In his book''hugs''Eduardo Galeano tells a story that I love .
There was a lonely old man who spent most of his time in bed. It was said that a treasure hidden in the house. One day they enter the thieves, looking everywhere and found a trunk in the cellar. Take him away and when they open it they find it full of letters. They were love letters that the old man had received over the duration of his long life. The thieves were about to burn the letters, but, after discussion, decided finally to return. One by one. A week. Since then, every Monday at noon, the old man would have awaited the arrival of the postman. As soon as she saw him and ran to meet the postman, who knew everything, he kept the letter in her hand high. And even St. Peter could hear the beat of that heart went crazy with joy.
This is not the playful essence of literature? The writers are like those thieves. They take something that is real, as those letters with a magic trick and turn it into something totally new. The letters exist, and already belonged to the old, but they were placed, no longer read, in a dark cellar. By the simple trick to send them back one by one, the good thieves give new life to old letters, and give life to his weary soul.
(Isabel Allende, the preface to''The Open Veins of Latin America,''Eduardo Galeano, ed. Sperling & Kupfer, 2010)
The writer is a thief who steals your loss. Potertelo to return.
There was a lonely old man who spent most of his time in bed. It was said that a treasure hidden in the house. One day they enter the thieves, looking everywhere and found a trunk in the cellar. Take him away and when they open it they find it full of letters. They were love letters that the old man had received over the duration of his long life. The thieves were about to burn the letters, but, after discussion, decided finally to return. One by one. A week. Since then, every Monday at noon, the old man would have awaited the arrival of the postman. As soon as she saw him and ran to meet the postman, who knew everything, he kept the letter in her hand high. And even St. Peter could hear the beat of that heart went crazy with joy.
This is not the playful essence of literature? The writers are like those thieves. They take something that is real, as those letters with a magic trick and turn it into something totally new. The letters exist, and already belonged to the old, but they were placed, no longer read, in a dark cellar. By the simple trick to send them back one by one, the good thieves give new life to old letters, and give life to his weary soul.
(Isabel Allende, the preface to''The Open Veins of Latin America,''Eduardo Galeano, ed. Sperling & Kupfer, 2010)
The writer is a thief who steals your loss. Potertelo to return.
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