The one hundred and forty-four pagesby Alfonso Barguñó Viana (H&O). When one is a literary critic of my size (of my professional size, of course, which is even larger than the one I wear in pants) it is easy for the texts on the back cover of most published books to produce satiety, a feeling of already seen and, come on, I’m going to say it, drowsiness. Examples? A story in which love and destiny intertwine— well, passing. A novel in which the protagonist must face his own— man, what a joke, damn. For the first time in the history of literature, a narrator undertakes to write about the details of the production of a book. —eh, still “stop it”, go strong, H&O!, selling us readers that this proposal by Barguñó Viana (assembling a text around prosaic bibliographic elements such as paper, ink, the ISBN code of a book) is not has ever done, which is original, and thus you stand out and have my full attention as a reader. Furthermore, I plan to copy and do the same here: also “for the first time in the History of Criticism”, Germán Collazos undertakes to tell you how he usually creates the praised reviews he writes for this illustrious digital medium.
blood red (ed. by Servando Rocha; La Felguera). The first thing I do is choose which books to include for each of my assignments. Germán’s news. Based on what criteria? It should be based on whether they are good books (although sometimes I include a regular one just because it inspired a good joke) or that there is an equal number of authors (which, shabby me, I have not been able to meet on this occasion). but most of the time they tend to be books that seem powerful, impactful, strong in their originality and surprise, a criterion that should not be very different from that used by the directors of the news newspapers that were so popular in our country (already You know, weeklies like The Events o The Case which collected the horrific chronicle of daily crime to the delight of the Spain of the time) and whose most impressive and morbid headlines now appear compiled in this addictive anthology of the true true crime español.
Misunderstoodby William & Jim Reid (trans. Ibon Errazkin; Contra). Once the chosen books have been read and analyzed (you should see my notes, which I usually write down on one of those napkins), Thank you for your visit that I catch at the bar), it’s time to start writing your reviews, for which every literary critic has our little rituals that help us undertake such an arduous task with joy and pleasure. One of my helpful habits? Play music in the background, specifically that of legendary alternative rock groups such as the essential The Jesus and Mary Chain: their entire story is told in a sincere and hilarious way in this volume that covers the trajectory of a band that conquered the world but He began his career in the Scottish town of East Kilbride (so sad and bland, my colleague Miguel Alcázar – who lives five minutes away – tells me that he only gives time to take drugs, start inventing heteronyms, or start great bands. style music shoegaze).
Deep meby Marc Antoine Mathieu (trans. by Irene Oliva Luque; Salamandra Graphics). Little music playing and everything (“Under the april skiiiiees…” that the Reids sing) it may well happen that things do not flow, and in those cases I get stuck, sulking, prey to that creative block that in Spanish we graciously and metaphorically relate to stay blank. So I suffer the unspeakable, although I’m going to start taking it better after discovering that Mathieu’s face has gone “black” in his latest book and yet it has been applauded by international critics: Deep me is a very cool comic that explores the limits of the graphic form and the darkest corners of the mind, presenting a large number of black panels (like, there is nothing drawn in them!), about which one can only wonder whether we are facing authentic shamelessness or unparalleled genius.
Jailhouse Rockby Jorge Barco Ingelmo (Elefante Island). But if I don’t stay white—or black—and the thing flows… Oh, if the thing flows! Time stops, the outside world ceases to exist, and to write my reviews I lock myself at home for so many hours that I end up thinking of myself as one of those prisoners deprived of liberty who, from their prisons, only know about the outside world through of television. It is about these subjects that this curious and fascinating collection of poems revolves, with a rock and roll title and written by a prison officer who uses his knowledge of the subject and his powerful verses (“How difficult to be a prisoner / in the eyes of the world. / And that that there are prisoners in their homes / believing themselves to be freer”) to tell us about a world—that of penitentiary centers—that is actually so unknown to us.
The immortal comedyby Ágnes Heller (trans. by Aurora Echevarría Pérez; Seix Barral). And that’s it! Once the reviews are written, all that remains is to send them to my superiors at elDiario.es and wait, wait for what?, for them to be published and, delivery after delivery, to give me the immortal fame that allows me to enter the Olympus of history of humor (proofreader’s note: what a freak you are, Germán!). At least, I dream about it while reading this fascinating essay by Ágnes Heller, a fascinating tour of the work of the greatest comedians in the history of humanity: Aristophanes, Shakespeare, Chaplin, Woody Allen and other geniuses of humor who, overshadowed in life for his own dramatic works or for those of other more intense and serious contemporaries, we now remember them as our imperishable references in the field of wisdom, intelligence and happiness.
Source: www.eldiario.es
