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How are they knotting their ties now? Large or small?

What are you mumbling?

The Wilson knot... that's it, the Wilson...

- Have you lost it again? - Not at all.

I just can't stop thinking about what I am doing.

You've always had trouble with the simplest things.

My father, with five movements, or perhaps three,

tied a perfect knot.

Who were you taIking to in the garden?

- To a bore. - To whom?

- To a bore from the university. - What does he do?

I suppose the same thing all of you do at the university.

- Do you know him well? - No.

- What do you mean? - I often run into him around there.

- What�s his name? - I don�t know.

- But he must have a name. - It�s possible.

Yes? Oh, hello.

It's practically all decided.

I'm glad you are getting the prize. Seriously.

Good.

Yes, all right.

Fine.

we�ll be talking.

Good-bye.

I have read a splendid book by a Welsh writer, a marvel composition.

You know practically nothing about the characters,

or their attitude about life.

The only protagonist is the city of Constantinople.

In fact, the idea of historical time does not exist.

The present and the past are blurred.

One of the narrative cores is the racetrack,

where, throughout centuries,

different urban factions confront one another.

- Did you read it in English? - Yes.

It was recently published in London.

Read it again and you'll find that this Constantinople

you talk about so fervently,

is not the city. but the name of a racehorse...

If ordinary people, those who make things work,

were as dispersed as you, nothing would work.

You get confused because you talk too much.

Verbal incontinence is, in fact, a corporate tick.

- A tick? - Yes, because it's compulsive.

You get a great idea and then test it

by flinging it out.

Sure...

like a ball against a wall,

to catch it on the rebound and throw it again.

A simple muscular movement.

I know people in this profession who are practically mute.

Yes.

Poets who don't drink, but there are very few of those.

I am tempted to contradict.

It�s your obligation.

Each of you is a comforting mirror image of the other...

Come now!

You need each other to endure

the hard conditions of your profession.

Alright, let's get busy.

- They must be impatient outside. - Some more than others.

What would you say to suggesting

that the author change the title?

It's a hackneyed and decadent title

with a romantic smell that bothers me...

No, no! Definitely not.

I have a sense of smell for titles. This one is perfect.

- Let's not complicate things. - It shouldn't be changed.

It's a find!

I dare say it�s the best thing about the book.

You're small-time, but you�d die to say something significant.

Leave your professional abuses for your literary gatherings...

There are none any more...

Then leave them for another occasion.

Welcome, Mr. Mayor.

You have a knack for getting people together.

Not me, culture.

Culture by itself doesn't open any doors.

That's true; you are right in that respect.

I appreciate you having made the time.

- Pawn 4 Queen. - Knight 3, Bishop, King.

Pawn 4, Bishop, Queen.

Pawn 3, King.

Pawn 3, Knight, King.

- Pawn 4. Queen. - Bishop 2, Knight.

- Tartakower. - Catalan opening.

Barcelona, 1929.

- May I? - Sure.

- See you tomorrow. - Not tomorrow. The day after.

- I knew you'd come. - Really?

- Yes, of course. - Why?

- I know you well. - That�s what you think.

You�re a scoundrel.

- You look beautiful. - Do you think so?

- Trying to impress someone? - What�s up?

Yes, you.

- How are you? - Very well.

Hello!

Is your father still determined to seduce you?

Of course! I make it very easy for him.

Don't take it so seriously.

Do you know anyone with a secret,

anyone with mystery?

One or two...

Seen anything interesting lately?

An exhibit of contemporary art.

Stop...

You and you, back inside. Keep going.

I think you are exaggerating...

I said too little, I should have added more...

You enjoy enhancing your reputation as a louse.

What are you saying? You see my innocent, angel face?

I don't know what malice is...

And what about the music? What's wrong with music?

No great composer has appeared in years.

- And why is that? - Because silence no longer exists.

He�s famous because his book was liked here,

and there by those up high and in the middle.

And those at the bottom?

In arts and letters there is no bottom,

those on the bottom are in the middle.

We must give the figure of the writer prestige,

and these cultural events help do this.

A country that forgets its writers pays dearly for it.

What is the last thing you�ve read?

A 275 page report on the subsoil of the city.

I find it out of place.

What are writers like?

They have evolved very little.

They practice an old profession. like prostitutes and actors.

- But they're adorable. - Why?

