Un: when the children had petit aged, the plural of the children concretely aged, because they had a gender by the soles, and when “anem-hi totes” I saw them exclòs, they remained doubtful, and, according to them, if I dared I asked “can I come?” with a fil de veu. Today, because here I will use the paraula “escriptors” in the trist gènere neutre, which places escriptores i escriptors al mateix sac.
Two: writers are dead writers, not others. Ah, I said the aphorism: the dead don’t speak: they write. The alleged writers are not those who have arrived, only me, I look at them, the few who have arrived but those who are fifty or a hundred years old who are dead, or more aviat as if they were not those who are one hundred or one hundred and fifty years old more endavant and the most pogués veure like an old thing.
Three: among writers I naturally include musicians, songwriters, but also some architects and some painters.
Així, celebrate these clarifications, and I also clarify that I speak for myself, not by how they are sewn but by how they are visible, so I can begin.
The writers entertain, but from the first day I sensed that there was another path there: the adventures that excite, the intrigues that intrigue, the singers that enchant, the comics that entertain, yes, very much, but I have always felt the punxada, like the voodoo, which goes clavant agulles de cap al ninot del significat de la manca de sentit del viure, o del somiar, o com n’hi vulgueu dir.
I, of course, immediately saw that there were other singers, especially French, English and Catalans, who crossed walls without effort, as if they were ghosts, passing the walls of official morality and on the other hand anaven desgranant els noms and cognoms de la llibertat, with all their verbs and adverbs, and these ghosts are real, unlike the newspaper headlines of the system that monopolizes the radio (and TV).
Some authors have changed their lives and followed the paths of divine acràcia; d’Altres em renyen, poser amber raó
There have been writers who have always accompanied me, since I have had any readers, or have continued, since I began to see that that medieval Catalan who seemed difficult but fascinating, with a compromising and risky charm, was not difficult for buffoonery (after that I began to see that there were much easier buffoonish authors), but rather that the difficult one was him, the happy and unfortunate Ausiàs, who must be one of the most daring characters I have ever met, and with whom he was me, as always, and confronted him.
Another thing is writers who have had good, loving company for a while and right after. Or it seemed to me that I could sort out the sun of the light that I have clarified and will resolve all, and in the end, I could blame myself, res de res: at the end of a few days I didn’t remember what they had told me or if they had told me three. Or they tell me that I have to live another life but I have remained the same. While others have changed their lives and have taken the open roads of the divine acràcia: xecspirian bells, urgent communications, letters against the generalíssim, vivirts theaters… all the writers who ask me at this moment for goodness and truth.
But also, thank goodness, there was some writer who found me sorting nonsense, and with great shame, thrown back from the public library with my galtes swollen by uncontrollable desires for riure to great esclats.
Writers who love them can be amber. I steal the wing of madness from the clatell. And the ones that scare me and hook me. Those who abandoned them because they did not understand them, and those others who, not understanding them, returned and returned. There have been a couple of authors I’ve become obsessed with, over the years, maybe because I was young, definitely because I would understand, but if there was a cop, or if I think there were, I’ll stop worrying and never go back. Plus a following of writers who aren’t obsessed with it, but rather enthusiastic about it, I’m always happy to get to anything they’ve written.
And writers are both works that must be magical because it seems like they live because every time I look at them, every copy I make, they are different, and there is no way to put them at the cap calaixet: writers who no longer finish because they pass an ever new foundària or amplària, com la veritat (among these hi ah ha esmentat Ausiàs). Another very different thing is that the authors are deep and profound, but in the last foundària there is no cap peix.
Afterwards there is a kind of writers, who at the same time say the imminent ones, that all the words, in the whole book, seem on the verge of telling me the bulk, in the continuous belief that they are starting to understand everything, that then, on the page they see, the more they will finish explaining well, and once again a thousand panoramas will be clarified and the mystery of the mystery will be revealed, but the wait for the definitive clarification has not yet arrived.
I am the writer who opens the door of the other mons and I love to enter because I appreciate the good life that is fought among the brutalities that now circulate: hardworking writers who are malgratified and explain terrible dramas with more optimism, as long as they talk about the small town on the coastal coast of the meu, seeing what it was like in a different era, as if they were m’endinsen in the cities of Llunyan that are apparently no longer connected, after four days or four centuries. Thanks to them I trepitjat vidres trencats in a two-cent German race, I entered six-cent Byzantine rooms, the next day I was shipwrecked in Aigües in the Caribbean…
And the authors who invent invented things do not cease to be real, but they, who know, have known the extremity of the reach of the imagination and have been able to describe and enter fer-m’hi. I am the mystics or unclassifiable poets who recommend the tremors of seva to the soul.
Hi ha els bons, els boníssims, els mas que boníssims i, per damunt de tots, the dear kitchen and veïna Marina Tsvetaieva, the one who made the angel fall, or followed the devil: you will decide, poet and not dear woman.
