THIS DEEP IN THE AMAZON TRIBE HAS NEVER BEEN IN CONTACT WITH THE WHITE MAN OR WITH THESE THINGS entelechy as civilized ADAPTS SOFT SITES as wild as university faculty or the literary cafes. few days ago someone asked me to talk explicitly about Archipelago, my novel published a few months ago, to tell something about its plot, its characters, its style. My answer surprised the party, as the Author I am the least likely to talk about these issues. "Oh I see, not the novel you speak of modesty, I again asked the person, and at that moment I realized that these issues could be modesty, how I had not thought before, and although I saw tempted to answer that yes, my reticence was caused because I am a man so modest and virtuous, I decided, just this once, and without it becoming a precedent for future responses, by insisting on an honest answer: I have no more clue. Is that without going as far to label the author as a mere medium of dark and unknown unconscious, I as an author I have absolutely no idea why the events occurred in the plot, which appear nothing these characters or the style or voice or see a particular frame of mind.
And it really is very little that I can say of the archipelago, not lie anymore, I mean without adding more lies than those of more than 340 pages and I put in black and white, in exercise of the right to lie that as gods of a minor child have the writers. I can, however, say that Archipelago is an exploration, which, as befits any issue that respects itself wants to leave, of course, more questions than answers, suggested trails and doubtful strict and meticulous GPS coordinates . It's like one of those maps in a row that after nearly to estribabor scurvy traced the ancient cartographers, where most of the territory was marked "Terra Incognita" and the novel can be considered as the unknown territory that is left that way for readers who transit, light up and finish repaint sometimes blurred outlines, as one's own prejudices, realities and ways to decode the world of each. In the end, is only an unfinished world, only slightly Mercator Scale suggested the creation by the author.
Archipelago is a journey, a ride on a roller coaster, a device to provoke emotions of various kinds. It is a thinly veiled desire to exaggerate, to lie, which began I read a quote from Luis Buñuel, who later ended up as heading in the same novel which inspired beginning, said Buñuel to live life is to contradict oneself, and that phrase was what started me writing and certainly to lie.
Speaking of lies, Ricardo Martin recently spoke about the act of writing as a need to lie and the difficulty that this action is: it is quite difficult to prevail over the truth in a world in which this truth, this reality goes beyond providing without much effort to any attempt of fiction, ie any effort to lie. Despite this superiority is likely reality, literature will always be his power also evoke the existing realities and never lived to influence the way the world looks like, the world interpreted through different eyes, in a final interpretation that the reader can Conclude incorporating its own way of seeing the world.
If it is true that the greatest mystery of modern biology, as stated by Francis Crick, the co-discoverer of DNA, goes about solving the mystery of the physiological process by which photons of light after passing through the retina and then end up being memories, experiences, in sleepless nights, in a list of nostalgic events that can then be retraced, literature, biology does not know either of these things, nor does it need- intact ability to summon emotions, memories and that, as if a magic spell, is the prodigious capacity to generate feelings and vivid memories of things that literature never gets the source of its magnetism, its lasting effect through of time.
said British writer Zadie Smith a well-written text urges us to accept the author's own vision. So says the Smith, you spend the morning reading Chekhov and in the afternoon, walking around the neighborhood, the world has become "Chekhoviano." I realize that I myself have felt these enchantments of literature. Thus, if the morning of my childhood I was reading Tom Sawyer or any novel by Verne, in the afternoon I was no longer the same and instead of walking with friends along the banks of the river as pedestrian Liberia in the Barrio El Capulin, I went touring the Limpopo or the Mississippi in search of a baobab or the raft of Huck. That is one of the magical effects of literature that would be worth talking at greater length.
For me, the practice of literature should be a toy, an abstract and playful, the closest thing you can actually get from the solitude of my lighthouse eyed a stroll in jocotes apear on a summer afternoon or a Fut mejenga until it's dark with friends, who should preferably be worst soccer players who one inwardly aspire to that literature is the substitute of any of these ephemeral corner of paradise we all want to suffer.
