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26.05.2020 / Sesión no Iniciada 

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En estos tiempos de hipercomunicación bastaría la invitación de enviar a un amigo cualquiera de los textos que consideres interesantes algo redundante: demasiada comunicación, demasiados textos y , en general, demasiado de todo.
Es posible que estemos de acuerdo... pero cuando encuentras algo interesante en cualquier sitio, la red, la calle, tu casa, o un lugar escondido y remoto, compartirlo no sólo es un acto (acción, hecho) de amistad o altruismo, también es una manera de ahorrar tiempo a los demás (y de que te lo ahorren a ti (si eres afortunado) a costa del tiempo que tu has podido derrochar (emplear) y el gustazo de mostrar que estuviste ahí (o donde fuera ) un poco antes (el tiempo ya no es más el que era).
Comparte con tus conocidos aquello que encuentras, es evolución.
Gate of Heaven
30-05-07 John J. Healey 


The following is an excerpt from a novel I am writing, a work I progress, with the provisional title of 'Tamarit'. It will be a work that mixes memoir with fiction. 

The main character is already dead when the novel begins and loved ones he has left behind, connecting various pieces of his writing together, attempt to tell his story. The life of the youngest of his mourners, a girl barely twenty, will be changed significantly thanks to a journey he posthumously sends her on.

John J. Healey

Jeremy called from Granada a few days before the film wrapped – a big dumb American adventure-drama shot mostly in and around Cartagena.  I was related to him once through my first marriage and we had stayed in touch over the years.  He was ensconced once again in his little carmen in the Albaicín and had brought over a crate of cranberries from his family bogs in Massachusetts.  He was going to roast some partridges and break out some good C.U.N.E Reserva and he wanted me to come.  He also mentioned that Inmaculada would be there.  It had been three years since our divorce.  I booked a room at the Alhambra Palace and made a point of calling Lala who I usually slept with when passing that way.  Once I approved the last pile of Panavision invoices and said goodbye to what remained of the crew I rented a car and drove to Granada.

My first thought when I arrived five hours later and found Inmaculada sitting at the long dinner table was how wonderful she looked.  She wore a black sleeveless dress and was smoking a cigarette while nursing a glass of red wine.  It felt good being back there.  The framed, mil-dewed poster for Cerveza Victoria I had first seen in Jeremy's old finca on the outskirts of Malaga when I was nineteen still adorned the mozarabe entranceway.  The fireplaces were burning rough hewn chunks of olive wood.  The fountain in the patio with its cypress tree and little lemon tree was working and the outdoor lights were still just simple bulbs hidden behind little wicker baskets nailed into the bricks.  The only major change was that the living room had been moved upstairs enabling one to sit between bookshelves jammed with old, orange jacketed Penguin paperbacks, the Alhambra and the Generalife lit up across the way.  

Jeremy was somewhat stouter and grayer than when I had last seen him.  He was in the kitchen drinking and cooking while aiming a monologue at some guests he had found in a bar down the street.  He often enjoyed regaling academically minded tourists with arcane facts about Spanish history not found in guide books.  These three, an American couple wearing matching Timberland boots and a wispy bearded Brit professor who was laughing a tad too loud were ideal.  Inmaculada had not moved since I came in.  She stayed put amused to watch me complete the round of obligatory pleasantries before I was able to settle next to her.  

As the night progressed in three different languages we managed to actually flirt with each other and catch up a bit without getting too specific.  I made it clear I had been unattached the past few months and I figured she might be over someone too.  It would explain the more relaxed and playful attitude she was taking with me that contrasted rather sharply with how it had been the last time we saw each other. Spending time apart, with oceans and continents and other relationships between us, and then coming together again with heat, had been something we had excelled at once upon a time.
Later, as dawn broke, I watched her sleep.  Naked.  Smooth.  Content.  She lay on her stomach with her face turned towards the window.  I saw she was not her usual, emaciated self.  She had filled out a little and it had only added to her beauty.  Retracing the way her slender back narrowed before gently blossoming into the hillocks of her ass gave me another erection.  Her thighs and my cock and the sheets were dried with blood from her period.  I remembered with a smile, how after leaving Jeremy's she had made it clear during the walk down through the narrow streets that we were not to have sex.   Sleeping in the same bed together would be fine she had said, but nothing else.  It would be pointless for her to do that she had said.  I had agreed to her terms with equanimity.  I told her that would be fine, that the pleasure of seeing her again and the idea of being able to collapse and talk would be more than enough.  But once we reached her apartment and closed the door that had been that.

