Today is the most important date in the History of Humankind: my f. birthday! I’ve stopped to drink for half an hour to dedicate some words to Yareah readers. Isabel (she says she likes Elisabeth of the River, her translated name) has given me a really good Meerschaum pipe with the shape of a claw. We’ve eaten outside a good meal and everything is O.K. (I mean, sun shines, birds sing, bankers steal…). I am so happy to sing and I love this song. Let’s sing it!
I hadn’t taken a look to the lyrics of this song. Oh, my god!
So before they come to break down the door
Forgive me Delilah I just couldn’t take any more
Well, just another lovesick. No problem, Mr. Jones. Everybody has felt it and we can continue working with it but this girl isn’t so good.
She stooooooooood there laughing
Oh, oh, oh. This is going to turn into a Shakespeare’s tragedy. There’s nothing equal to laugh and even the bored Aristotle knew it
I felt the knife in my hand and she laughed no more
What? What the hell have you done, Mr. Jones? I know, I know, you were just singing as you might know that when I write about a murder I am not a killer and usually people forget with evident matter. Fiction is… fiction! Dostoyevsky used to say that if he weren’t written novels he would have killed ancient woman. We really appreciate it, Fedor, but I would like to stress in this point. The war of Troy, like it’s related in The Odyssey, is fiction. Oh… my… god! Fiction? We all have done it… yes, I read a novel and I usually think that the action, the argument, the facts are truth but, believe me, writers are liars and we are proud when we lie cause this is our job: to construct a clear work, a structure with no fissures to offer to the reader something logical… and life isn’t coherent and life is plenty of fakes and life is full of illogical meaning and life is… just life.
I used to admire books and arts because they are more logical than real life and, when I write a book, I can feel something similar to the breathing of God everywhere. Yes, the Humankind has been able to create something as great as the Beethoven’s 9th Symphony but all of us as so… imperfect? Flawed? Yes, we are but that’s precisely our greatness and maybe the birth of the arts: the paradox between our mediocre lives and our great thinking, our expectations and illusions, our loves and our deceptions. Yes, Mr. Jones maybe killed his beloved Deliah but while the man kills, the artists create a great world with the breathing remains of our brilliant lives. Yes, people died in the war of Troy and Hamlet made carnage in his last day. Horrible facts for terrible greatness.
And that’s fiction.
And I love fiction.