Don't You Dare To Think Out Loud!

While the kids shrieked in the streets like they owned the place because sweet-toothed Halloween had arrived, so as not to hear them, I did a movie double feature about writers of fiction without a name, without success, without readers to worship them. They are known, of course, in the singular as a ghostwriter. Like the Other Woman, the mistress, they are never invited to a wedding and even less to the launch of the book they have written.

It’s a movie genre about losers, nothing like the well-worn narrative arc of established writers. Much like hi...

October sunrises arrive late because, until the coming weekend, they simply do not decide to set back the clocks. Every year they promise that this seasonal turn will be the last, and every year—back in October and forward in March—they keep shifting the hands. We remain subjects governed by proven incompetents and hustlers, while the best and the brightest are far too busy giving free rein to their greed.

For that very reason, I do what I can so that filthy mediocrity does not splash me, thinking of October as a lazy month, humid and ever...

That Young Sailor—who by no coincidence then answered to the name of Javier—was signed on aboard Leviathan, a sailboat just over a hundred feet in length: a job he considered from the very start an outright steal for what he intended to do with his brand-new life, a favor offered him by his twinkling fate, and one where, by his own choosing, he was already secluded at the time, studying Comparative Literature on his own.

It was a lot of sailboat for a single man—a wooden-built classic gleaming with varnishes, bronzes, and abundant rigging. Howeve...

Once upon a time there was Michael Morris, a professor trying to instill at eight in the morning a sliver of love for novels in a bunch of teens, who were either yawning with sleep or simply not paying attention. Because the rush of hormones disturbed them terribly within the shadow of young girls in flower. I was one of his students, stuck there and convinced that no one was going to teach me anything relevant about literature, given that I had been an avid reader since childhood.

As for the beauty sitting by my side, Mary...

The pleasure of reading lies in time travel—when I lend my imagination to the page and arrive in worlds that have vanished entirely. I am not talking about historical fiction, far from it, but about works that were, back in the day, groundbreaking and revolutionary. For surely not all my attention should be squandered on the incessant trickle of novelties, trivialities, and insubstantial drivel paraded across bookstore displays, fueling the fear of missing out. Missing out on what? Is literature ephemeral? I don’t think so.

Last week, I combed Gustave Flaubert’s walrus mustache—strictly from a p...

I am blessed with an inexhaustible optimism, and every moment I live feels as though it overflows with infinite meaning, provided I give it my undivided attention.

That is why I read aloud like someone eating after a long fast, savoring every bite slowly. And now, having finally learned to handle the audio console—after tweaking the knobs of the irons for four long years, and no longer recording rumble and hiss—it strikes me as quite an achievement, one that still feels as fragile as it is surreal; until now, my performances were simply winged words scat...

To a greater or lesser extent, all authors have Charles Dickens as a pebble in their shoe. No matter how much I want to forget his narrative mastery, he is always there, trashing any delusions of grandeur, making me feel like a complete klutz.

My childhood preferences always went to Great Expectations, and later, somewhat more grown, to Scrooge’s second chance in A Christmas Carol. But it is in this wiser age that A Tale of Two Cities astounds me, above all for the perfect musical cadence of its first page. For that very reason, a we...

Truth be told, I am not a fan of writing eulogies for people I haven’t met personally. But today, September 3rd, I will make an exception to this rule. Because it catches me in a soft spot due to my condition as a lunatic who doesn’t want a cure, nor would I want one if it were offered. I have always pampered the sources of imagination and those who awaken it; the more you let yourself be carried away by it, the more it begins to make sense. Just like life itself. And like a good book.

Innovations in literature are born from the author’s natural drive to create. There is an audience that quickly tires of being sold the same story, told the exact same way, over and over again. This claim, however, is countered by the many authors who, once they stumble upon a fictional character that lets them churn out a series, prefer not to risk their good name in the slightest.

Look no further than the fictional detective Jules Maigret, to whom Belgian writer Georges Simenon dedicated no fewer than 75 novels and 28 short stories over four decades of cyclopean ou...

One of the greatest challenges for a reader of novels is that their way of thinking, their point of view, the scale of their interests, invariably changes. So much so that upon rereading a novel of which they have only a vague memory, it conceals hidden treasures that they will only find when they return to it again, and again, the next day, or years later.

In the previous episode of this literary podcast, I talked about the iconic American novels about daredevils. For reasons of time, I only briefly touched upon the great William Faulkner, an...