I put my nose close to her skin.  She smelled like laundered linens drying in the open air with an underscent of oysters on ice.  I kissed the little hollow between her shoulder blades where three lone freckles mimicked Orion's belt and cleared some of her thick black hair away from her face.  She did not stir.

I showered and washed my hair with her shampoo and rinsed out my mouth with some of her toothpaste.  Snooping in her medicine cabinet I found antibiotics, anti-depressants, collerium and condoms.  Drying off with a faded towel monogrammed with our initials I realized the small chest of drawers across from the sink, cluttered with necklaces and painted Indian jewelry boxes, had been a wedding present from my step-mother.  I remembered the trip we had taken to visit her in Palm Beach years earlier, just before I had left Inmaculada that first time, barely seven months after we got married.  How young and shy she had been then and how anxiously she had behaved on the flight down from New York.  How dark she got in the sun.  How peculiar and sexy it had felt to swim with her out in front of the house in the unpleasantly warm Atlantic waves frothy with snottish seaweed, her tiny bikini startling the ambient Republicans, and then making love with her afterwards when she was anything but shy in the dense afternoon heat in that ghastly, leopard-skin bedroom we had been given with such fan fare; while the cat watched; while my step-mother played golf with her relatives from Missouri; while the Cuban maid walked the dogs.
I wrapped the towel around me and looked at the rest of the apartment.  The windows in the main room looked through a maze of tiled roofs and antennas.  Her computer had a neatly draped Liberty scarf covering it and two thick dictionaries resting by it.  At least half the books in her shelves were mine.  It was odd seeing them again.  One of them had sentimental value, a hard back edition of Finnegan's Wake that had been in my parents' apartment in the Bronx since I could remember.   I had never been able to explain how it first got there.  No one in my family had ever been literary minded to such an extent and yet there it had been and when I had left home romantically cathected to Joyce as only a sixteen year old might be I took it with me, and here it had been with Inmaculada all these years just off the Calle Recogidas.

When my mother dies I do not cry.  I already know it has happened.  My father takes me into the kitchen in the apartment overlooking the rust colored Harlem River near the gray, schist veined, heavy stoned Washington Bridge under whose vast, damp arches I play with dirty local boys.  It is spring and clean spring light comes through the window.   It is 1956 and I am still in the little world I was born to.   My father is still a dark haired, handsome Irishman in a white shirt and black knit tie.  He starts to cry as he speaks the words.  I look at him and then look down at the floor.


Inmaculada was sixteen when I first saw her.  She worked for her father in the afternoons to earn spending money.  Slight and alert and well groomed she would answer the door to the consulta in a white lab coat and show patients to the waiting room.  If it was the first visit she would direct you to a dark, book lined office and take your history.

The waiting room and the office where the case histories were taken, as well as the family living quarters I would later come to know, were decorated in a style large segments of the Spanish population chose to reflect their ascendance from meaner times.  Back in those days (the late 70's) the region's simpler, noble furnishings could only be found in antique stores or in the country homes of aristocrats or in houses carefully restored by discerning foreigners.  Inmaculada's family who had suffered with that kind of furniture as witness associated them with a past of precarious opportunity, had abandoned them as earnings accrued, replacing them with kitsch.   Porcelain lamps shaped like oriental wise men complimented sofas and easy chairs covered in a petroleum based, fake leather that stuck to skin in the warm months.  Acrylic still-lives depicting shiny fruit and poorly imagined Nordic landscapes hung near factory-made coffee tables produced to emulate a tradesman's view of Iberian splendor.  The office and the apartment occupied the third floor of a new building considered desirable and sophisticated by the bourgeoisie of Granada.  It commanded a corner where what used to be called the Avenida Calvo Sotelo met the Avenida de Madrid just as it rose up towards the roads to Jaen and to Múrcia.  Further up this street was the medical school and teaching hospital, some of which had been built during the years of the Republic and some of which had been built in the early years of the dictatorship.  The older parts were curvy and romantic, the more recent additions rectangular and dour.

