When I search without finding a book on the shelves of my bookcases, the first thing that comes to mind is that maybe a thief came and took it with him; but then I tell myself that that’s unlikely because book thieves are usually as rare as a camel passing through the eye of a needle or transiting the streets of the city. Just yesterday I was searching and searching for an old edition of Orlando: that little novel by Virginia Woolf, which the great Jorge Luis Borges translated so beautifully into Spanish, and I couldn’t find it anywhere. Then I thought that while I was taking my nap at five in the afternoon a library looter came to take the aforementioned copy, but that could not be possible either, the little book was too ordinary: a paperback edition, with soft covers, quite a lot of text. tight, with almost no space between lines and the type so tiny and hard to read that someone wanted to take it away. Too much speculation —I said to myself: a week later the little book appeared in one of my desk drawers.
Trajectory: Poet and narrator. Author of poems The gloom of the landscape, The delusions of Eva and The spells of the body; from the book of stories The Mulberry Street Cafe and from the novel Paloma Sanlucar’s dream. Current director of literature and editorial at the Sinaloense Institute of Culture.
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