I am reading about Greece and its elections. I am reading too about the favorite book of a philosopher who I don’t like him. I read too the Sunday Vargas Llosa’s article. Sometimes, it’s better to keep silent, Mr Nobel Prize. Why are you so acid now? Leave politics and continue writing, colleague. That’s my simple piece of advice… but do what you want! You began to write fine, really fine… with the pen of the masters, taking care of words and rhythms, choosing every word as it was the last word of worlds. What have you lost? Inspiration? I know, you had talked about politics in those first books… but you were with that people and you breathe their worries and their sins, their tears and their happiness.
Now, you are in London offended for waiting 45 minutes. Haven’t you got a Nobel Prize to wait? You talked bad, Mr. Llosa, you talked bad about an artist like you… maybe not so good maybe not so clever as you… but an artist! And every artist needs respect from others. Don’t you remember your first book? Was it easy? Is it easy to publish the first book? Is it easy to get your first exhibition? I don’t think so. I published one book and then another and another… and now I must continue my work trying to keep the honesty, trying to create something special for people. Isn’t it art? I will tell you something, Mr. Llosa, about what’s not art: the cheap criticism and your stolen politicized words. I’ve read you praising a particular politic… and now you open your Nobel mouth to destroy a plastic artist? You’ve lost your way, writer… you’ve lost the essence of art and the flavor of people, the secret truth stolen by hungry hearts of money, vice and betrayals.
If someday for a miracle I win your appreciated award, I hope I will continue as now. Maybe I’m not the best man in this world but I will be a good one, not the politic friend of fake and lies. Are you trying to buy us, Nobel Prize? If you want to buy me, you will need much more than money and lending words. You will need something that I think you’ve lost years ago: the truth.
I will leave you with a phrase of my favorite writer, Joyce: “Mistakes are the portals of discovery.” Maybe you’re not so old to learn something, Mr Nobel Prize… or probably you are.