It is raining hard in spring and I stand in the dissection hall of the Anatomy Department.  I wear a surgical mask and latex gloves.  I am recently divorced and poor and seeing three women at the same time.  I earn my living teaching English and performing these autopsies every afternoon for a  professor writing a textbook on neonatal deformations.  The hall is cavernous and covered with beige tiles.  It has tall, narrow, arched windows like those one might find in a cathedral.  Rising up from the floor like baptismal fonts stretched flat are eight dissection tables that stand in a row, made from marble with shiny brass drains.  Cabinets line the far wall containing old transparent apothecary jars where amber toned fetuses float in suspension next to large wooden mock-ups of organs once used for instruction.  Each piece is a different color and each has a little hook and eye to hold it to the next … the lungs, the liver, the eye, the heart. Today's still-born girl rests upon a green sterile cloth placed in a Pyrex baking dish.  I have cut and pulled down the skin just above her forehead.  I have opened her skull.  I have carefully severed and lifted her little brain into my hands.  I am just about to weigh it.  I turn to the nearest window which is open to the rain and look out across an empty lot where a family of Gypsies stand about a fire holding bits of cardboard above their heads.  I see the bull ring, wet and closed.  All the trees are heavy with blossoms.

Nina was in her fifth month when we first came to that office.  We had not yet decided whether to have the baby in New York or whether to stay and have it there where we had been living the better part of three years.  We had settled in a small primitive village nestled high up on the southern slopes of the Sierra Nevada.  The northern slopes one saw from Granada were bare and forbidding and covered with snow the year round.  But this village, part of the Alpujarras, faced the Mediterranean and clung to fertile, terraced fields worked by tough, wiry farmers in corduroy suits who plowed the earth behind mules shaped liked thoroughbreds.  The earth was irrigated by a labyrinth of stone hewn locks and canals laid out by Moors in the 15th Century.  Chestnut trees and blackberry thickets lined the mountain paths.  Goats and children roamed the steep village streets.  The houses had flat roofs covered with a mixture of mud and slate dust that gave off a violet hue after it rained.  

Nina and I would awaken in the morning breathing crystalline air, listening to the gush of a nearby stream.  We would stare up at the whitewashed ceiling dense with wooden beams and cross sprats jammed with stones, and know that we were living an adventure.  A  trust fund left by a grandfather long gone and disbursed by an accountant who ate lunch at his desk everyday on Wall Street, made it all possible.  The invisible funds arrived at our little bank each month permitting me to read Proust and Gibbons and Henry James and to respond to them with copious pages of my own mediocre, pretentious prose.   It allowed me to escape the gravitational pull of my upbringing and to strike poses carefully wrought from books.  It permitted Nina, the actual heiress, to paint naive visions of village life and to decorate the four hundred year old house with Marimeko curtains and velvet backed cushions from Bonwit Tellers.   Local cats sipped milk on the front steps from one of our Cartier soup bowls.   In January our neighbors who could not read would set up a table just meters away from their front door where they would put screaming pigs to the knife.  Then they would burn the epidermis and gut them, emptying the blood into plastic vats used on other days for laundry.  

Nina and I would go for long walks in the afternoons with our Tibetan dogs and we would listen to the BBC at night by the fire or attend dinner parties at houses owned by other expatriates from England and Sweden.   And we would walk home after these meals under perfectly clear constellations and hear the Poqueira river below charged with melting snow rushing between smoothened boulders in the blackness of the night.  Once a week we would drive an hour south to the coast to have a proper lunch at the beach or we would drive north to Granada to raid a modern supermarket and buy a Paris Herald to read while soaking in the large tubs at the gloomy and once grand Hotel Victoria.  This affable life had persisted for eight years marking similar rhythms in Manhattan, Eastern Long Island, Italy, and now Spain.  It would last just a little longer still.