Few adventurers, and many idiots among them, mostly adrenaline junkies trapped in alpha-male mind frames, and fewer amazons, had been jumping from cliffs using wingsuits to pilot their descent. Some of them, performing as daredevils buoyed by high altitudes and airspeed, actively hunted the proximity—veering toward the slopes instead of gliding away from them.

While it seems impossible to drive what in French is called l’appel du vide—the call of the void—at the edge of the cliff wall, try to add the adrenaline rush of hurling yourself down through a talus slope, where any imba...

I’m not an Apple influencer, but a few of you might be listening to this literary podcast on the move—driving or commuting on the subway, many with an iPhone and those AirPods that are sometimes good. And sometimes really bad for certain things. They are good for pushing a heavy beat when you’re running at full speed. But they are not so good for nuanced voices.

A song that doesn’t rock in a car because it isn’t mastered properly is a song nobody wants. So, this is the only reason Apple tweaked their AirP...

I wrote about the bookstores and libraries I knew before the Digital Revolution, but I forgot to mention several works of fiction based on that cultural scene, because I was just warming up with a few brushstrokes.

Just as struggling actors fight for their dreams waiting tables or working as baristas, struggling writers end up as clerks in bookshops—as did George Orwell and Penelope Fitzgerald, two British authors who used their experience to craft superior, heartbreaking fiction.

Orwell, in the mid-1930s, worked for almost two years as a part-time assistant—just afternoons—at Booklo...

I remember when and how bookstore cafes arrived because it is part of my reading experience. They arrived in the ‘80s when the number of readers dropped drastically, acting as an invitation so that people who had never opened a book in their lives could find the perfect excuse to enter a bookstore. Sometimes, they would have a quick coffee, feeling completely out of their element, without a television or background music to entertain them. Other times, and not as often, they thought about buying a book as a gift for a loved one with whatever was trendy back th...

I thought that this summer audiences would rush to the bookstores to read Homer’s work, instead of splitting hairs between IMAX and regular movie theaters, both populated by popcorn munchers and soft drink slurpers, which I avoid by default.

I confess I have lost count of the years I’ve avoided a totally outdated economic exploitation model, which entails sitting in the dark with hundreds of strangers who do not keep the required silence, despite the imposing sound. And of course, they plan to stuff themselves with the same decorum as a capon.

That bein...

You have never before heard such a nervous clattering in the discreet, carpeted corridors of the world’s great publishing houses. There is a palpable, unprecedented fear vibrating behind those closed doors. A growing sense of alarm is sweeping through the industry worldwide. Computer inboxes are no longer just full; they are heavily clogged with an impenetrable, thick traffic jam of manuscripts, and literary competitions are receiving more original submissions than ever before.

Once upon a time, the repository of unsolicited manuscripts was simply known as “the slush pile.” It was a physical mountain of paper, a testam...

The arc of a bow and its arrow are our primitive reference for fully understanding the entropy that life entails. An entropy that overwhelms—or bores, depending on so many things—even the brightest minds. I imagine this is the origin of the narrative arc of a story: cutting through space like an arrow of time.

Zeno of Elea believed that time was merely a sum of static, frozen moments, failing to realize that time and motion are continuous and cannot be suspended or divided into parts. Although the mind can divide space into fixed points, according to B...

Sometimes, I wonder why the mere reading of some books stirs in me the irrepressible appetite for writing. Like just yesterday with Erasure by Percival Everett–the experimental novel that the latest film American Fiction is loosely based on. At the crack of dawn, while the first drops of spring rain were cleaning my dusty window, I was pounding away at my keyboard, keeping in mind the challenging question of Whit Burnett, the editor of the literary magazine Story and mentor of the young and ambitious JD Salinger, who grew resentful after Burnett rejected many of his first short st...

I was a boy wonder, and I loved to hate the guts of whoever was a killjoy. And mostly, any authority figures who were poorly paid teachers, so I was bound to be self-taught. However, I had a professor who taught me to channel all that hate by reading aloud about any historical character of my choosing.

Soon, I also became a performer aboard the school bus, which had loudspeakers and a microphone; I learned to read a comma and a semicolon and pause after a period without missing a beat. The bus driver cut a deal...

I suppose it’s because I had a good night’s sleep that I feel better than yesterday. I thought I couldn’t write a single word because of the alarming lack of relevance. Writing fiction requires a massive focus on a story that sometimes makes no sense, and sometimes it truly does. Navigating between these two extremes is quite intense and certainly not for the faint of heart.

I had the bad luck of growing up in a time when the plot seemed useless. In fact, I could say the novels I loved were a kind of cha...

