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Tell me who read and tell you what pose you

this blog I've posted two years and many months and throughout the time I received comments of all calibers, some of them unprintable, although the authors believe me, I keep them with love and respect. I have said all, I have called around and reminded me everything. I read phrases fierce, intelligent, quick, warm. I have stumbled upon liver trials, suffering, flattering. This was to be a post dedicated to them, because they are an important part of this page.

So my first idea was blown twenty-eight months that I have been writing, entering each of the post and read every one of the comments to select those who can, somehow, to summarize the history of this blog. But my laziness wins, what can I say. It's hard work and I have no secretary. What I've noticed is that the first two years turned to the letter writing for each month, typical, and were gibberish and nonsensical texts which are the majority. How far can write interesting things, transcendental, revelatory. Nothing!

pasotas Rather there are texts, surface, pure fuck. However, I also tried to write one or two who were slightly thought, thought, understood. Perhaps a sketch, a shy touch of novice painter, which of course have no depth. I do not know if bored, or Seriot, or simply because they were poorly written. But those who talk about bad girls, Peruvians recognized leagues on hi5, the music of the 90, the importance of size, etc.., Those other than were read, and above all they said. Of course, this is not the blog of Cisneros [1] does not appear in an important newspaper. But there are those here, were the most discussed.

Now, if we analyze what written here, we can reach conclusions that fall to mid-mature and rotting of the tree twisted: I do not write serious texts and what is more, or worse, I do not write them out well.

And while we're on stage vox populi going to rebel my biggest secret: I read texts either deep or serious. Never read Proust, and I am convinced that the thousands of volumes of In Search of Lost Time continue for me as lost as before. I was the first-sleeping one night in the same street concert tickets to buy Madonna's debut Jaime Bayly and read it in one day, happy, and although that is a really bad book. It was the illness, what they want to say. I still

: The only time I opened the first page of Ulysses, Joyce, I fell asleep, and I never make the same mistake. There remains closed. I enjoyed as I read Cossack Life of Martin Romana exaggerated, Bryce. And my high in life is to follow his steps: copy, and what is best: make money for copying.

repeat: I hate my pseudo public relations work in Spain and now I realize that I hated my work in Lima as a writer and editor for newspapers in the doldrums. And I must admit that the only job he really liked me in this life has been a teacher, because it was the only time I've won things that money and send others to read and I understand.

cast the first stone Let he who does not once said at a meeting of well, about a cup of coffee and cigarettes, chat rooms, which only reported in Trade and denies the pamphlets, which Vargas Llosa reads and mocks the writer Bayly, who sees only black and white movies and hates Panorama [2].

If I remember a couple of threads going about my favorite and totally arbitrary list of books, stories and movies of all time. There are the comments from more than one who claims to have read and seen nearly complete lists when I'm sure you have browsed more than one or two. Not that I do, and the rest, if I said that I have read recently and pretty bad, but because there is so much choice in the marketplace, so little time in life to embrace all that it would be much chance. What happens is that we were right.

It's like when in full session with the same people you're either telling the story of the book you just read but do not remember the author's name and then you go to the scholar of the group to ask about the name in question because it never fails, and pretend to think and toss in a hundred faces and bid as if the memory operate when you squeeze it and finally said, "I do not remember" when the rest who knows the author and the book does not have the slightest fucking idea, just a world that tells us to accept that we do not know what we know and it is better to say I do not remember.

Since long ago left that pose. When someone asks me for an author who does not know or dogfight, lift the shoulders and admit my ignorance, the same with books, records and information in general. And I'm on my own, reading what I like and write what I please. And above all, waiting for the comments on each post, the only or few out there who appear to understand a bit more to people who read me and know what they also have to say, because that's what this blog and write stories here. ----------------------------------------------

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[1] The Bride Seeking is my greatest envy. I want to be like him, you pretty well commented million and will publish the post in best-selling books and signing autographs. [2] And not to mention the pose of the many journalists who appear in photographs in the same style of César Vallejo, who by the way I read a thousand times without coming to understand ", when signing an item.

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's ahead !

I remember the first time I got on a bus alone. He was then nine years old and my father had taken me to school on a Saturday morning to meet Diosito in Catechesis of the First Communion. I stopped at the door with my pad of recycled paper in hand and my book with prayers, holy images and a profound lesson of the Body of Christ, amen. I said today I come home alone, I reached a few coins and I repeat once again how to get on the green bus that went to the Esperanza Trujillo.