They are shy and aggressive, and, like politicians,

they consider themselves much better than they are.

- Thank you a lot. - Not at all.

The waiter has taken my Whiskey again.

- I won't sign without it. - Does the glass have to be full?

Of course!

It's just that I sign in two stages:

first I write my name,

then I take a sip from a full glass,

and finally I scribble a flourish,

cause I sign with a flourish.

Leaving each person's idiosyncrasies, no doubt very legitimate

it would be more reasonable and more in keeping

with the residual character of literature...

I'm not signing.

Bring me a glass of whiskey.

- Sign, will you. - You said the same thing last year.

Wrong! I remember that last year I spoke of invisible ink.

Your memory's going. You're getting old.

AFTER THE VOTING, THE JURY

AWARDS THIS PRIZE TO THE NOVEL

"WARSAW BRIDGE".

Excuse me. Did you expect to win?

- I suppose so. - Are you satisfied?

At the moment, overwhelmed.

What are you planning to do with the prize?

First spend it and then regret having spent it so foolishly.

Would you dedicate this prize to someone?

Yes, but only in case of an Act of God.

Would you like your book to be a film?

More than please me, it would worry me.

What is the last book you've read?

I couldn't say. I read many at a time

Do you admit the influence of American

post-war literature on your work?

Which American literature? Columbian, Mexican, Peruvian?

I'm referring to American, from the USA, of course.

And which post-war?

World War II, Korea, Vietnam,

or the war on the island of Grenada?

What will you do to celebrate the prize?

Go to a restaurant I save for special occasions.

What will you order?

Yes, that I know.

And you. What do you think of quatrains?

Are you referring to quatrains of 3 verses or tercets with 1 rhyme?

Yes, of course.

A lot has been written on the subject.

It has even been said that because of the fashion,

many on-rhyme tercets could have lost the 3rd verse

becoming 2 verses or 4 verses.

But if you want my opinion,

I do not believe in this possibility.

Now, if you�ll allow me...

So, how am I doing?

Perfectly.

Do you follow the same line as in your earlier novels?

I hope so, since one always writes about the same things.

And...

- Did it take much to write it? - In time, money or mental effort?

Well, let's say in time.

If you mean writing time: three weeks.

By hand or with a typewriter?

- It depends... - On what?

I write poems by hand and novels on the typewriter.

And I dictate articles.

Could you give me a synthesis of the plot?

If it were a film script it would take me 30 seconds.

For the novel, the synthesis you want

consists of the 200 pages of the book.

- In other words, one has to read it. - Or at least try to.

All right, I'll try.

WARSAW BRIDGE

Body of a man.

Age: about 45.

Decubitus prone position.

Right arm folded over thorax,

left arm in unnatural position due to fractures.

Hyper-flexing of the head,

face covered with mixture of dried blood and mud.

Probable fracture of the spine,

remains of encephalic mass on the forehead.

After washing face to eliminate the remains,

we observe black and blue swollen features,

deformed

and fundamentally asymmetrical,

as if the left side of the face had

slid vertically over the other half,

with the eye socket, cheek, and jawbone on the left

displaced towards the centre and downwards.

It seems evident the fractures affect

not only the neck and skull,

but the whole osseous facial mass.

No sign of violence on the hands,

very neat, clean fingernails

with no foreign matter, such as hair or threads.

Difficult to distinguish

whether the skin belongs to the palm or the back

of the hand as there are no calluses,

grazes,

or light injuries.

In the lower abdomen

we observe

a bruised wound some 20 centimeters long,

with evisceration of intestinal mass.

Cause of death:

injuries compatible with cranialencephalic traumatism

and traumatic shock.

Mechanism of death compatible with a fall from an undetermined height.

The passing of time

modifies my capacity to evoke

and introduces a new system of memory selection

bit by bit those memories

I could share with others become blurred

and those I cannot share force themselves on me.

They are vivid and persistent memories,

but not verifiable by anyone else. There are no witnesses.

They are like still photographs that are redeemed

during moments of undefined emotion...

streets,

squares,

bridges,

open fields...

huge iron and glass domes,

station platforms without passengers.

All submerge in the slowness and silence of distant memory.

I caught the urban train in Friedrichstrasse

and went by the Warsaw Bridge.