What can I write about Lorca? He was not just a poet; he was also a dedicated pianist. Manuel de Falla was his mentor, and he learned from him about the profound songs known as Cante Jondo. Therefore, reading Lorca is an experience that evokes a deep sense of Duende, an ethereal quality that transcends mere poetry. Many scholars believe that translating Lorca into American English is an impossible task.

However, if you dare to attempt it, I highly recommend reading this translation by Sarah Arvio while having a glass of red wine and some delicious Serrano...

Physical beauty must be the most bitter of gifts because it carries the seed of its own destruction, and its absence mortifies more than any. We all more or less know how the young and handsome Dorian Gray had problems to deal with this, and whoever does not should stop listening this literary podcast right now, shake off the mental sloth, and dust off the master of paradoxes, the great Oscar Wilde, who remains still undefeated a century later, so unparalleled and unique was his genius.

Some French film director has lifted a big fuss with a...

As the dog days struck in August, I declined a gig to record audiobooks. And I was so low that I didn’t stop thinking, not even when I did laps in the Olympic pool. Climate change, many hellish summers this century, seas infested with microplastics and jellyfish and anisakis. And prawns expensive as f**k.

I have no choice but to buy an AC if I want to work during the next summer. What world is this, how have we fucked it up so soon?

I grew up loving books and wanting to write th...

It’s been a while since I have sailed to Palamós, still a small fishing town in 1962, where Truman Capote sought refuge for three semesters—always escorted by his obliging life partner Jack Dunphy and various pets—alternated with his cottage in Verbier, at the top of the Swiss Alps.

In Cala Sènia, a secluded Mediterranean cove, the American author found the necessary peace, far away from New York’s social life. The fishermen went out to sea in the wee hours, causing such a ruckus that, according to Capote, not even Rip van Winkle...

The German naturalist Alexander von Humboldt told a friend, a Parisian doctor, that he wanted to meet a certifiable lunatic. He was invited to the doctor’s home for supper. A few days later, Humboldt found himself placed at the dinner table between two men. One was polite, somewhat reserved, and didn’t go in for small talk. The other, dressed in ill-matched clothes, chattered away on every subject under the sun, gesticulating wildly while making horrible faces. When the meal was over, Humboldt turned to his host.

“I like your lunatic,” he whispered, indicating the talkative man. The...

Last Monday, while monitoring and mixing this podcast at midday, a massive blackout plunged this beach town and the entire peninsula into a real-life episode of an apocalyptic future. I was fortunate to be seated at my desk, unlike the poor b******s trapped inside lifters or commuting on trains and subways, standing and packed one against the other like a can of sardines. The only lifeline was the juice of my iPhone, which kept me connected abroad until the network coverage collapsed as well.

As soon as I heard it wasn't a local blackout but by...

I have news for you, my silent friend of many distances. Since I published last February a podcast about Bob Dylan, dealing with his recent biopic A Complete Unknown, where I argued the many reasons why he deserved the Nobel Prize for Literature, it turns out that I have found an audience in Apple Podcast.

All because of a Dylan's fan site called Expecting Rain, which linked my podcast, and suddenly the statistics graph of downloads looked like a rocket on a mighty lift-off in outer space. I, who am as much a theatrical Cyrano de Bergerac...

It's been a while since I have sailed to Palamós, still a small fishing town in 1962, where Truman Capote sought refuge for three semesters—always escorted by his obliging life partner Jack Dunphy and various pets—alternated with his cottage in Verbier, at the top of the Swiss Alps.

In Cala Sènia, a secluded Mediterranean cove, the American author found the necessary peace, far away from New York's social life. The fishermen went out to sea in the wee hours, causing such a ruckus that, according to Capote, not even Rip van Winkle could sleep throug...

The plays of William Shakespeare serve as an encyclopedia of human nature, and their characters are complex and rich, portrayed always with contradictions and nuances like real people. Some of these portraits are delightful and full of life, such as the character Puck, who appears in the comedy of Athenian wild fantasy called A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

I believe the first tragedy I read was Antony and Cleopatra. Shakespeare’s ingenious use of blank verses, which are unrhymed iambic pentameter, is more eloquent than any historical account of the actual Cleopatra. But I must acknowledge that popu...

Yesterday, I had a lovely spring morning. I had to take care of some paperwork in Barcelona, which left me at the doorstep of my favorite bookstore, La Central del Raval. I hope it will remain open for many more years. I recommend its patio for quiet reading, although I don’t like the self-service and the long queue for those who are undecided about which cake to choose.

When I returned to my studio, the rain blessed me again with its music. But the new cause célèbre in the publishing industry truly irked me. I co...

