MB Agencia Literaria

(Scarcely Sentient): I can’t explain what these books are. Diaries, novels? Written like diaries and published as novels, they have ended up being a no-man’s land. Here, life, the sum of visible and invisible reality, looks for meaning.  There will be readers who read them as diaries and those who read them as novels. What does it matter? I find it easy to write them and hard to edit them, and when I edit them I always worry that I’ve ruined what spontaneity and genuine feeling they had, if they had these things. That this book appears now with fewer pages, and late compared to previous volumes, has to do with this painful task of editing and reducing and with the doubts I’ve had over the last year. In a house of cards the problems start to appear as it grows, and every work of the imagination, although it originates in reality, or maybe precisely because of this, will always have something fragile and unstable about it. I don’t think I’ve lost hope that the note struck sounds, for once, like that which one thinks one hears within oneself, pure and original, but I can’t guarantee such a thing will happen exactly, as it says in the inscription of another perfect sundial, Hic et nunc, here and now. Andrés Trapiello.