My dear friend, Vicente Luis Mora confessed in the magazine's No. 323 Chimera and before on his blog that he was the sole and exclusive author of all texts including at number 322, the magazine . an absolute falsification of a number that was devoted to literary forgery, for sake of completeness. A formidable deception perpetrated, he said, to expose the mechanisms of legitimation, reception, perhaps canonization etc., operating in the literature. Apart from the undoubted merit craft and inventive, with added difficulties in terms of the assumption of voices and modes of regular contributors to the publication, I thought, rather than a bombastic exercise in debunking, etc.., Etc., A great joke which I laughed until my own credulity, and which must have laughed a lot more to the author, incidentally. So far so good, in any case, well, I would say. But another thing is because I think I am leaning that high corrective intended (and that we deserve so much) had set its corrosive effect much better if he had not discovered the deception the next day as they say, if the impostor had left its mark only in that list of contributors at the end of the magazine, in which everything is false too, of course. Everything but his name and his confession to the crime. That it should have been left there alone, I think, to be developed and that great act fake with all the corrosive power that has no doubt. I insist it all that necessary. I do not know, I have the feeling that the discovery of the fraud as soon be defused a powerful virus. Although some of the staff have gone missing and the search engine stop Dialnet academic. Even so, I dunno.
Meanwhile, my dear David Roas friend coordinated the month of September the number 765 of the magazine dedicated to Insula fantasy literature held in Spain over the last thirty years. Here there are all partners real cases, consistent as you or me. I know Juan Jacinto Muñoz Rengel, David, Ana Casas ... No cheating. No catch. But they all deal with something that, paradoxically, how fantastic, beyond our notion of reality, something that "can not be named or described in detail, as they say out there, something that strictly speaking, then, there . And they all strive to give touchingly a physical, tangible, true to what you can not own it in any way. I do not see the fantastic, I can not see, but I see them all clearly. So, I think, Chimera something fantastic, something that does not exist, show me a reality that could abscribirme without conflict, however Insula observable reality persuades me to a certain conflict invention.
Meanwhile, my dear friend Hugo Abbati had told me and the concern he felt in a remote aldeúcha of Benin this summer when a bunch of black kids as the blight was passed from hand to hand G7 digital camera art , previously he had taken without permission, he said, and began to shoot left and right. A reality now talking about maybe another reality that was expressed in the picture accompanying this post, ie that no longer exists.
meantime, I write this without really knowing if it is false or not, if I am myself an invention if that really me writing, or is another maybe my name and my surroundings, as claimed by the other Borges Borges and if my identity will be diluted in the text or will be strengthened, and physical, through the name I now say, mine, Francisco Javier Torres. Who I am. Or not. Finally, do not know where to wear.
The Nobel Vargas What 
Here's mine, one among the multitude of voices have been raised to celebrate the Nobel Prize for Vargas. Of course I also without doubt one of the myriad of voices that have hailed the successful, this time, Vargas concession award many times controversial. Without linguistic homeland. Without ideological reservations. Plain and simple because I think a novelist exceptional. Say
not long ago that I could consider myself only a casual reader of novels. Read novels, of course, and not a few have fallen by now, but I kept with me almost always, and even some still do, not believe the terrible trial of this kind had Cioran. For cioraniano then (and now, alas), I could not, could not consider it my favorite genre, which served me well perhaps to hide my laziness, need not deceive ourselves. I no longer think alike. Despite not forget that negative opinion influenced me so much, I acknowledge that I have been very happy reading novels, much more than we ever could have imagined at the time of my unblemished denial. One of those moments of almost inexpressible joy it gave me exactly Vargas. It happened when I read about four summers ago The Feast of the Goat. I read that novel absolutely sucked into their amazing fabulous energy and hypnotic. Also linguistic. Literature. From this reading I think I could consider myself completely refurbished for the novel because I support today with relish (and keeping intact my admiration for Cioran, huh?, Mind you). So I have to be grateful to Vargas. And that is why I am so glad that you have received the premiazos premiazo of which, as is often said (and no doubt on this occasion), adorns the giver more than the recipient.
Indeed, evil, grief Vargas / García is on tables. At what level will deliver the next assault?
Indeed, after reading this summer The Feast of the Goat , I loaded Libra Don De Lillo. Another performance. But that's what I already have another day ...
did you say, Holden? José Hernández 
What did you say, Holden?, Said the black.
That in your country you did not have a habit of shaking hands.
before that. What did you say before that? Holden
The judge smiled. It is not necessary, he said, the parties hereto are in possession of the facts concerning this case, because ultimately their actions conform to the story with or without their consent. But it fits with the idea of \u200b\u200bthe principle that the facts just question (to the extent that they can force it) are depositary third person acting as witness. Sergeant Aguilar is just that person and any doubt about the position he holds is only a secondary consideration compared to the damage to the broader agenda protocol imposed by the inexorable fate of all. Words are objects. In the words he holds can not be stripped. The power of words beyond the ignorance that he has of his meaning.