Physical beauty must be the most bitter of gifts because it carries the seed of its own destruction, and its absence mortifies more than any. We all more or less know how the young and handsome Dorian Gray had problems to deal with this, and whoever does not should stop listening this literary podcast right now, shake off the mental sloth, and dust off the master of paradoxes, the great Oscar Wilde, who remains still undefeated a century later, so unparalleled and unique was his genius.

Some French film director has lifted a big fuss with a...

I have mixed feelings after watching Chalamet’s Bob Dylan impersonation in the film A Complete Unknown. It is a superb acting performance. Still, there is an unsurmountable distance between an actor cast solely based on his looks and chameleonic aptitudes, and the real deal that shrines through, which is often disconcerting. The first impression of a successful folk star like Joan Baez was "I was bowled over. I never thought anything so powerful could come out of that little toad."

The biopic tries to portray Robert Allen Zimmerman, a Jewish lad from Minnesota that conquered as Bo...

Long before this era of senseless over-sharing, there was an intriguing piece of furniture called a rolltop desk, where our ancestors used to sit and write. It had secret drawers to keep handwritten letters and faded portraits of their loved ones.

These secret drawers were kept locked, and the key to open them was hidden. Sometimes, the women wore the key sewn into their garments.

I've just opened this Substack with the same intention as those women of the past -- that is, to keep these inklings hidden, unreachable -- unless you’re a subscriber, wh...

Keeping a newly completed manuscript in a drawer to rest for a while before editing it once you regain objectivity is not trivial advice. It’s true that after so much confinement and the solitude that writing entails, one wants to get up from the desk and celebrate the good news. However, with today’s immediacy, where one can send an original manuscript with a simple click, the rest in the drawer becomes more mandatory than ever.

Over the years and without even trying, these dilemmas of the art of writing no longer cause me anxiety as befo...

Farmers, ranchers, and fishermen, the pillars of the primary sector, have been frequently depicted in literature throughout history. Growing up in the shoreline, from the Caribbean to the Mediterranean Sea, and even the Atlantic Ocean for extended periods, I’ve developed a stronger connection with those who make their living as fishermen.

Yesterday, I was stunned while reading an interview with Vicenç Comí, the skipper of the trawler Sinera. He has been struggling to survive the absurd regulations imposed by the bureaucrats of the European Union. However, the most recent decision, which granted him only a 27-day fish...

The novel Pedro Páramo by the Mexican writer Juan Rulfo is based on a popular trope: the son who returns to find his father. Juan Preciado’s story begins when, on her deathbed, his mother asks him to search for his father in Comala, a town she fondly remembers as a vibrant and bustling place.

Upon his arrival in Comala, Juan Preciado encounters a desolate and decadent destiny. Along the way, his first encounter is with Abundio Martínez, who describes Pedro Páramo as pure hate. From there, Juan begins to piece together the story of hi...

Physical beauty must be the most bitter of gifts because it carries the seed of its own destruction, and its absence mortifies more than any. We all more or less know how the young and handsome Dorian Gray had problems to deal with this, and whoever does not should stop listening this literary podcast right now, shake off the mental sloth, and dust off the master of paradoxes, the great Oscar Wilde, who remains still undefeated a century later, so unparalleled and unique was his genius.

Some French film director has lifted a big fuss with a...

In my very long mailing list—which this platform insists on distributing a newsletter instead of leaving the reader alone at his own free will—I also have writers whom I admire. One of them, Antonio Muñoz Molina, a well-known Spanish novelist and columnist, wrote last month in El País that he is fed up with unsolicited emails.

Twenty years ago, in the early days of the blogosphere, there was no newsletter at all. If one wanted to add the blog he loves to read as a bookmark in his browser, he just did it, instea...

The rumbling swell woke me up in front of a breakwater wall that blocked my view of the sea, but the water sprays climbed above it, like a ranging whale expelling air from its blowholes, in each assault with the force of a geyser. Through the windshield of the car, I spotted Leire walking over the dike without caring about getting soaked from the volatilized foam in the air; she was barefoot to walk on her own.

I opened the door and shouted her name, assuming she wouldn’t hear me. Returning to the car, I removed my...

Since I quit drinking alcohol and smoking pot or tobacco to avoid running out of steam and finish sentences skidding at the top of the gravel voice, my journaling has regained the life it once had, which is a pleasant surprise and a valuable benefit. When I did thick spirals of smoke, my quiet thoughts were lost forever. Or worse, if possible, from the deep buzz only reached to the edge of awareness such bland trifles as "I smoke. And I draw the leak from my breath." Of course, with that trivialities, I missed out on the precious foam...