Steiner said that in the present age the greatest luxury is silence from the silence and away from the canons and pompous theories, "what can I do is that one is a province-is that I prefer to engage in serious lack of the commission writing texts of the mask, but all with the same pedigree mutt who is the only one I get, rather than trying to strive prolijitos and symmetrical cross the golf courses in literary theory. So, writing is engaging with the fruits of that silence in the creation of works of art, as Kandinsky said, is like taking part in the creation of the world. Because, although not always recognized, lying is always created.
And it really is very little that I can say of the archipelago, not lie anymore, I mean without adding more lies than those of more than 340 pages and I put in black and white, in exercise of the right to lie that as gods of a minor child have the writers. I can, however, say that Archipelago is an exploration, which, as befits any issue that respects itself wants to leave, of course, more questions than answers, suggested trails and doubtful strict and meticulous GPS coordinates . It's like one of those maps in a row that after nearly to estribabor scurvy traced the ancient cartographers, where most of the territory was marked "Terra Incognita" and the novel can be considered as the unknown territory that is left that way for readers who transit, light up and finish repaint sometimes blurred outlines, as one's own prejudices, realities and ways to decode the world of each. In the end, is only an unfinished world, only slightly Mercator Scale suggested the creation by the author.
Archipelago is a journey, a ride on a roller coaster, a device to provoke emotions of various kinds. It is a thinly veiled desire to exaggerate, to lie, which began I read a quote from Luis Buñuel, who later ended up as heading in the same novel which inspired beginning, said Buñuel to live life is to contradict oneself, and that phrase was what started me writing and certainly to lie.
Speaking of lies, Ricardo Martin recently spoke about the act of writing as a need to lie and the difficulty that this action is: it is quite difficult to prevail over the truth in a world in which this truth, this reality goes beyond providing without much effort to any attempt of fiction, ie any effort to lie. Despite this superiority is likely reality, literature will always be his power also evoke the existing realities and never lived to influence the way the world looks like, the world interpreted through different eyes, in a final interpretation that the reader can Conclude incorporating its own way of seeing the world.
If it is true that the greatest mystery of modern biology, as stated by Francis Crick, the co-discoverer of DNA, goes about solving the mystery of the physiological process by which photons of light after passing through the retina and then end up being memories, experiences, in sleepless nights, in a list of nostalgic events that can then be retraced, literature, biology does not know either of these things, nor does it need- intact ability to summon emotions, memories and that, as if a magic spell, is the prodigious capacity to generate feelings and vivid memories of things that literature never gets the source of its magnetism, its lasting effect through of time.
said British writer Zadie Smith a well-written text urges us to accept the author's own vision. So says the Smith, you spend the morning reading Chekhov and in the afternoon, walking around the neighborhood, the world has become "Chekhoviano." I realize that I myself have felt these enchantments of literature. Thus, if the morning of my childhood I was reading Tom Sawyer or any novel by Verne, in the afternoon I was no longer the same and instead of walking with friends along the banks of the river as pedestrian Liberia in the Barrio El Capulin, I went touring the Limpopo or the Mississippi in search of a baobab or the raft of Huck. That is one of the magical effects of literature that would be worth talking at greater length.
For me, the practice of literature should be a toy, an abstract and playful, the closest thing you can actually get from the solitude of my lighthouse eyed a stroll in jocotes apear on a summer afternoon or a Fut mejenga until it's dark with friends, who should preferably be worst soccer players who one inwardly aspire to that literature is the substitute of any of these ephemeral corner of paradise we all want to suffer.
Steiner said that in the present age the greatest luxury is silence from the silence and away from the canons and pompous theories, "what can I do is that one is a province-is that I prefer to engage in serious lack of the commission writing texts of the mask, but all with the same pedigree mutt who is the only one I get, rather than trying to strive prolijitos and symmetrical cross the golf courses in literary theory. So, writing is engaging with the fruits of that silence in the creation of works of art, as Kandinsky said, is like taking part in the creation of the world. Because, although not always recognized, lying is always created.
Eye The Lighthouse Bitacora www.heribertorodriguez.blogspot.com 
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