I'm driving south through the orange groves of Béznar.  My car is a third hand, roofless, doorless, fiberglass bodied jeep.  It is June and twilight and the air is thick with the scents of citrus flowers.  The roadside orange and honey stands are closed.  The big trucks have stopped hauling.  I have the winding road to myself.  Inmaculada and Papé are staying in an apartment on the beach in Salobreña.  We have been joking for weeks about sleeping together.  When it was just the two of them in my class we would leave the apartment and drive to the Sierra or to the Generalife and have literary conversations that inevitably turned to sex   The earth was warming that month and sex was everywhere.  That morning I had risen from Madeleine's bed, an equestrian from the Swiss-Italian border, blond and stunning, who had been aloof for weeks only to give in last night, suddenly and intensely at her family's cortijo in the Vega .  The night before I had stayed again with the Saudi born nurse from Cádiz whose orgasms I had lost count of.  But these two I am to visit now have been the most compelling of all, these virginal bourgeois nymphs determined to embrace the taboo I represent ( the other, the foreigner, el rubio con los ojos azules, el divorciado).  They have clearly made a pact.  I have never managed to see either of them without the other being present.   

Inmaculada's father was known to the foreign community as the best gynecological obstetrician around.  He was an attractive, energetic man who had trained in the States and who spoke English.  The two rooms most clearly his, the examination room and a small supply room that also served as a laboratory, stood in stark contrast to the rest of the house.  Both these rooms were modern to a flaw and intimately associated with his progressive points of view.  What  fueled a restlessness and a sense of disquiet that moved just beneath his amiable exterior was the fact that he straddled two worlds; the world of American medicine where he might have stayed and prospered, and the older world of his wife and their respective families still anchored to the villages outside the provincial capital, a world that had drawn him back and bound him with responsibilities.

I leave Béznar behind.  Soon the Mediterranean will appear, just before dark, and I will come down through the sugar cane and the avocado groves, and I will park on the beach, and I will find their apartment, small and badly decorated, and I will have them both tonight, all through the night, and it will be sweet and dear and as full of life as life can be, and the three of us will swim  before dawn and have chocolate and churros for breakfast at the chiringuito up the beach, and within the month the two girls will cease to be friends and Inmaculada will have coaxed me into seeing her alone…


We had come down to Granada from the mountains a few days before and settled into the hotel.  It was February and the almond trees were in flower but it was still cold and it rained every night.  Nina was determined to delay the birth by force of will until her mother and grandmother arrived from New York, but her water broke late one night ahead of schedule.  I called and awakened Salvador who told us to proceed to the clinic saying he would follow in a few hours' time.  

The car was parked in front of the hotel but aimed into a one way thoroughfare.  A Russian circus was in town and some in the company had checked into the Victoria as well.  Exiting the elevator I saw the night watchman deep in conversation with two impeccably dressed midgets smoking cigars and drinking Cognac.  Once appraised of the situation they ran out onto the avenue and held up traffic until I executed a U-turn, startling drivers on their way home from discotheques and assignations.

The clinic was housed in what had been a 17th Century palace.  We stood under an umbrella on wet cobblestones knocking on the massive wooden door until a frail and elderly nun managed to open it and beckon us in.  We followed her across a patio that had a fountain and potted orange trees and up a flight of marble stairs.  We were shown to a room with two simple beds and a crucifix on the wall.  At dawn a midwife strode in with forearms like clubs and flaming red hair and a long white apron sprinkled with blood.  She produced a metal device shaped like a small conical drum that narrowed into a twisting tubular probe a good six inches long.  Never had we doubted so much our cavalier rejection of Lenox Hill Hospital with its views of Park Avenue and staff of Ivy League doctors strolling the halls in tasseled loafers.  But the tubular end of the probe went to the ruddy ear of the midwife and the conical end was placed gently upon Nina's abdomen and the massive woman listened carefully and told us with a warm smile that all was well.  As we waited for the baby to come in the delivery room -  Salvador and I suited up in scrub gowns and masks and as Nina lay in a sweat on the verge of becoming a mother  -  Salvador told us how it had been the birth of his daughter that had brought him back to Spain.  

It is ninety degrees and she is eighteen and we lie together in my bedroom that overlooks the Paseo de los Tristes.  Summer has reduced the river to a stream that runs low over rocks and trash under the steep green shadows of the Alhambra.  "I remember you perfectly," she says, "I had a huge crush on you. And I always made a point of working the days you were scheduled to come in."  "I only remember the way you asked each question," I say, " Very carefully, and then the way your hair fell forward each time you lowered your head to write down an answer."  "I don't believe you." she says. "I could tell you were smart,"  I say.  "And I tried to imagine what you looked like under that white coat and those jeans."  "You are such a liar," she says, thumping a fine, very young hand, on my chest.  The actual word she uses is 'embustero', which means someone who lies to get what they want.

