I mean so much about everything, but once more language betrays me, my thought and the written word are distancing themselves friends, love or hate with the frequency at which a change of underwear (a common saying of my grandmother Chela, hahaha, powerful woman labia Chincha .)
Let's see ... I was recently the opening of the Lima Film Festival, I had fun with the presentation on Mario Vargas Llosa in the house O 'Higgins, in particular a room where there are a number of books the writer has obviously read his notes he has left all blank, even on the last page he wrote the book a note evaluator, with which professional examination, 20 Flaubert puts almost always, Joyce, a couple of philosophers Mariátegui and others, what fun it was, I even feel a little school spirit and fervor that has Don Vargas. There is something I've always wanted to ask, I'd like to tell you about my grandfather, for he has written on it three times: in Conversation in the Cathedral, The Fish in the Water, and some other that I have not read, my grandfather was his partner in San Marcos, formed a study group as well, you know how it is, forms with people, whether by his lucidity, his knowledge or beliefs, a group where you read and study books, texts and relics to then dedicate to crumble to deconstruct. The passions are aroused, ah yes, those gatherings; imagine my grandfather with a cigar in his mouth, ashes falling sooner, he lights Vargas Llosa and other students, really, these generations of intellectuals in San Marcos were the best, since Porras or Basadre was established a love for the study and knowledge that is rare in these times.
Anyway ... for not swinging through the branches which monkey. I wanted to go up and say: My name is Julia, and yes, Aunt Julia told me, and not only my niece, but some readers who remember him even in the jokes, but I am the granddaughter of Indian Martinez, the copper face cholo with everlasting cigar, lights it has more than once, right? If not, would not have written three times about it, Mr. Vargas Llosa tell me, what my grandfather, "his eyes sparkled upon hearing a great idea? What was your face when defending anything? Was her gentle smile? Ever was seen sad? Have you ever allowed to be distracted? Have you always combined his cashmere sweater with leather bag, as I remember? Have you ever talked to me, the times I was carrying and took me to his chest that smelled of snuff and good man when I left to be in accompanying library for hours, from when I bought ice cream in winter, when I bought a typewriter looked just like his, but little, Satacho of when he said, are Satan? No? Well let me tell you that died long ago, fifteen years or so, and I was there, holding her hand, watching as his body relaxed more and more, how their pain was slowly slipping away as my mom told me not to cry so he did not have pity upon me, because he left me, you know? He left when I wanted more, when is penetrated his words and hugs me, he was most passionate when he saw his work when he saw more reading and researching and the more I was smoking too, never left snuff. Is that why he died, Mr. Vargas Llosa's why I'm glad that men and women like you, like my grandfather live, live to continue to create, to continue writing, to continue ... Shortly after my grandfather died I met a beggar, was about 80 years, was hungry and ragged, I gave him money and I was pensanso why this man, who had abandoned his living existence, why, why my grandfather, who had to give a lifetime of no work. Do not worry, I get that every human has a place in the world, every human has something to do, that I have the opportunity to feel his tenacity in me that I can take over from his passion; and I understood it, but my memories as a child still has the feeling of having been the victim of an enormous injustice. It was just that Mr. Vargas Llosa, nothing more. So long and healthy!
did not tell because I had no chance, and then I dipped into a drink and laugh with friends. Only a moment I was silent and solitary reviewing the look between exposure and people, but hands grabbed me by the waist and again he brought me a kiss to the here and now, laughter and conversation from time then saw Vargas Llosa's books, but I felt neither nostalgic nor regret, because the Indian just turn MartÃnez his pipe in my heart.
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