The Madrid Book Fair (always rainy days and plenty of sunshine) is evidently a notable cultural event, full of luxury and contradictions. It is said to be the annual meeting of the author and his readers -or readers, there are more women- but that is nothing more than a headline. What do I find? The book is handed to the author, under the gaze of the bookseller, and the author, generally smiling, asks the reader’s name. A dedication is put, often conventional, it is very difficult to do anything personal when you don’t know the other, and the reader – upon receiving the signed volume – briefly comments something: “It’s the first thing I’ve read from you.” Or perhaps: “I really liked your previous novel.” The writer thanks: “I hope you like this one at least as much.” The exchange of smiles returns and if the complicity is greater, it goes as far as: «I hope to see you again. Thanks for write. I will recommend it to my friends. It would be nice to chat with you…” Quite a few phrases of that style, except for the last one (the will of a private person), which is really very rare. Can we speak of an encounter in a minimally profound sense? I don’t think so, it’s very superficial, but whatever it is, it’s something pleasant.
There are many readers who look for signatures – I am a devotee, even in ancient times, of dedicated books – but others do not, even out of shyness. Years ago I had a curious case. A man bought a book of mine and, since he didn’t make the gesture, while he was paying for it, I suggested: “Shall I sign it?” He looked at me with vague gratitude, and with a smile he said, “No thanks.” But it is not usual either. There are constant readers (you see them every year) who not only buy everything you do, but also reiterate your hobbies, and do it well. «No, you know. Margarita alone no. Margarita García de la Muela. Oh, and please, don’t forget to put today’s date, but if you would be so kind, put the month not with a number, but with a letter. There is a fair of singularities, which reach even the presumed familiar: «Dear Villena, I was a very good friend of your aunt Mercedes. You remember me, don’t you? And they don’t give you a generous and strong hug, because space prevents it. I never had an aunt named Mercedes and the man – Jaime, for example – doesn’t sound familiar to me at all. But I smilingly agree with everything so that we can move forward…
«Literature made only with the intention of selling and edited with the same aim, produces vulgarity, even if it is dressed in sequins»
Towards the famous lines with endless lines? Let’s abandon vanity, those gigantic queues are the least, the modest queue (someone told me) is the most productive, the most select. It’s possible. If Vargas Llosa were to sign, he is older, he no longer does it, he would have miles of lines, but it is true that The queues that make a mess – annoying those in the next booth, it’s true – are usually from media authors, good or bad it doesn’t seem to matter, well-known, television, viral events. Today there are many women novelists (previously it was the case with men) who have been television presenters. I won’t say more. But it is worth remembering – because of my age I have seen it and I remember it – that the majority of bestselerism big, disappears… I remember in the 70s, the immense, truly enormous lines that surrounded a novelist, entertaining, popular, social, lover of young people (later it was discovered that he was a hidden gay, but that doesn’t matter) the priest and former Jesuit José Luis Martín Vigil. Who had not read, even in school, one of his novels, written with clear simplicity? Life comes to meet, Sixth gallery, The communist priests, The drug is young…And a thousand more. Vigil died years ago, forgotten by the Church (he was gay) and already forgotten. But he sold hundreds of thousands of books, I’m not exaggerating. If today, on a sunny Sunday, we ask current readers if they know anything about Martín Vigil, perhaps only some older people will have memory. The young people, nothing at all. He was not a great writer, but he was easy, very readable and by dealing with themes of adolescent conflict, he became a huge social phenomenon. But coming closer, we could ask: And Antonio Gala? Few have been so famous and in the media, and few have been so divous even with the ladies who adored him. Gala died a little over a year ago, but he retired from his foundation in Córdoba for about ten years. There are no more Antonio’s books. The theater is rarely read, and his novels, his final journey? Beyond the garden, The Turkish Passion, The Crimson Manuscript (almost all taken to the cinema) where are they, who claims them? “Sic transit…”, we can say. Everything happens. But not everything with equal speed. Commercial editors who only think about sales, the low cultural level and the preeminence of the media explain almost everything. Literature made only with the idea of selling and edited with the same aim produces vulgarity, even if it is dressed in sequins.. Today Nieves Herrero is much better known than Antonio Gala. She will be surprised, I imagine.
The Book Fair must grow and it is admirable. But, dear ones (I say nothing new), not all television glitter is gold.
