Overview
LA CONFIRMACIÓN DE UN AUTOR RADICALMENTE ORIGINAL E IMPRESCINDIBLE EN LA NARRATIVA ESPAÑOLA: UN ARTEFACTO LITERARIO QUE SOLO PODRÍA HABER ESCRITO ÉL.
«La idea inicial fue representar este libro al óleo, pero como no sé pintar, tuve que escribirlo.» —Luis Mario
En la pintura europea de los siglos XV y XVI, era habitual representar una mosca con un grado de realismo extraordinario para tratar de engañar al espectador y así evidenciar la destreza técnica del artista. No tenemos del todo claro si lo que acontece en estas páginas son relatos, pero lo que está claro es que, de moscas, este libro está repleto; pequeñas interrupciones de la realidad, breves anomalías de lo cotidiano, discretos trampantojos que, como tales, hacen ver lo que no es, pero con una diferencia clave: en estos relatos, lo que no es, termina siendo.
Un hombre que, sacando de su huerto patatas saca la última patata sin haber sacado todavía la penúltima. ¡Ni siquiera la antepenúltima! Un jardín donde las margaritas ofrecen respuestas como «me quiere» y «no me quiere», pero también «tal vez» o «tu primo» o «a treinta grados la ropa de color» o «X=V(i2‡z)» o «por favor, con Enrique ni en broma». Una mujer que se traga un mirlo. Una pintora hiperrealista que pinta el retrato de un hombre con un tumor en el colon porque ella «pinta lo que hay», no solo lo que ve. Un grifo del que gotea una gota, una y otra vez, la misma gota, siempre la misma gota, ¡está claro, no hay más que verla, si es que son idénticas!
Luis Mario retuerce las palabras para desvelar partes del mundo y del lenguaje tan solo accesibles a través de lo poético, poniendo en cuestión nuestra propia percepción intelectual.
ENGLISH DESCRIPTION
THE CONFIRMATION OF A RADICALLY ORIGINAL AND ESSENTIAL AUTHOR IN SPANISH FICTION: A LITERARY ARTIFACT THAT ONLY HE COULD HAVE WRITTEN.
“The initial idea was to depict this book in oil paint, but since I don’t know how to paint, I had to write it.” —Luis Mario
In 15th- and 16th-century European paintings, it was common to depict a fly with an extraordinary degree of realism in an attempt to deceive the viewer and thus demonstrate the artist’s technical skill. It’s not entirely clear whether what unfolds in these pages are stories, but what is clear is that this book is teeming with flies—small interruptions of reality, brief anomalies of everyday life, subtle trompe-l’œil that, as such, make us see what isn’t there, but with one key difference: in these stories, what isn’t there ends up being there.
A man digging potatoes from his garden pulls out the last potato without having yet pulled out the second-to-last one. Not even the third-to-last one! A garden where daisies offer answers like “he loves me” and “he loves me not,” but also “maybe” or “your cousin” or “color clothes at thirty degrees” or “X=V(i2‡z)” or “please, not even as a joke with Enrique.” A woman who swallows a blackbird. A hyperrealist painter who paints the portrait of a man with a colon tumor because she “paints what’s there,” not just what she sees. A faucet from which a single drop drips, over and over again—the same drop, always the same drop. It’s obvious—you just have to look at them—they’re identical!
Luis Mario twists words to reveal aspects of the world and of language that are accessible only through poetry, calling our own intellectual perception into question.
«La idea inicial fue representar este libro al óleo, pero como no sé pintar, tuve que escribirlo.» —Luis Mario
En la pintura europea de los siglos XV y XVI, era habitual representar una mosca con un grado de realismo extraordinario para tratar de engañar al espectador y así evidenciar la destreza técnica del artista. No tenemos del todo claro si lo que acontece en estas páginas son relatos, pero lo que está claro es que, de moscas, este libro está repleto; pequeñas interrupciones de la realidad, breves anomalías de lo cotidiano, discretos trampantojos que, como tales, hacen ver lo que no es, pero con una diferencia clave: en estos relatos, lo que no es, termina siendo.
Un hombre que, sacando de su huerto patatas saca la última patata sin haber sacado todavía la penúltima. ¡Ni siquiera la antepenúltima! Un jardín donde las margaritas ofrecen respuestas como «me quiere» y «no me quiere», pero también «tal vez» o «tu primo» o «a treinta grados la ropa de color» o «X=V(i2‡z)» o «por favor, con Enrique ni en broma». Una mujer que se traga un mirlo. Una pintora hiperrealista que pinta el retrato de un hombre con un tumor en el colon porque ella «pinta lo que hay», no solo lo que ve. Un grifo del que gotea una gota, una y otra vez, la misma gota, siempre la misma gota, ¡está claro, no hay más que verla, si es que son idénticas!
Luis Mario retuerce las palabras para desvelar partes del mundo y del lenguaje tan solo accesibles a través de lo poético, poniendo en cuestión nuestra propia percepción intelectual.
ENGLISH DESCRIPTION
THE CONFIRMATION OF A RADICALLY ORIGINAL AND ESSENTIAL AUTHOR IN SPANISH FICTION: A LITERARY ARTIFACT THAT ONLY HE COULD HAVE WRITTEN.
“The initial idea was to depict this book in oil paint, but since I don’t know how to paint, I had to write it.” —Luis Mario
In 15th- and 16th-century European paintings, it was common to depict a fly with an extraordinary degree of realism in an attempt to deceive the viewer and thus demonstrate the artist’s technical skill. It’s not entirely clear whether what unfolds in these pages are stories, but what is clear is that this book is teeming with flies—small interruptions of reality, brief anomalies of everyday life, subtle trompe-l’œil that, as such, make us see what isn’t there, but with one key difference: in these stories, what isn’t there ends up being there.
A man digging potatoes from his garden pulls out the last potato without having yet pulled out the second-to-last one. Not even the third-to-last one! A garden where daisies offer answers like “he loves me” and “he loves me not,” but also “maybe” or “your cousin” or “color clothes at thirty degrees” or “X=V(i2‡z)” or “please, not even as a joke with Enrique.” A woman who swallows a blackbird. A hyperrealist painter who paints the portrait of a man with a colon tumor because she “paints what’s there,” not just what she sees. A faucet from which a single drop drips, over and over again—the same drop, always the same drop. It’s obvious—you just have to look at them—they’re identical!
Luis Mario twists words to reveal aspects of the world and of language that are accessible only through poetry, calling our own intellectual perception into question.
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