Don't You Dare To Think Out Loud!

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...

I don’t believe this record can be broken, but who knows? All it takes is a madman to allow American missiles to be launched at Russia from Ukraine, similar to the Cuban Missile Crisis of October 1962. Yet the final year of the last century still holds the record. Plus, in my lifetime, I won’t witness another turn of the millennium.

But it turns out that yesterday, I received the news of the passing of a friend who suffered a heart attack. Astrid was two years younger than me. In 1999, she used to host gatherings at her...

September is my favorite month for several reasons. Once the haze dissipates, the crowds that come with summer in a beach town also disappear, especially now that social networks have attracted swarms of people to remote places. It is also a time for farewells to summer romances, a theme often found in coming-of-age novels. The posh urban girl promises to keep in touch with the besotted villager but ultimately doesn't, as the intense passion often fades with the return to daily life.

I'm fortunate enough to sleep in front of a folding window. Until the cold arrives...

With indescribable relief, I note that the summer storms have finally arrived and two-thousand-year-old festival known as Ferragosto is behind us. The festival, originally a celebration of Roman Emperor Augustus, was once a time when beasts of burden were adorned with flowers after the rigors of harvesting and threshing wheat and workers bet their wages on horse races, a ritual which is in some places preserved, such as the Palio di Siena. The ancient tradition is so instilled in the unconscious collective, that the Digital Disconnection reaches its zenith during these holidays.

I am still confined in...

Marcel Proust had an epic quarrel in 1895 France with the literary critic Charles Sainte-Beuve on what the reader should know about any author and also wrote that every detail of the author’s life had to be kept in mind because his characters were simply an elaborated extension of the self, not natural creations.

The most celebrated French author of the past century strongly disagreed. Consequently, he wrote an essay about that issue, Contre Sainte-Beuve. Readers who tried to make associations with people the author could or may well have known were always lost in the fog of...

Yesterday, after waiting six months for the release, I could finally gorge like Pantagruel in a bookish streaming series about the one and only Truman Capote, directed by Gus Van Sant and produced with infinite prodigality by the actual king Midas of showbusiness, Ryan Murphy.

Two years ago, I wrote a post on this very writer’s platform about Truman’s swans, when Laurence Leamer’s book came up. But when I began from scratch last June to cut podcasts, that post went to the pile. So, it’s time to rescue my pedantic musings or inklings, as I use...

Today, the Olympic Games in Paris will finally open after the mayoress has tried to convince us that the Seine River is cleaner than ever by taking a dip in a wetsuit, which offers some protection. The last time I visited Paris, I didn't even consider swimming in the river. However, I did enjoy my morning run along the riverbank, and it was priceless.

The only time I had swum by myself in a river was a day before a rowing competition, and it was scary to do it, in fact, I did not stray just twenty...

Last week I suggested a biopic called Wildcat, based on the brief life of the American writer Flannery O'Connor and the extraordinary work she was able to write before lupus, a chronic and complex autoimmune disease, the same one that her father suffered from and that left her half-orphaned at the age of 15, took her at the age of 39. In circumstances such as those described, it is by no means accidental that her work is imbued with a premature spirituality.

I, during my thirties, was free of family obligations that stressed me, in excess of health and...

One day in June, during the three-year period of covid, a girlfriend whom I lost track of at the turn of the century so that her phone fell out of the agenda–like so many others before–despite the fact that I tried in vain to keep in touch at the time, suddenly appeared on Telegram, that app that is supposed to be better encrypted than WhatsApp.

From what I found out, when such apparitions happen it is because they are looking for you. And she would probably write a message and then delete it. Since I prom...

Emerging from the dark and foreboding forest, the jongleur made his way to a stunning glade adorned with a vibrant array of wild flowers. Over five hundred peasants had gathered around red flags with a palpable spirit of resistance. Those humble folks, known to the Parisians as Jacques Goodfellow, bore the weight of displacement caused by the harsh trials of war, plague, and famine. And their revolt was somewhat a consequence.

At twilight, beneath the ominous shadow of the storm-ravaged castle, a scene of macabre celebration unfurled. The Jacques with their spoils dripping with the scent of...