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May 16 - August 13, 2022
The memories we bury under mountains of silence are the ones that never stop haunting us.
“Nothing like recreational chemistry to master the emotions. But don’t get too fond of the trick. Liquor is like rat poison or generosity—the more you make use of it, the less effective it becomes.”
bear in mind that one of the most common side effects derived from the intake of the concoction you have just imbibed is a temporary softening of restraint and a certain overexuberance on the sentimental front. So now, when Señora Bea sees you step into that room again, look straight into her eyes so that she realizes that you really love her.” “She knows that already.” Fermín shook his head patiently. “Do as I say,” he insisted. “You don’t have to tell her in so many words, if you feel embarrassed, because that’s what we men are like and testosterone doesn’t encourage eloquence. But make sure
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“Have you ever heard that much-abused saying that all’s fair in love and war, Daniel?” “Sometimes. Usually by those who favor war rather than love.” “That’s right, because when all’s said and done, it’s a rotten lie.”
great lovers—whether practicing or aspiring—were not born to be eleventh-hour heroes.
The policeman, who had been tirelessly pulling out bodies from the rubble for hours, including those of his wife and six-year-old son, listened to him calmly. “My friend,” he said at last. “Don’t lose hope. If there’s anything I’ve learned from this lousy world, it’s that destiny is always just around the corner. It might look like a thief, a hooker, or a lottery vendor, its three most usual personifications. And if you ever decide to go and find it—remember, destiny doesn’t make house calls—you’ll see that it will grant you a second chance.”
Vargas nodded. Alicia leaned forward and felt the scar with her fingers. Behind the bar, the waiter dropped the glass he was drying.
Lol
Rarely in our country’s history has a qualified person—or at least someone not completely incompetent—found himself heading a cultural institution. Strict controls and numerous specialized staff are in place to prevent this from happening. Meritocracy and the Mediterranean climate are by necessity incompatible. I suppose it’s the price we pay for having the best olive oil in the world.
Fermín had always thought that destiny, though keen to ambush innocent people from behind and if possible with their pants down, also enjoyed nesting in railway stations whenever it took a refreshment break. This is where tragedies and romances began and ended, as did escapes and returns, betrayals and absences. Life, some said, is a railway station where one almost always enters, or gets put into, the wrong carriage.
Experience had taught her that modesty always invited scrutiny.
“Look at him,” said Vargas. “He must have seen that at the movies.” “Isn’t that where people learn how to live nowadays, in the cinema?”
Sanchís exuded a cultivated air of friendliness and utmost professionalism. His eyes transmitted both warmth and authority while he cataloged Vargas meticulously.
“Literature is a cruel lover that easily forgets its suitors,”
Most of us mortals never get to know our real destiny; we’re just trampled by it. By the time we raise our heads and see it moving off down the road, it’s already too late, and we have to walk the rest of the way along the straight and narrow ditch that dreamers call maturity. Hope is no more than the belief that that moment hasn’t yet come, that we might still manage to see our real destiny when it draws near and jump on board before the chance of being ourselves disappears forever, condemning us to live in emptiness, missing what should have been and never was.
Nothing is more surprising or frightening than what one already knows.
The little boy seemed to be sizing up her smile while he played with a rubber crocodile. Then, in a notable feat of air acrobatics, he proceeded to fire off the toy in a parabolic flight that left it at her feet.
“You know that for you I would work for nothing. I’d pay, even.” Alicia shook her head. “No more doing things for nothing, Fernandito. Welcome to capitalism.” “Don’t they say that’s really bad?” “Worse. And you’re going to love it.”
“Go on. Open the door. And be a bit nicer to him. He needs solid male role models if he’s going to be a useful member of society.”
“A pity. A femme fatale working for the regime is something I thought could only happen in a Julián Carax novel.” “Are you a Carax reader?” “Of course! The patron saint of all Barcelona’s ill-fated novelists. You two should meet. You look like you just walked out of one of his books.”
The cell stank of urine and electricity. Sanchís had never noticed that electricity had a smell—sweetish, metallic, like the odor of spilled blood.
Truth is never perfect, never squares with all expectations. Truth always poses doubts and questions. Only lies are one hundred percent believable, because they don’t need to justify reality, they simply have to tell us what we want to hear.
