On April 23. International day of the Book.
On April 23. International day of the Book.
One of the agreeable surprises of being at the head of this project Magazine Atticus is to receive in my computer collaborations. There are habitual ones and those who order them have turned into habitual collaborators (almost they give me desire of doing a cinematographic wink and saying: Habitual suspects, as the culture goes who we come to the movies, we buy a book or go to a spectacle are going to turn into that, in sospechos). They are much, but that very good. And it is not a question of starting emphasizing such and such collaboration. But if that I would like today, that the day of the book is celebrated, emphasizing four collaborators. The first collaboration comes from the hand of Marta Platz. It is of the last incorporations and I have liked this mailing for its wide sensations fan that it docks and we have chosen it to do this entry and to celebrate this day. Another collaboration belongs to Salvador Robles Miras who recently has been rewarded by one of its works. And they go … a few, enough. There are already publiacado several books and tomorrow we will reproduce this last work. Another belongs to Berta Cuadrado Mayoral who also has received a pair of good awards. But in this occasion, the day after tomorrow, we will reproduce an interesting interview that the hiceron in Radio Avila. And the last one is the collaboration of Manolo Madrid who will present next Saturday, the 4th of May its book Letters to my cousin Andrea in the Fair of the Book of Valladolid.
I leave the interesting Marten work to you.
THE PRIVILEGE OF TRAVELING ACCOMPANIED
What do I walk at night with
your absence next to me
I am accompanied by the clouds, the charm, a picture of Rothko, the color and its smell of lavender. Mendelsshon accompanies me, Shakespeare accompanies me, and its Sleep for one summer night. They accompany me Paul Celan. With silent body / you lie in the sand next to me; / On you, you cover them with stars. And Pablo Neruda, was as it was and for whom it is important how he has died. That allow it to rest in peace. I am accompanied by Sylvia Plath and its singing to three voices that are going to be mothers. Its suicide and its personality accompanies me. Milan Kundera accompanies me undoubtedly. And the Balkans in plenary meeting. Russia accompanies me, in memory and on pages and pages.
I am accompanied by the love of a picture, the love of a poem, the love of a chord, I am accompanied by the love of a son yielded to its father, of a father crying for its son. The Dostoyevski player accompanies me. I am accompanied by Petrushka, the servant of the Goliadkin and of its Double. William Blake accompanies me, Sheets of Grass, the sailors of Alberti, entire Rome, give to me you in return as much as I stopped to have you, I am accompanied undoubtedly by the navigator and The Club of the Dead Poets. The penguins accompany me, traveling without truce. And the music of Emilie Simon. Clint Mansell y Moon accompanies me. What a lot of sound-tracks! Amélie, Titanic, ships and pirates accompany me. Even Francis Drake accompanies me. And next to you, traveling with The Principito at any time. So many sound-tracks accompany me. So many famous bands, to pictures and with different colors. I am accompanied by Giotto and the murals that the earthquake destroyed in Assisi. And especially Casper David Friedrich. And the women looking for the window. And the girl with the pearl earring. Rubens. They accompany me on italics and without them. The kiss, of Klimt. Always next to me. Soria accompanies me, the Castilian grounds and Antonio Machado seated on them. He accompanies me whenever I see the golden color and a wheat ear. Dalí accompanies me, and not only in Barcelona. The Mediterranean and the Carthaginians. It is like being navigate the whole moment.
Personages, great, infinite accompany me. Without having sufficiently with that others will create them, and they were meeting on me, I went to create them also. They accompany to me an endless number of pages, its secrets, its lies, its judgments, its insults. I am accompanied by the peace, the truce, the sweetness, the context, the beauty. Aute. The beauty. He accompanies me up to Bukowski, yes. Bukowski, and it was not Russian, no. He accompanies me up to this program of radio that was taking its name. He was a genius, Buko. And becoming dark, they accompany me up to the mummies of the Louvre. In peace sound, and with all the made truces, but they accompany me. The inestimable Gioconda. The Atapuerca rock paintings, and the homo sapiens of any novel.
The agency Magnum accompanies me, to the finished one. Go I privilege! Henri Cartier-Bresson. Henri Levy. Henri Matisse. Henri Rousseau. Flaubert, The flowers of the evil and the flowers of the good. The sun for the mornings and the moon for the nights, all this accompanies me.
The melancholy of a poem accompanies me, that of Durero and that of Giorgio Agamben. Kielsowski. The figure of the Double and the club of the struggle of Palahniuk and that of David Fincher. The Courbert sleep. The soft clocks. Robert Capa accompanies me. Hopper accompanies me, and this so nearby bar of the bar. How not! Hopscotch. «Scarcely he him amalaba the noema, to her him was crowding the clémiso and they were falling down in hidromurias, in savages ambonios, in sustalos exasperating». Origin accompanies me up to the mecanoscrit of the segon. I am accompanied by the poems of love and the desperate songs.
Stefan Zweig accompanies me and that that he was describing as innocence:« I only was thirteen years old, and did not know that the special curiosity with which it was looking at you and was spying was called a love». Baricco and the silk. The silk accompanies me. It sedates. Half a world accompanies me, or the whole world. In so many photos, on so many pages, in so many pictures. I am accompanied by the negligence, the unease, the tenderness and the captain. Oh captain my captain. Modigliani accompanies me. He accompanies me up to The Guernica of Picasso, even in spite of never having seen it. The abstract hyper-realism accompanies me, Stabat Mater of Pergolesi and the realism without the híper of Pérez Galdós. I am accompanied by The revenge of don Mendo, Rodin and its sculptures, Rockefeller Center and perhaps also the tower Chrysler. Of course that is an art and to ask him to the gravity for a rest. Ernesto Sábato accompanies me. Gioconda Belli and Pere Gimferrer. An adoption accompanies me in the India, and all its farewells. Juan Ramón Jiménez. Unamuno. Bataille and its darkness. Gabriel Albiac accompanies me, of course. Rilke and Ajmátova. Lilia Brighton and Ossip Brighton. Maiakovski. Mother Volga of Leguineche, as if the whole steppe was fitting in a pocket. René Char and Juan without Fear. The brothers Grimm also accompany me long ago. Memoirs of Africa. In the heart of all the darkness. And the shining bundle of light that slips in. He accompanies me, how not, Alfonsina Storni and the sea. Borges accompanies me a little, and at times Benedetti. Silvio Rodríguez accompanies me, and a kaleidoscope. Who was snake charmer. Amancio Prada accompanies me. The spiritual canticle and Saint John of the Cross. Jorge Manrique. Cervantes. Mozart accompanies me on Salzburg, and four Vivaldi stations. Always one to one, skylight. I am accompanied by a guide of a magic hitchhiker. The never-ending story accompanies me, and of course, the laughs of Tom Sharpe. Wilt! What uncle. I am always accompanied by the creative guide of the author that I have never stopped reading. And Robinson Crusoe and: those summers! Miguel Strogoff, The island of the treasure … accompanies Me «I do not know why I felt like buying this book». A Sartre never accompanies me well-read, but bought in the shores of the Seine. And one of its wife that I bought here nearby and that, nevertheless, yes I have read. It is not necessary to have gone that far, I think. Ángel González comes with me. You are. / it is enough to Me.
The senses accompany me. All this I am. The musician accompanies me. The literature accompanies me. Especially the literature. He accompanies me to write. The art accompanies me: you. The life. You are accompanying the whole moment to me. Remain, please, next to me. Until he could return you something of everything what you have given me with your love. And never leave me.
Filed file: General
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