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| Spring 2011 .- Torremolinos |
afternoon like many others of rain, in the quiet solitude of my apartment, rereading some fragments of the wild Detectives Bolaño, which providence, always stingy with time and the glory of men, sent to the refutation of his petty liver blossom into a Barcelona hospital. He had wanted to chance, or the Chilean military dictatorship, who stopped after the American migration, this Europe that showed promise as the most anonymous and undocumented sub-Saharan migrants to the periphery of prosperity, which had to be tanned offices in the most needy (night watchman, grape picker, trash ...) before they can survive, as a mercenary of the letters, with the low wages of provincial literary prizes to those who concurred with his word. There is nothing random, however, the prestige it has acquired his work, and although it is true that posterity adorns the deceased infants with an aura of excellence often undeserved, in the case of Chile, I would venture to guess that neither his death nor the subsequent cheers charanga have made perched run over the exact place that deserves his literary talent. The same misfortune that stopped him from adding years, we are deprived of books and never write. So today, while still remaining 6 years of my life to match the precise age of his death I can not think of a better idea to spend the afternoon indulging in his letters, read and reread, with the intention of finding a passage novel, or forgotten, that I return, even for a minute, the unique feeling I experienced when you first open every one of his books.
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