IN THE HANDS of an intelligent publisher, a book or an animal can turn out to be an elegant, colorful evolution. The pages are bound to support a certain ideographic order and, in turn, to support shelves of lives and cares. The genetic imprint is portrayed on the paper of biographies; autobiographies conduct themselves, between egos. Therefore, authors become thousands of characters in their novels and end up being too many people to recognize themselves. Books, like newspapers, are one of those rare things that support all of us who write.
With the literary man the intention is moved, he claims the immortality of his work, of his characters, of his landscape, of himself. They are gods with earthly nuances. Thus, an Argentine writer will believe he has discovered all the accumulated culture by achieving a single conspicuous, serious reader, and it is likely that he will reflect a supreme ego in his work. A German will seem to have read everything, alone and for himself, so he will end up adapting the world, after thinking about it, to his circumstances. An Indian writer will delve deeper, philosophize and end up transforming his achievements into almost danceable poetry. An Englishman knows all things English and will crown the world of creation as an imperial estate seated on a throne of useful genius. An American thinks to create and will create to win. A Frenchman thinks, harmonizes, revolutionizes and has the possibility of digressing into his chauvinism. An African understands the tribal rumble of philosophy attached to the most human soil. A Spaniard is heir to the greatest History, but he neglects it after having elevated the language of the people to the most beautiful and versatile poetic subtlety. The subjective is there to be said with the possibility of reversibility or other readings.
The authors, without possible sneaks, without geographical distinctions, create worlds on demand, not always foreign. It is up to the reader to let himself be carried away by the cadence of a narrative, of an adventure, of a story, of a drama, of a comedy, of a poem, of an article, and to dance, of course, unfailingly to the rhythm that the composer sets. The author is the one who determines the step, the destination is as uncertain as the end. That is freedom, that of wandering through invented or reinterpretable spaces and stories, neural or physical, which must necessarily and randomly branch off based on the demands of a plot, the requirements of a character or the mood of the reader.
In what has been said, the sinuous melody of a style resonates, the significant flow that guides free will along the enigmatic routes of a story. Here is the inspired miracle of memory, reproduction, evidence, analysis and even magic, truth or humor itself.
When writing or reading we accentuate the prospection for insights. With them we want to reduce the world piece by piece to recompose it with whim. Starting from a portion, we annex everything to the authenticity we crave, even if it is based on lies or proprietary perceptions. A book is an ideal and provisional recomposition with fragments of the colossal puzzle that is life, and at the same time it allows us to transcend reality, it discovers it to us and lends it to us, it transports us in the present to other times and places, different, close, non-existent, He gives us ideal beings or not. It is a precious object, a unique creation of a generally recognizable and contextual author, something willing not to become a museum piece. It is possible that what is written represents the human discovery that comes closest to infinity, to what deserves to be eternal. The books and characters have ended up supporting the authors thanks to the fact that they have recreated them. It is a kind of happy inbreeding.