The black sweating ...
(Judge Holden is head of the panda slayer of Blood Meridian-Cormac McCarthy , 1985 -. Thus began his splendid novel interventions, with a devastating speech on the words that troubled him loose with a black as ignorant as him-hence the irony. It's amazing the change of linguistic register now conducting McCarthy with this character. Hits you, you stunning, but not seduced by Having A conceptual linkage with that absolutely fatuous. Then comes what is coming. It is brilliant, no doubt.)
met José Hernández's work more than twelve years ago when we illustrate with several of his creations, one of the numbers of Bazar. Literature review , the magazine that I then ran with Emilio Chavarria. I was fascinated from then those grotesque images of humans, those misshapen creatures of the animal kingdom, some architecture impossible ... the earthy, haunting and very personal color, shadows and veils of all those pictures visionaries who so generously allowed us to play. Now I've had the opportunity to meet him in person. He invited me a few days ago to his home in Villanueva del Rosario, an oil mill of the eighteenth century in which he lives six months a year for thirty. That also works all day from early morning until late at night almost without interruption, he said, except for food and daily walks among olive trees at sunset. Very slowly. Making numerous sketches of projects then move onto the canvas. Watching and watching the layers of color and allowing them to dry days and days to follow, to get those unusual range of blacks and browns that have earned him much fame. During the tour we did for the study, explained to Carmen and me pictures with astonishing ease, two or three large format that was there and had been ongoing for four years! I approached reverential look at them. He, however, hands, passing the palm of your hand through the fabric, caressing with the same astonishing ease and disaffection with which he spoke of them. "You see, already dry, he said, will continue tomorrow. It's an order. Maybe next year it delivered." I nodded dumbfounded. Another Antonio López, Víctor Erice another, but the dream and the overflowing imagination this time, I thought. I felt privileged indeed there may admire the author with those few pictures prodigious. Others had small form factor and I did not resist to ask, naively, for its price. I do not know, I said mischievously, that talk it over with my daughter who is who handles calculate their value.
After the study tour, we sat in the courtyard of the mill along with other friends who had arrived in the meantime. There we ate a wonderful lamb Tallinn and we drank several bottles of wine and some more of Johnny Walker. We parted at dawn with the tongue stuck almost to the palate. Unforgettable encounter, it goes without saying.
Jose Hernandez, also a painter of difficult approval, with a world of their own and absolutely unique technique (not me, they say the best specialists: Serraller Calvo, Juan Manuel Bonet, Martinez Sarrión, Corredor Matheos) also passes through be one of the best English writers in the period and a book illustrator of the first order (are excellent, but great, editions for bibliophiles of Kafka's Metamorphosis, or Borges' The Aleph, or The tunnel Sabato, illustrated by him). It has also signed some memorable sets for plays by Francisco Nieva, above all, and many posters for movies. The Bunuel, among others, so close, on the other hand, the hallucinatory world of José Hernández (or vice versa). Here I give you the link to your website, will not exaggerating.
Jose Hernandez, also is married to Sharon Smith, whom I knew before him at a gathering dedicated to Muñoz Rojas in which we intervened and was included later in the documentary about the bard antequerano timeless poet. Our co-host and author of several collections of short stories delicious. One of them will soon see the light in our editorial. I'll give news.
My dear friend, Vicente Luis Mora confessed in the magazine's No. 323 Chimera and before on his blog that he was the sole and exclusive author of all texts including at number 322, the magazine . an absolute falsification of a number that was devoted to literary forgery, for sake of completeness. A formidable deception perpetrated, he said, to expose the mechanisms of legitimation, reception, perhaps canonization etc., operating in the literature. Apart from the undoubted merit craft and inventive, with added difficulties in terms of the assumption of voices and modes of regular contributors to the publication, I thought, rather than a bombastic exercise in debunking, etc.., Etc., A great joke which I laughed until my own credulity, and which must have laughed a lot more to the author, incidentally. So far so good, in any case, well, I would say. But another thing is because I think I am leaning that high corrective intended (and that we deserve so much) had set its corrosive effect much better if he had not discovered the deception the next day as they say, if the impostor had left its mark only in that list of contributors at the end of the magazine, in which everything is false too, of course. Everything but his name and his confession to the crime. That it should have been left there alone, I think, to be developed and that great act fake with all the corrosive power that has no doubt. I insist it all that necessary. I do not know, I have the feeling that the discovery of the fraud as soon be defused a powerful virus. Although some of the staff have gone missing and the search engine stop Dialnet academic. Even so, I dunno. 