From the station I saw a landscape of railroad tracks,

cars stopped on the sidings,

trains moving in different directions,

and engines making almost

imperceptible manoeuvers when my car started moving.

I could see sheds,

asbestos roofs and chimneys,

various buildings colored by smoke year after year,

eroding the original color of the walls...

In the background a bridge,

the Warsaw Bridge,

grey on an identical sky.

For years that view

gave me an emotional shock.

I always intended to go as far as the bridge some day

to cross it from side to side.

I never did.

Suddenly things accelerated

to such a fever pitch that few could have foreseen it.

Rather, no one foresaw it.

That going from the old situation to the new was staggering

but also splendid.

What failed was our perception.

In other words, ourselves.

Do you believe there is a reality outside of ourselves,

an objective reality, perhaps?

I didn�t say that.

To get away from this objective reality that worries you so,

I would never say "solus ipse� as Bishop Berkeley did.

- The Bishop of Berkeley? - Not the Bishop of Berkeley!

Berkeley who was a bishop!

It is the human mind that makes the distinction

between the living and the non-living.

The most primitive forms are those of a single cell.

Cells that duplicate themselves indefinitely.

At this stage there is no division of labor,

and consequently, no aging process.

They are, in a way, immortal.

There is no doubt that these organisms were aquatic,

unable to live out of water.

The primitive atmosphere of the earth was not suitable for life.

Because the delicate molecules

were subjected to strong radiations.

Nowadays nobody except

die-hard theologians doubt

that life originated from

the organic forms diluted in water.

The evolution of plant life is a prodigious tale;

the adventure of some types of algae

that manage to leave the sea and colonize the earth.

The blue of the sky is a consequence of the green of the algae,

thanks to the intense activity of these photosynthesizing beings.

The first colonizers were very simple

and their reproductive systems asexual.

Sexuality is an evolutionary success that involves paralysis

and death,

but which makes selection and

the permanence of the species possible.

The first very rudimentary algae,

incessantly swept by the water,

had great difficulties...

In the process of evolutionary adaptation

the algae that acquired systems of fixation

to the substances which protect their cellular membranes,

for example, gelatinous algae, flourish.

- What time is it? Late? - Twenty five after twelVe.

Some voice! Are you hoarse?

I talked too much.

You should measure your strength.

When I finish a class, I always feel depressed somehow.

I digress a lot...

but besides, today I had the feeling

I was saying someone else's words.

I'm not surprised. You could be a medium.

- Don't laugh. I�m serious. - So am I!

Oh, come on!

Some days we have strange feelings. That's all.

I really think I'm not cut out for teaching.

You must be, you've done it for years.

You and most of the others know how to act.

I lack appeal. I can't seduce...

You can't seduce?

You are the paradigm of seduction.

We'll go to lunch and continue the conversation.

- Are you serious? - Let's talk.

There's a restaurant that serves baby squid with aubergine.

Are you sure they're squid? Not cuttlefish?

No. squid!

Are you sure?

Cephalopeda decapoda dibranchiata!

With laminar expansions

or contractile fins on both sides.

Exactly!

With a calcareous and wide internal shell.

Yes, but they remove it first.

With 2 tentacles longer than the rest.

With a prehensile function, and suction cups.

With an ink gland...

that secretes a black liquid for defensive purposes...

very developed crystalline eyes

and anterior and posterior sockets that form real images...

and a notable visual and tactile associative memory.

They're not squid, they're cuttlefish.

They are not cuttlefish! They're squid.

Lolinguncula vulgaris,

lolinguncula vulgaris.

Squid, squid!

Good afternoon.

Is this the road to "Los Arcos"?

On the other shore. You can't miss it.

Thanks.

Could you tell me what you are doing?

I'm putting oxygen into the pond.

The water is low and the fish are dying.

- They need oxygen. - Right.

Bye.

How�re you doing?

Oil.

This knife cuts very well.

- Do you wash the mushrooms? - Yes.

When I go near the dam, I feel strange.

- Does that happen to you too? - No.

For me a dam is just an ordinary reality.

The most ordinary things can take on an unusual dimension.

Dams are sleeping waters,

that sometimes arouse foul fantasies,

they�re easy to interpret

because they refer to some submerged village

or to the foreboding of a catastrophe

if the retaining wall gives way.

Even the story about the bells in the dam

is easy to explain because, in fact,

the bells do toll.

