There was a time when, more than reading the novels of Javier Marias, the dreaming. I mean he dreamed his prose and the plot as if they befell not the past perfect of the page (where everything has happened) but in this continuum of my head, where were those "in the tone of the whispers and confidences - by a voice at once strange and familiar, more distinct and increasingly, however, identical to itself.
At least since All Souls , Marias himself was fully aware of this misperception, and has consented (or exploited, depending how you look) for his own good and happiness of others in Black back time or Your Face Tomorrow (and some also in Tomorrow in the Battle Think on Me ). I refer to the mistake, punished severely for any literary theory but flippantly sabotaged by not a few reading practices (including mine), which plays with identity "inter-worlds" (fictional world, real world) of the voiceover. Because let's face it: the Marías narrators have always thought, even in italics, in the person Marys. A fiction, yes, a sort of ghostly image based latched certain recurrences, tics, manieras that emerges from reading superimposed on older and recent novels, but fiction-or ghost-needed, and therefore dear.
now appears The crushes, whose enunciation is transferred first to a female and youngest known person Marys, and that simple and legitimate travel, such that the act of a jaded magician , exposed suddenly puts all the intrigue that had only suspected. Because then reading is not reading Marias Marias is another (another) who insists on that story soñarnos otherwise grim and uncomfortable, and can not avoid something childish pout, as he has been cheated without much premeditation or malice, to notice.
The crushes may be a great novel, but does not work. I mean it does not work at that level only subjective have become very erratic and, for that is, in our beloved capital, and therefore does not, or not with the same intensity, the absorption slightly drowsy and febrile (but a few tenths care, nothing fortunately, Dostoevsky) of other times and other readings. Maybe that's why I refuse to finish and, in turn, takes me obtuse subtleties that would blush to any medium reader.
"Whoever speaks is not the writer, and myself who are not there," he said in Barthes's famous maxim. Nor is anyone reading who thinks, or not always. And to know which of the two dictates these lines.
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