Luis Landero: Unanimous joy
Like Di Stefano or Kubala or Johan Cruyff and now Benzema in football, in literature and in life, we all love Luis Landero. It is unanimous joy National Literature AwardBecause it is an award, it is patriotic (that is, it is, above all, general as good people tend) and it is literature.
A frenzied literary writer, someone who was not sold by the misleading nuggets of the market, but who was making grooves and grooves on a land he devoted, moreover, a poetic passion that was not cold or snow but quality, demand.
He’s the world champion of demand, since he wrote (and then barely published, and because TusquetsAnd the Beatrice de Mora It was on the verge of) , Late games. Even with the guitar and other courtship instruments (at the time), that slender young man whom life with his grandmother or mother portrayed, the chief fruits of his inspiration, He insisted on writing that had nothing to do with others except for what came out of his soul.
Literature that, though clinging to the ground (and to the balconies!), to childhood and books, was never a dedication to the peasantry, because it always, from a young age, published the first blow (a warning against) Rafael Contedon’t forget), was the result of reading others, as he later said in quiet, modern artworks, such as Emerson’s Grove.
His literature is the same, nothing more than his literature. that they are not looking for his belongings, for Landero belongs to Landero, and that is why he is on fire like a new born fruit, Although his books had already been wetted by many floods his travels through galleries and through bookstores marked him.
At one time also, it was said, that he plays guitar, seduces; He did not change his mood in spite of his other remorse, but he did not abandon that older boy with whom he had grown up, and who sometimes helped him to understand the darkness, with whom he was close. kothis wife, to make the landscape which is his home on Trafalgar Street, in Madrid, surely habitable and happy, which, if you will permit me, is also the result of how this marriage is.
Some details. The house is open, as are the neighbors; Next to the trees is the Olavide, which can be seen from the balcony (balconies always: balcony in winter It seems to me his happiest book) on the fourth floor. The elevator pretends to sing jazz, and when they get home they hear no noise or anything, they walk around like slippers of air, until the door opens and everything becomes light, just like them. And the library is light (Borges could have said: a tired library”) and the common place in which he deposited his clever patience is the table, of pure wood, so long as it is a gift for writing, and there he speaks and talks and talks, looking outward or toward nothing, as if he Suddenly at the same time the child, the peasant’s helper, the teenager again, and finally the Landero, who raises his face to your eyes and asks: “Where are we going?” ; And he died of laughter.
Joy for your literature? This unanimity with the award she now deserves is no accident, something anyone deserves in the glory of the moment. This is a very special writer, someone out of the ordinary. He’s like Di Stefano, and that doesn’t mean everything. Arrow came to help literature and readers to have a place to celebrate the victory of readingwho is a teacher on his patrol, is a boy who also thinks inside when he laughs.