In Catechesis not remember anything, thank goodness. But I will never forget the return trip. First because I was wrong to micro, rather, I took the wrong side and that was the opposite. I was just so for a single ticket - otherwise I'd spent a lot of bread with steak and onions and a chicha morada watery-so I said what goes down must go up, without regard to the reach the final idle drops to around the world and if you want to get on again you have to pay again. So let me Justito the side where the devil lost his poncho is in the middle of a clearing and surrounded by mangy dogs. What did I do? Walking. I made the same way the micro ... back. And I got back to school, then I realized that I still lacked all the way home. O followed him and arrived on Sunday night and I was up to the mike again, this time steering home sweet home. I did the second. It was the first time I went piola unpaid ticket. When I reached my stop I told the collector "and I paid you for a while, choche" and put my child's face just out to talk to Papa Lindo in Catechesis can have more devout. Thousand hours later I was finally home.

were other times. One to nine years could be lost at the end of the world, walking among mangy dogs, get on the mic alone retrace I walked and laughed years later of what bastards we were innocent. I never stole, nor frightened, nor kidnapped me, and I saw orange skies as a prelude to apocalypse. He was a boy walking down unfamiliar streets, learning a bit more life.

As an adult I've seen my cousins \u200b\u200bfor the first time to ride a bus or a van with many more years then, however, was a risk, a danger was gamble, and my aunts were accelerated presses the thought that went the poor, fourteen, fifteen years, all alone in the streets, as if the world had changed a few years, worse, infected.

Lima When I left I realized I was leaving behind this new breed of cautious people, with eyes at the back, walking down the street cautiously, as if walking from one side to another outside an obligation rather than a walk. And I realize that the world is following. If Americans are doing the light off in droves to buy water, batteries, blankets, they think of massive attacks, fleeing in terror. I talk to many people here in Spain and I have now that the crisis is unique, daunting, and as compared to the "banana republic"-with forgiveness, Jesus, I always say, " nobody can stop talking about rising oil prices, the mortgage bubble. People are crying blood against a background believe mitigates bleak and with beers on the terraces and collapses on the road for vacation in August. I talk to my parents who live in New York and tell me they are pulling their hair, that people do not know what to do, than gasoline, that food, that if Obama wins ... I talk to people in Peru despite the economic boom and the figures of envy, people can not remain silent, they see a crisis, the darkest night. Everywhere blame Bush, war, oil, Chavez. What's happening?

few weeks ago I read an article in El País Semanal on a grim new trend, catastrophic, reflecting in his absolute fog, the very end of the world only worse, because humans survive to see it, or something. Article played all eyes were on U.S. President that the new Hollywood movies, video games and new bookstore best seller had no mercy with Bush and the world in a nutshell it is going to hell.

Of the countless examples of the newspaper article because I just remember two of Claritas view. The first is I am Legend, Will Smith movie with the talking head of a lone survivor of a deadly virus has to face human beings turned into night. The second is the record book records in the U.S., The Road, by Cormac McCarthy. The story of a father and son who roam U.S. highways after the world became ashes and soot. The fiction of both stories is scary, extremist, and an excellent example-fully hyperbolic, "but at last example of what, as individuals, we can produce [1].

Le film is bad, the novel is great. But I doubt that both have been gestated and have come to light with Bush in their sights. It would be a disappointment and a shame to do so thinking of someone like him. There are more interesting things in the world. And as these other examples of the article. Nevertheless remains concerned that some call new post-apocalyptic vision. Is it what we want, what we want?

I prefer to keep seeing the world as it always was, a cyclical process, with El Niño events in five or ten years, with earthquakes every hundred, with good and bad-balance-blessed, and people coming and going, which makes and breaks to give rise to the following. I follow up on buses and taxis and subways in cities where I now have to live and I always remember with nostalgia when a combi Lima upload a child alone and pay your ticket and sit in silence, and playing Tetris, and forget that you have to give the seat to the elderly, and runs his own all the way straight home. And loose a smile. Because now be more difficult. Cities are not the same, no games, nor the world, but it remains a place to live, it is worth it's up to us. ----------------------------------------------

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[1] In plans is to get the book of American journalist Alan Weisman, The World Without Us, a crushing test on what will be this planet from the day after the man disappeared from Earth.

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The power of a book

was the month of April this year and I had a forced trip to Barcelona to take care of some paperwork. One morning in the Peruvian Consulate and Asian shops around to buy food at my wife species, and from there to enjoy the city, around a Peruvian restaurant to eat a ceviche that meets achiever hidden passions and I was time-it was most bookstores and go-to me from past issues like a woman scorned shopping with the husband's credit card.

