Ich Will Chest Sitting

Vargas Llosa: Twenty years after the pica pica


Last week I finished reading Celtic's dream. Last night I saw on YouTube a tremendous documentary on the life of Mario Vargas Llosa . Both experiences led me to remember the moments of my life in which his work entertained me, or at least lightened the heaviness of the road.

The year 1990 was key to understanding this Peruvian. There, in two stages, a few steps from each other, Mario Vargas Llosa and Alberto Fujimori were the main protagonists of the debate before the runoff election. Vargas Llosa gave them an example to nations such as Switzerland Peruvians, whose wealth was not the amount of territory but in the ability production of its nationals. He talked about free enterprise and private initiative. Fujimori, for his part, Vargas Llosa lambasted for wanting to kill the Peruvian with a genuine price. The accused also, and at that time surpassed fiction to reality, having tried drugs in his youth. The combative style of Fujimori and his promises of a progressive change and not traumatic, with support from Japan prevailed against the Peruvians, who distrusted the fantastic images offered Vargas Llosa, Peru similar to a promised paradise, free from violence, with growth and prosperity based on private investment.

not yet old enough to vote. However, my convictions were on the side of this writer, now famous, he had decided to surround himself with intellectuals and economists to promote change based on private initiative and free enterprise. Mario Vargas Llosa was overwhelmed at the polls. Over 60% of the country, decided that we needed was a progressive change and turned his back to the platform of the Democratic Front, led by Vargas Llosa, but shaped also by two traditional parties representing the most sour Peruvian oligarchy . While choosing the time I got the sadness of a cataclysm that would impede the progress of the country, it is sufficient to know the verdict of the polls to a pack of animals up like other reformers in the Democratic Front, is take out the masks and show their fangs.

I had acquired, almost childlike, at the exit of a supermarket, a paper version cheap and simple cover City and dogs. That book was a tremendous revelation, a story could be full of bad words and being both a soap opera, however, between childish games of my youth, I had moved almost entirely of Vargas Llosa ( War doomsday , I read in one sitting in the village of my grandparents, I left the aftertaste of a masterpiece to which the author did not take the job summarize).

In the months before the 1990 elections, I wanted to read it. Take time away from the hours of General Studies program, I read The Green House, Conversation in the Cathedral , Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter , The Storyteller , Mayta History, Death in the Andes and Who Killed Palomino Molero? in loans from three days of the university library. Readings were fast, immature, works that deserved time, pencil and paper.

not read again until late 2000 when I got my hands Fish in water that chased book while doing my first steps as a European backpacking, first in a copy provided in Lima, then in La Coruna, in a reading room in Porto, in San Sebastian and, as a fellow traveler desolate afternoons poor in a small public library near Picadilly Circus in London. I finished it months later, having accepted my immigrant status in the fabulous halls of the New York Public Library in Manhattan. This book is a fascinating essay about a man committed body and soul with the fate of their country.

met him in New York when he received a PEN award in 2001, among several other writers. Chatted some words with me, and seemed interested in my first experience living in New York, which compared with its years of rookie writer in Paris. In a lecture at the newly opened local Instituto Cervantes, kindly answered my questions about Faulkner. The year 2009 I attended the tribute he gave in Guadalajara, Mexico, and I could finally see the traveling exhibition on his life in a magnificent colonial mansion in the center of the city.

I finished reading Celtic's dream, with the same happiness with which I finished before the Feast of the Goat , The antics of the bad girl and in Paradise other corner. However, these years, my most valuable experience with his books have been his literary essays. The truth of the lies is a tremendous source of information for the good reader of English literature. There Vargas Llosa has met his essays on authors like Joseph Conrad, James Joyce, Virginia Woolf, Francis Fitzgerald, William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, John Steinbeck, Graham Greene and Saul Bellow. This book is the indispensable companion of many of my readings.

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sometimes less than they should, come to my mind a frightening image. In it I have fifteen years and I am alone and not knowing what to do in the hospital room where my grandfather died. It smells damp, sweaty sheets, to remedies. A very sad medialuz dirt covers the walls, floor and all the sick. The doctor takes from some stretchers distributed in any way in the narrowness of the room until the dying body "You'd better take him home, this is no way out," he says.

grandfather some years had stalled in his room. He had been so talkative, juerguero and womanizer, almost no talk and refused to move him out of bed and the room where she spent her days foul prone. "He will have done many bad things my grandfather, I thought, but nobody deserves to die that way." The grandfather I stared from his bed. Her eyes were sad. Rolled down his cheek a tear and my departure from the hospital was grim.

The next stage of history would come days later, at dawn, when a call from my uncle Richard, the priest told us we had to go to the hospital morgue to dress the body. Cool and green in the dark room, I looked at many times he had embraced me as a child. I shook my head lowered, among other packages covered with a tarpaulin, some small, all lying on stretchers so cold as his.

For some reason, perhaps the anguish of your pages, perhaps only the time Advanced I read them, these images have returned vivid to visit some scenes from this wonderful novel by Bellow: Humboldt's Gift

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"EMPATHY? NO THANKS

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