He waited for him, without exaggeration, for years. That day when you stand in front of a blank page (on the screen, because I write all editorial columns directly on the computer) and even though you think about it for several days, the topic does not appear. It’s not about a terrible writer’s block, which I consider a conceited myth, like in the fairy tale about the fox that can’t reach the grapes and excuses itself that they are still green, but about something quite the opposite: an excess of topics that could be written about. Or rather, express your opinion, but always with a certain amount of relevant information. Of course, I will not use Lope de Vega’s famous sonnet on how to complete a sonnet. You surely remember its beginning: “The sonnet tells me to write Violante / that I was in so much trouble in my life”, and what counts is the process of how to fill the sonnet and that’s it, to complete it. Which reminds me of Cervantes problem with the prologue of the first part Quixote, which I didn’t know how to solve and then a mysterious nameless friend appears and the prologue is also a process of how to solve the problem. As we can see, there is nothing new under the Golden Age sun.

But the dilemma is different. The dilemma of excess and multiplicity. There are so many topics on the agenda for the day, or month, that the menu is simply inexhaustible. All you have to do is close your eyes, reach out and grab the first one that comes by. Let’s say, for example, some detail of the current national policy. For example, the news about the assets of the current ministers in the government of the newly appointed president. What shame those who assume public office must go through, dressed to the minimum, longing for honesty, and that is just the beginning because what follows is the control of public opinion in the way they manage their departments. So you have to consider the goods at the beginning and at the end, not only them, but all those who will benefit from the contact in question. Good rhyme: The government of the day is the contact of the day, especially for those whose eyes shine because of the opportunity that opens with its contact (doesn’t rhyme, but applies to the misfortune of the country of political profiteers).

I could also turn to the international arena. But how sad it is to talk once again about the endless conflict between Israel and Palestine, about the horror that both are doing in an endless escalation, without humanity. And although I support Israel’s position because Hamas’s terrorism is intolerable and cannot be silenced, I believe that the State of Israel is to blame for its excess of force and death. Of course, I think even worse are those who without self-criticism dig in on either side, and the smallest trace of anti-Semitism camouflaged (perversely) or infiltrated (very naively) under the defense of innocent paying Palestinians is not admissible. .the consequences of this war.

Of course, my field has always been literature. I have said more than once that my colleagues in the editorial office are more experts than I am in political matters. And that’s not because I’m like that in literature, although I know something. Instead, my field is narrow, limited, it surrounds the attributes of a specialist, because I focus on the novel. What happens is that when you open the novel, what surfaces, in a double rush, is the splendor and the misery of humanity. So, there is no specialization in the novel in the strict sense. I prefer to go to a general practitioner, which, it seems, we talk to less and less, because thanks to the Internet we believe that we are experts and go directly to a specialist. Not very healthy, to say the least.

I’m moving away. I return to my topic. Or rather: to my absence of the topic due to the excess of the world. It’s always encouraging to talk about movies or books; after all, editorials are the younger brothers of the great art of the essay. What I should be writing about is Ridley Scott’s Napoleon movie, I just haven’t seen it yet. I don’t think I will see her. The comments don’t describe it well: a lot biographical film, the strong role of Napoleon’s wife and many small battles. I better get my copy Death of NapoleonSimón Leys, published by Acantilado, which is a real gem about the escape of the French emperor towards the end of his days, and which has, I suspect, much more originality than the production Hollywood.

As you can see, I’m done talking about books. It was just a mention. Enough for now. I could talk about the (first rejected, but finally launched) Book Fair in Quito. At least they did in the Bicentenario Park. The labyrinthine trips to the center of Quito were left behind, and with good will and great haste some tables were called. By the way, I haven’t been burdened with so many literary events in recent months, so that partly explains why I ran out of topics. Only, as you have seen, I am overcome not by lack but by excess. One is mortal, limited, he corrects his clumsiness with a lot of work and corrections, he responds to the imperatives of his time with a certain resistance, and he suspects that more than information, it is about achieving a little quiet music, I mean rhythm, a minimum of a personal voice that helps in a very short break, a voice of this reading, a voice that is never visible and that takes years to get close to and in which the patience of its readers, if they have it, is appreciated.

In my next column, I return to the line. I promise.

And it was done, as Lope said. (OR)