A few blocks from where I live, here in Vigo, is a another library to which I will from time to time to dig some curiosity, and sometimes even kill the worm by me in some interesting publication. Not bad. But to get to Barcelona is like entering a literary paradise. There are all the books, everyone. And how happy you start to explore the four floors of the Plaza Catalunya FNAC [1] or slip through the streets of the Gothic Quarter in search of old booksellers and unexpected issues hidden in old shelves. A pleasure like few I try to make the most, like weirdo, in a city always willing and open to everyone.

By chance at that time appeared on the market the last book by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, Game Angel [2], the second part of the trilogy of the Cemetery of Forgotten Books. I remembered that phrase a few years ago when someone told me vaguely that time the book was becoming a bestseller. It was Shadow of the Wind [3], the book that became famous millionaire while the English writer who has lived long ago in California.

Then that afternoon I bought the first of two books, among other acquisitions, because logic dictates it and because I try to be very logical about everything, and that night I started reading the synopsis excited back cover on old booksellers of the Barcelona-forties, the story of a boy who visits the Cemetery of Forgotten Books of the hand of his father and get a book that opens up a mystery that covers the city and confusing literature on the same atmosphere of night and fog. The next day I rushed downtown to walk the streets where they walked their characters and recognizing stops, subway stations that were depicted in their pages. And I discovered that there is even a tour of the streets where the story of the book and was not the only one who was there after reading it. I was shocked to discover a literary Barcelona while character. Especially because the years pass and still the same. I thought a little in Lima, which appears in a thousand stories, and I thought that the best that was certainly discussed and portrayed Julio Ramón Ribeyro. In order that the book took me so my stay in Catalonia, three days. And I went to the pleasure of reading an author for me hitherto unknown, who passionately loved literature.

And when I reached the last page, I understood why this story had sold over eight million copies and been translated into almost every language [4]. He was convinced that Ruiz Zafon life had stopped writing the novel and these figures and become a best seller was the wonderful consequences of a domino effect. The success of his novel had nothing to do with the Da Vincis Code or The Tenth Symphony or secret dinners that can easily appeal to morbid group. This time the plot had its own universe and its author had given birth to her own history from a simple idea, in the fantastic setting Cemetery of Forgotten Books.

So just got to Vigo, as I handed my wife the teriyaki sauce and sesame oil and seaweed and other spices that came in the suitcase, I was commenting on the good book I had bought and the same day was a couple of blocks from home buying the second installment, which had been heralded as the most anticipated of the year, then the Cemetery of Forgotten Books. And closing doors and windows and I left the world to get into reading. And the result was a big disappointment.

I say

about movies that sequels are never better than the first. With honorable exceptions such as The Godfather II, for example. The last of Ruiz Zafon is far from what he accomplished with Shadow of the Wind, but how they sold and how people queuing in mind the book fair has the world to get an autograph from the author. I've seen him grab the attention of the media, the organizers of the ordinary people, those who know and those who do not. Is that Ruiz Zafon must thank the rest of his life to the first delivery that this second band everywhere and at all times. Because if nothing existed would be the same.

No But what causes the most impression is that so far no comment on this new book, which nobody has come to say that the issue was left with large and that history does not deserve so many pages and so much effort. Nobody said a peep, or at least I still have not heard. And Ruiz Zafon has achieved what few writers in this world, no matter what anyone says, no matter what he writes, his name associated with the Cemetery of Forgotten Books is larger than any commentary, is stronger than any other publication, has its own life, the Harry Potter effect, and no one can stop him, nor himself. And therefore will continue to sell millions of copies and generating queues in search of autographs. In good time for him and for literature.

For now I am left in despair, waiting for the third and last part. Let's see how many years from now. You have to hold it. ----------------------------------------------

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[1] A store the size of San Isidro Saga but dedicated exclusively to books, music and games. Just as we hear! It takes more than a day if one wants to visit all, so it is advisable to go with clear ideas and pocket pressed not to die trying. [2] Ruiz Zafon, Carlos, The Angel's Game, Editorial Planeta, 1st Edition, April 2008. [3] Ruiz Zafon, Carlos, The Shadow of the Wind, Editorial Planeta, 1st Edition, April 2002, 62 th Edition, December 2007. Yes, in about five years had more than 60 editions of the same company, as if the only book published. [4] And to think that Lima was announced with great fanfare the publication of a novel by Bryce Echenique, with 5,000 copies of the same company, and that the same managers said they were all at risk!