I think about those writers today. Not about their characters, but as the voice-over, the narrator recounting the inexorable succession of events. I wonder if the narrator suffers more anguish than the characters. If he knows what is going to happen, if he feels he cannot feel as his characters do. If deep down he envies their suffering, not just their sporadic joys. If he envies being the protagonist and not the narrator, the spectator who tells the story. Or maybe he is the spectator who deci

Sometimes we fantasise how it would feel to live in a world full of elves, trolls, fairies, giants, hobbits, unicorns and, of course, dragons. We see ourselves drifting towards that realm of fantasy, which we idealise as a much better world than our own. More suited for our spirit. But if we had been living in such a world, if dragons and elves and fairies were customary, accepted as our daily reality, wouldn’t it come a day when we would feel exactly as we feel about our world? How long would

(Spoiler alert: do not continue reading if you plan to read the book) In my youth, after reading Hermann Hesse’s Steppenwolf, Demian and Siddhartha, which I loved, I enthusiastically started The Glass Bead Game. I found it incredibly slow and boring. I made two new attempts later, still boring. After re-reading those three books again recently plus his Strange news from another star, I decided to give it another try. I was fascinated by its beautiful serenity, its depth, its contained passion.

Prompted by this excellent post by Andrew (thank you!), I read Virginia Woolf’s The Waves. The book navigates a succession of inner thoughts, feelings, states of mind in six disparate characters described with empathic but also stark accuracy, sometimes using mental images that may seem unrelated to a situation, but which provide such a precise description of it. Virginia Woolf has a way with words, but also a merciless eye that sees all the dark corners inside. The Waves follows these charact

(continues from here; begins here) To come here in the mornings to sit before this Rothkian void. A filled void that contains everything. The narrator wonders, do I care? But there is nothing to care about or not, there is nothing to feel. That seems to belong to another reality. Here is everything that is. He cannot say if it is infinitely light or dark, those concepts are only defined by opposition to one another. They no longer make sense. Sitting before the immensity, the narrator needs no

I am looking at old pictures. I see the child I was. I look at him in the picture and I perceive him as a separate person, i.e., not me. However, when I evoke the emotions and sensations that I felt back then, stored on one of those shelves in my memory, it feels immediate, as if that person were here now, inundating me. The person in the picture is not me, but the feelings and sensations… there is a ‘me’ in there, a sort of presence. Not a spirit or soul or schizophrenic companion, but a consci

There is always something that is not right. If only it was a little bit cooler, if only that plastic bag was not spoiling this perfect view, if only that noisy chatterbox would shut up in the table behind us. We have an eye for imperfections, a capacity to identify that which is amiss and precludes us from enjoying an otherwise perfect moment. I wonder, though, if it were indeed a bit cooler, with no plastic bag or noisy chatterbox, would we not find some other mismatch that would spoil our per

Ask yourself, “What is the real motive behind everything I do, think, want?” You’ll see that your real desire is to be desireless. Your real desire is peace. Jean Klein, The Ease of Being The main aim of each want is to end the want itself. To be desireless, as Klein says. Once we get rid of a want, another one appears. We fulfil it, it makes us happy for a while. Another want appears. The wheel of wants never ends. A wheel with holes we constantly need to fill. We can watch it, but we cannot s

I feel I sometimes don’t write because I lack enough words, because my vocabulary is so short, so restricted. If I had more words in my medieval chest, what else would I say with them? Would I be able to describe the beauty that I see, that I hear, that I smell? Would I be…

Back in Easter I attended a conference in which the speaker cited some quotes from books his father had wrote. The ideas resonated with me, so I looked for the books. After a few days, I realised they were nowhere to be found. All that effort, those ideas, those thoughts… erased by a soft wave…

Back in Easter I attended a conference in which the speaker cited some quotes from books his father had wrote. The ideas resonated with me, so I looked for the books. After a few days, I realised they were nowhere to be found. All that effort, those ideas, those thoughts… erased by a soft wave…

Una melodía instrumental que captura la esencia del soul, transmitiendo emociones profundas a través de su ritmo suave y armonioso. Ideal para momentos de relajación y reflexión, esta pieza te envuelve con su calidez y elegancia musical.

Ole de Frida Kahlo

I feel I sometimes don’t write because I lack enough words, because my vocabulary is so short, so restricted. If I had more words in my medieval chest, what else would I say with them? Would I be able to describe the beauty that I see, that I hear, that I smell? Would I be…

Versión libre y adaptada al castellano del tema de Rolling Stones "Harlem shuffle"

(Continues from here) The narrator sits and stares into the darkness. The characters have stopped moving. He picks them up and looks at them as he holds them in his hand. He puts them back on the floor. They looked so alive… more alive than he himself. And yet, here he is. Alive. Sitting. He…

And when I will get there, will I still be me, always me? Carrying the cross, the burden, the occasional light… is it me? If we always carry ourselves with us, why do we like travelling so much? We like the change of scenery, the change of reality. Even if the inner reality remains the…

Lyric tonto amor

letra amor de verano