that I have made without any pretense, except, perhaps, to make fun of those authors and their claims. If the title of any of these books resembles a published one or one of the surnames coincides to some extent with that of an author, it is not a veiled allusion but a lack of imagination.
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With his latest book Romero has committed the feat of writing a book in Spanish that urgently requires a Spanish translation.
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Cáceres delights us with a novel whose background harmonizes with its form: it talks about kicking violence.
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It should be clarified to Ruiz that punctuation marks are not for breathing. If so, I would recommend that you see a doctor soon for your fatal pulmonary arrhythmia problems.
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They say that with The night of the tropelario Zorrilla has written the novel of the year. I believe, instead, that he has written the one of the minute.
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In On the edge of the compass Bernárdez recounts his fervent relations with the Viennese schnitzel, with the Prague stout and with the solianka from the Russian Quarter of New York. Our chef ensures that, as a menu, it is second to none. As a book, it lacks cooking.
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Fernández says in When the stones are not silent who wants to unearth the truth. But he has a very small shovel.
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In his complete works, Quintero lacks masonry work.
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For a writer who travels so much, Soporín catches little flight in his latest novel.
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The Marquis del Prado demonstrates with his novel This is not a wisp what to write cock in three continuous paragraphs does not ensure any vigor.
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Vilas assures that his wife is his most faithful reader. Never have so many good reasons been given for infidelity.
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When Bodolín is asked what his favorite book is, he answers none, since he draws more inspiration from the dark rooms of the cinema. No wonder the lights go so easy.
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Jiménez is a pioneer: with The barricade of my heart has inaugurated the domestic genre of Bath Stationery.
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When Cárdenas claimed that his new novel was a crude portrait of the war, was he serious about crude?
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For a novel with so much finished adverb in mind, there is very little of it.
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Colonel’s ravaged summer It has so much magical realism that just started it rose from my hands to the sky between sheets and flew and flew and flew …
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The unparalleled taste that Escobar’s new collection of poems produces is, above all, in the steak bathed in blue cheese that can be bought with the money from its resale.
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Pedernal’s poems leave me with the burning sensation that not only politics can outrage me to the point of wanting to burn everything.
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Like the clouds you describe, passenger.
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That the narrator is a girl does not give Martínez the right to write in half a language.
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Pedregal: If you are going to write a poem about writing a poem, remember that in the end you do not write any poem.
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When García Márquez proposed removing the spelling, it was a joke, Juvenal, not an invitation.
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Pombo’s book promised a fantastic journey. It is a pity that you had to make an emergency landing.
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In the press they announced that he was an heir to Hopscotch. But it was all a game.
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Soto dazzles in Ghostly mood tinsel with words that have the function of a nut: go round and round to cover a hole.
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Galindo promised to move our guts with his new novel. I want to remove them.
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After a rereading of the recent collection of stories by Padilla I reaffirm my conclusion: it is bad bad.
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If silence is as sacred as it describes in Los urapanes murmuranWhy do you insist on interrupting it?
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It is not true that hundreds of trees have been wasted in the printing of Castellanos’ new book: recycling will do justice.
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Your book You can’t play with gravity it has a lot of truth: it falls out of hand.
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As the banner states that it is a “superb” book, I understood that we would get along well and I put it aside.
CODA
A constant reader of this column, José Bernardo Mayorga, made an interesting note to me about the previous column. I wrote that in the verse “you already know my clumsy dress dressing”, which is part of Portrait by Antonio Machado, the word clumsy was irreplaceable: whoever removed it would ruin its number of syllables (the verse must be fourteen: he is an Alexandrian) because clumsy and the first vowel of dressing formed a single syllable, while you know it was divided into four syllables and not three by means of an umlaut. But José Bernardo made me realize that the verse is divided into two individual parts (hemistiquios), each with seven syllables. And since they are individual and each one goes at will, well clumsy no se a a dressing and can be replaced by another two-syllable adjective (like the pretty tosco e unskilled proposed by José Bernardo) without changing the number of syllables.
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