In order not to increase the cretinization of the submissive, although frightened, recipient, television has been seduced by citing between crime and horror, between the ode to the disgusting power and the condemnation of those who are going to continue smelling it in vain, speaking one day in another also of the sacred good of culture, advising the reading of the amanuenses who are friends of the house. It’s grotesque. But who knows if this encourages so many satisfied illiterate people to visit those books to be in the mood. Mostly progressive, as it should be, in the name of subsidized art.
“People should only meet each other when they are available, at certain pale hours of the night. With men’s problems, with melancholy problems. Ricardo, give me the last drink. Stop on the road”, shouted that anarchist and desperate poet called Léo Ferré. I had that communication over the phone with a prodigious writer and someone who was real. His name was Rafael Chirbes. He is the author of Crematorium and On the Shore. Read them. I felt something miraculous with those novels, comparable to the emotion that Last Afternoons with Teresa, Time of Silence and The City of Wonders gave me.
Chirbes tells in the third volume of his immortal Diaries: “I feel pure rejection, a desire to be alone and at the same time a suffocating sensation of loneliness, of not having anything or anyone, nor being able to aspire to anything: Not having had the capacity to live together or having lost it. “I still fall in love with you after you die.” Lucid, tender, hyper-cultured, implacable with himself and with others. He was a hell of a writer, despite his doubts. He also an honest man.
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2023-09-30 04:46:37
#Chirbes #love
