Silence is almost everything I've done in recent weeks. Twitter wanted to leave for two weeks, but I could not. I went one Thursday morning. Returned, more than a week later, a Sunday morning. I have not much to do lately, my life is heaven in appearance: read, read a lot, not only important things, dead authors, storytellers and nineteenth-century novels written in English, but gossip sites and discussion forums on the Master Edward Cullen. I also write, not much on the blog, but the stories of my Fonca project. After the first encounter with the moral got a little downtrodden, the blank I was truly terrifying, everything I wrote I thought was a sovereign shit, and despite having the frames properly conceived and defined, I struggled in the form: everything was stiff, stiff, lifeless, like zombies saying 'oh, look at us, we are a story, we have life "and when trying to eat your brain collapse on its rickety legs.
But then I went back to writing things I knew I would not end up in my anthology, but things in general and I suddenly got momentum and kept writing. So I'm at it.
But I am also unemployed, so my life is a routine. I keep in Campeche depression most of the time, thinking of my misery, licking the wounds, thinking of things that make no sense: I can analyze all night I read an interview in the cosmopolitan on the toilet and it all makes sense and is so fleeting and so important, but yet so ... not. Know what I mean (or not sure you have your important little lives, get up early in the morning to go to work, go for their coffee at Starbucks on the corner, update their social networks when the boss sees them, are to eat tasteless stews to canteen, then watch a movie in the cinema, are revealed with YouTube videos and start all over again, sure yes).
I think about Russia. I have a weakness (I hate the expression have a weakness ) storm for souls, and the Russians are champions in this sport. Many years ago my sister went to Russia, brought us back shirts with funny symbols, some nesting dolls and a pair of these rugs hats with earflaps. I asked around, how was the food, the sunrises Russians, the Russians who walk through the dirty snow on the streets of St. Petersburg, but then I forgot.
recently (it is an affront to speak) just discovered Gogol. It was one of those important moments in the lives of people, as I decided what career to study, what music hear, what books to read and what person be . I realized, especially reading other leading Russian whose name I will not mention for not being the kind of person pretentious crap that puts many classical authors in their posts to look smart, that the Russians are simpatiquísimos have a very keen sense of humor, very exceptional bastard then. I died laughing with this piece of The Capote, one of the long stories of his novels St. Petersburg * :
[The protagonist, a very pathetic and hungry for months to buy a new coat, check a very important character after he was assaulted a guard in front of any given night, and very important person does not receive because you are too busy chatting with an old friend]
time not lacking: his conversation with the friend had arrived a long time a stage when, exhausted all the topics were interspersed in it very long pauses, giving light to each other pats on the knees and saying, "Yes, Ivan Abramovich!" "Exactly, Stepan Varlámovich!"
Now I have the need to go to Russia. Walk on the icy streets, the nation whipped by an extreme climate, cold, raw, stunning architecture, and then lost in a village in the middle of a snowstorm.
I was also reading an interview with Boris Pasternak, author of Doctor Zhivago . The interviewer, Olga Carlisle, granddaughter of an important Russian writer Leonid Andreyev, is in Moscow for about a month and a visit to Pasternak in his house as a villa on the outskirts of the city. Once, when the time comes after lunch, we offer venison and vodka. Everything is so typically Russian and so, despite having her own Russian ancestry, can not but surrender to the cold and exotic non-Western. The talk, in general, I found it very moving.
Now together with Finland, Russia is another destination I want and I know. Not now. Later.
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netbook this week buy the Roland. We have $ 3,800 on Monday 17 May. Everything went better than I expected, and that was really motivating. Thanks again.
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blogs I like to find honest, but not the blog itself, but the person who writes. Although I read a long time, I am always surprised, and I am moved. I said: I like tormented personalities. Charlotte so, is so contradictory and so real that I can not update my blog with the recommendation that, seriously, read it. It is a little gem.
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And so now. Cheers
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* Here you can read another translation, different from the piece I submitted, which also comes in a book that anyone can buy at low prices on Gandhi. **
Here you can read the interview, book with interviews of the Paris Review, The office of the writer.
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