It's been proved that when the water level drops,

the bells toll, whether they are there or not,

the bells toll.

On the other hand, salt marshes, swamps

but above all lakes, are something else.

- Should I use flour? - No.

Especially lakes...

They really do stimulate the imagination

with legends relating to the mysteries of their unknown depths.

Today a woman in the bread shop was telling

a strange story about her sick sister and the bells.

My older sister

was put in a rest home

because she was losing her mind.

Suddenly she would ask me:

Who are you?

What are you doing here? I felt so sorry for her.

This morning we went to see her

and she seemed to remember everything.

She even remembered making me the sweater I was wearing.

Suddenly she looked at me like a child,

she leaned closer

and whispering in my ear,

she said:

Confidentially, why don't you tell me

how long I've been dead.

How long have I been dead?

My blood went cold.

You don�t care whether things correspond.

If you mean names attract me, you're right.

But without losing interest in their meaning.

At times temptation is tough.

I think I know what I'm dealing with.

You probably know better than many others.

Does it surprise you to find

there are real idiots among writers?

Idiocy does not surprise me,

every profession has its quota.

What bothers me

is that the printed word has too much prestige.

Some printed words merit their prestige.

Some are like night court.

like that band of writers

who research into a supposedly lived past,

when they are really reducing memory

to insubstantial recollections.

Some have a poor heritage.

Do you want to talk about your book?

Is this is the best time? Of course I do.

You never know what you've written

if others don't explain it to you.

I can only discuss part of it now.

- I couldn't finish it. - You missed the best part.

- Were you bored? - No, that's not it.

Then it's really serious.

At first it works, even suggests that it may be interesting,

but you introduce a change that probably makes for more sales.

But that's another story.

Look, I write to be read,

and I can continue writing because I am read.

Yes, of course. Why?

The reader must be given enough clues

to defend himself against general stupidity.

The public accepts anything.

The important reader is the one who isn�t a reader yet,

and perhaps never will be.

I insist, the most lucid authors

create the most reasonable and renovating trends.

What you call public should go fuck itself.

I'll show you something you're going to like.

I don't want you to reproach my rustic origins

but a man in my village took the same route every day.

He would leave home at dawn and go back at dusk.

In both cases in the twilight,

which is the best time, he observed the sky.

The man knew what he wanted.

He traveled on a donkey.

He got to know the heavens so accurately

that they said he knew them by heart.

On one occasion he observed a change

in the order of the planets and stars.

He stopped and noted the presence

of a new heavenly body.

He hurried to announce his discovery.

The weird thing is he discovered it some hours

before it was tracked at

the Observatory at Greenwich.

They tell many stories like that in villages.

Really?

- It's logical they should. - Really?

Perhaps they express a certain prevention,

as opposed to science,

which is an urban phenomenon.

Now I have the interpretation. Now what?

Nothing, but it's natural for different life-styles

to create their own mythology in self-defense.

I think you are taking it too literally.

The person who made up the story could be just a wise guy!

It's a good story and literally believable.

In the right hands it would be a good short story.

I'm glad you said short story, at least they are brief.

...I was addicted to politics.

An addiction that made me feel worthwhile as well as free.

For years I lived entrenched in my dignity.

Too entrenched... probably.

It was not difficult for me to put off decisions

because I lived intensely in the illusion that the future

was much more real than the present.

I lived as if I deserved a second chance...

I remember a name,

the face of a friend,

but suddenly my mind goes blank,

and is unable to establish any significant ties...

... You talk about stirring up your memory

but you live engrossed in your memories...

You use your past, your shitty Warsaw Bridge,

to feed your narcissism.

You are stifled by aesthetics...

It's true.

You�re stifled by rather precarious aesthetics.

You�d better shut up.

You�ve had things very easy up to now.

- You're going too far. - Mind your own business.

Let�s not make this something personal when it is not.

What do you mean?

That you are avoiding the question.

And what is the question?

You know very well,

it's the attitude one takes towards literature.

Because in literature, as in everything else, there are 2 choices:

you either take risks or you use it to earn a living.

- You're a real son of a bitch! - Probably.

Newspapers have reported

the strange case, of a diver found in a burnt forest.

According to the press,

while filling its water tanks,

a plane from the Forest Service scooped up the diver

hurling him down later on the burning forest.

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