My butcher explained to me the other day, with infinite patience and in line with the elections, that he did not work the Iberian pig. That people –that controversial or ‘podemic’ concept- preferred to spend the goose pasta on T-bone steaks and veal entrecotes, and on suckling pig shoulders and chops rather than pay large bills (what language the Federation of Industry Personnel Unions of Meat and its Derivatives and that of the National Association of Meat Industries of Spain) for “eat pork & rdquor;. So that in their neighborhood showcases, no secret, no feather, no prey, no lizard: luxury morsels for the Iberian diner. Only my ‘milguoqui’ butcher has fallen in the temptation of the torrezno, which is more expensive than Lladró® manufactures. Torrezno is in fashion, he told me. And when we collide with fashions, even the humble torrezno, star product of the bars of inns, inns and roadside bars of our bull skin (today I have subscribed to the topic), the little subtle, peripheral and consumable torrezno becomes in A luxe for the senses, it becomes a design torrezno.
I perceive a common and identical yearning in fiction, in fiction, in ‘fictionists’ and in ‘amateurs’. A kind of literary genre dysphoria in which almost all of us walk as if out of place, with dissatisfaction, frustration, discomfort or restlessness, as if Harrison Ford wanted to continue being Indiana Jones (in Cursed Time). I read that to Coetzee has been appointed writer-in-residence in THE museum (you know) and that he will be walking around Madrid waiting for the barbarians, unfortunately, although he would like –according to what they say- to have a little house in a town far from everyone’s sight. Villabrágima, perhaps, very close to Villafrechós, where the family of Jeff Bezos, a millionaire resident in Amazon, comes from,
All displeased with the role that has touched them. The elusive writer accepting public exposure. King Africa abandoning his rocker soul. Adam and Eve longing for the childhood they never had. Martin Amis enduring that all the obituaries talk about his father.
The Hollywood scriptwriters on strike for weeks asking for fair working conditions, no longer – they have lost hope – that they will be recognized as creators. Oh, if Barton Fink would raise his head. Justice officials, also on strike, asking for recognition that until now they have not had. Torreznos wanting to be delicatessen, like jig squid. The classics wanting to be modern (Hail, César, Mari Tere greets you). The trees (elms, cork oaks, whatever), which do not allow us to see the forest because they become greenhouses. All except I. That I have made this column more peripheral and consumable than ever. And that the people I never had come out in it.