“The index of punditry in a society is inversely proportional to its intellectual solvency” and “When people choose overheated opinions over cold facts, the social order reverts to a moronocracy,”
“This is a scandal! Indelible proof that there are no more worthwhile young men in the country. If I were twenty years younger . . . ,” said Don Anacleto. “Better make that fifty years younger,” Fermín interjected. “Manhood is ageless,” replied Don Anacleto. “Let’s not mix heroics with urology.”
The sight of bursting puberty is the best antidote to nostalgia, thought Alicia.
“Look, in cases of such a delicate nature—and believe me, I have a lot of experience in the field—what behooves a man of vision and patriotic flair is to fill in the forms with names borrowed from any of the great Spanish classics, for it has been proven that the finest pens in the business have little weight on the reading list recommended by police headquarters, and that way nobody notices the substitutions.”
“And you? Aren’t you going to tell me your name at least?” “Last name LaMancha, first name Quixote, at your service and the service of the Generalissimo.” “This is disgraceful.”
“Fernandito, we’ve planted the seed of doubt, and that’s what matters. When it comes to lying, what one must consider is not the plausibility of the fib but the greed, fear, and stupidity of the receiver. One never lies to people; they lie to themselves. A good liar gives fools what they want to hear and allows them to free themselves from the facts at hand and choose the level of self-delusion that fits their foolishness and moral turpitude. That’s the secret. Oldest trick in the world.”
It’s the failing of our times. The honest, decent person is a species in danger of extinction, much like the plesiosaur or the well-read burlesque dancer.”
“If books spoke, there wouldn’t be so many deaf people around the place. What you need to do, Fernandito, is start preventing others from writing your dialogue. Use the head God planted on your neck and write your own script.
Like all wars, ours ruined the country and further enriched a few who were already too rich before it started. That’s why wars are fought.
“Nuria liked to leave me secret messages inside the angel. She used to hide it somewhere in the house, and I had to find it. It was a game we shared.”
She limped slightly and held a gun in her hand in such a natural way, it made his blood run cold.
Doña Lorena, a wise librarian who used to be around in the afternoons, always prepared a pile of books she described as “books all young ladies should read and nobody wants them to read.” Doña Lorena said that the level of barbarism in a society is measured by the distance it tries to create between women and books.
David Martín taught me many things: how to create a sentence, how to think about language and all its devices as an orchestra in search of a musical score, how to analyze a text and understand how it is constructed and why . . . He taught me to read and write again, but this time I knew what I was doing, why, and what for.
I’ve asked him to destroy these pages when I die, and not to read them. Nobody must know what I have explained here. Nobody must know the truth, because I’ve learned that in this world truth only hurts, and God loves and helps those who lie.
even though we’re always being blamed for everything, without us this country would go to hell.
“Will you come back to Barcelona one day? This city is bewitched, you know. It gets under your skin and never lets go . . .”
“Forewarned is forearmed,”
just as narrators can only relate as far as their ability will permit, so too readers can only read as far as what is already written in their souls.
The puppy was showing a rebellious streak that didn’t please him. Welcome to fatherhood, I thought. You bring children into the world, and this is what you get.
an idiot is an animal who doesn’t know how to, or is unable to, change his mind,”
Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens.
“At school they say I’m a bit odd,” I once admitted to Fermín. “Well, that’s good news. We’ll start worrying the day they tell you you’re normal.” For better or for worse, nobody ever accused me of that.
Every day I became more convinced that good literature has little or nothing to do with trivial fancies such as “inspiration” or “having something to tell” and more with the engineering of language, with the architecture of narrative, with the painting of textures, with the timbres and colors of the staging, with the cinematography of words, and the music that can be produced by an orchestra of ideas.
“Never give up on a good pizza,”
“May I buy you a cup of coffee?” “I don’t drink coffee,” he said. “But you can buy me an ice cream.” My face must have betrayed my surprise. “When I was young, there were hardly any ice creams. I’ve discovered them late, like so many other things . . .”
“Let me show you something,” Carax offered. “How to write?” “That’s something you’ll have to learn on your own,” he replied. “Writing is a profession that can be learned, but nobody can teach it. The day you understand what that means will be the day you start learning to be a writer.”
“To write is to rewrite,” he kept reminding me. “One writes for oneself, and one rewrites for others.”
I found him at daybreak, on September 25, 1991,
Lindsay's birthday
