Some, as Umbral maintains, have come to believe that Madrid is a literary genre. What happens to you is that you no longer go to cocktails, you no longer have the same hair, or you have no hair at all, and life goes on. Sometimes you have to leave Madrid for Madrid, which is an exercise that is not done much. The books of Zunzunegui, of Baroja, help; but also the Cifesa films. When you lose the perspective of Madrid, literary, gastronomic, whatever it may be, you lose a lot of things. There are friends who leave, as we have said before. But a statue does not have the same appearance or the same feeling in front of a boulevard. Related news Opinion LAPISABIÉN Yes Good nights at the Opera Jesús Nieto Jurado A hotel promises the coast, and it is the place where the night of the greatest youth ends or continues. Now in Madrid, in this autumn that can be mild, what you witness is an offer of literary themes. Very hidden, yes. Tourists pass by in search of their microspaces; They ignore those who thirst for bloodshed, ignoring the fact that there is the carpetovetonic truth of Cela, or the lisp of Valle. madrid_dia_0703It happens like when you lift the pavement, the asphalt, and you see paving stones without a beach underneath. It happens to me when, from fig to fig, I go down to the literary quarter or pass by Las Cavas, where not even the blunderbuss of Luis Candelas resonates anymore. Nor the lyrical cry of Quique Jeringas, nor the voice of Pepe Domingo Castaño. All this boils down to the fact that, day after day, he dismantles and assembles, reassembles and dismantles the thesis of literary Madrid. In his garden, like Fray Luis, Raúl del Pozo explained to me that the language of the novel was invented in four streets and in each of them, they know me. And it was in Madrid.MORE INFORMATION news Yes See news Yes Canallitas de Madrid Then, of course, I have the bet of the great Madrid novel with Ángel Antonio Herrera: first define the question, to the extent of my abilities and circumstances, and then try to write it. All this with the affection I have for the only one I know who can do it. My literary Madrid is not made of statues, perhaps of plaques. Without the literary substratum, I would not understand this. Nor would I bear days that are not days; nights that are not nights.