In Wichita Salvador's life had been a marathon of learning.  He came to like the bad coffee and the egalitarian dining customs and he felt genuine admiration for his colleagues.  But for his wife it had been very different.  A fearful woman by nature with strong ties to a cluster of sisters addicted to catastrophe, Piedad's move to Kansas was a journey to Hades.  Everything was foreign to her, from the split level brick house they lived in on a wide, clean street lined with shadeless saplings, to the sounds that woke her in the night; bobcats hunting and mating on the plains that began just two streets beyond their own and marital arguments operatically proclaimed in twangy American on the other side of the bedroom wall.  She spoke no English and spent most of her time alone with her boys.  She cried without warning and wrote long letters home asking for local gossip and for detailed news of loved ones while rarely including any observations of her life in Wichita not edged in despair.  The pregnancy became her ticket home and after many fights she took her boys on the train to New York and from there by plane to Spain.  Salvador remained, finishing his residency.  He casually mentioned that when he first saw Inmaculada she was almost three years old.  
I saw my own daughter take her very first breath half an hour later.  I took her from Salvador and placed her into Nina's arms.  And when she was swaddled a few minutes later and placed on a scale I took her hand the size of a dandelion and spoke to her very gently and solemnly, welcoming her to the land of the living.

Nina found a new purpose to her life and mine began to drift.  We rented a house on the coast overlooking the bay above La Herradura to try and keep it all going.  And it worked for a time.  The winters were warmer and easier there.   We went along for two more years sharing the baby, taking her around with us wherever we went.  I sang her songs and took her for drives along the curves of the old Mediterranean highway when she cried and could not sleep.  But I wrote less and felt like a drone out of season trapped in a tool shed flying dumbly against a pane of glass.  Nina was content and replaced her painting with motherhood and with the reading of pseudo religious texts written by an Indian guru who claimed miraculous powers.  She began to view the passions of the physical world with condescension and dismay.  I missed romance and adventure, even as I grew embarrassed by my lack of accomplishment.  I was spending too much time cleaning the fireplace, putting the baby's toys away, washing the car.  Our sex life did not recover. By the time Nina began to notice it was too late.  I went for long hikes up into the hills or out through the virginal, sylvan groves of the Cerro Gordo and thought of little else.  And I thought more and more about medicine, about abandoning my fictional characters for some who walked and breathed.

I drive Salvador's sedan to the honeymoon suite Salvador is paying for.  I have just married the man's only daughter.  The car is powerful with an over torqued gear box that makes it hard to control.  Inmaculada worries we will go too far without seeing any houses or signs of human habitation along the route.  The open expanses of lush Andalusian countryside that gives me so much pleasure fill her with dread and tap into pools of terror she cannot explain.  I pray a house or a bar might appear around the next bend.  We are traveling to the sea and arrive at the Parador in Nerja in time for a late dinner.  Upon our return to Granada our new apartment will be filled with wedding gifts from her father's grateful clients and from family members living in towns I will never visit.  As we prepare to go to bed she starts to cry, inconsolably, and I realize I have a child bride.  She is crying because she realizes it too and knows how it makes me feel.  She is crying because having leaped from one man who had always protected her regardless of his aloofness, she is not sure I will catch her.  And worse still she knows she will fight and deny and refuse anything resembling paternal care from me only to resent it when I cease trying.  She takes more pills and falls asleep.  She is lovely and slight and defenseless and the sight of her fills me with rapacious lust.    I go out on the balcony and watch the night fishermen shine their lamps into the Mediterranean.


I became a doctor.  My flat in the Arab quarter with the Alhambra view, where my bed rested on the floor and where my books leaned against each other in fruit crates, was replaced by a new apartment with a doorman and a parquet floor, just around the corner from my in-laws.  On Saturdays we visited Inmaculada's brother, another doctor, at his house in the suburbs where we played with his children on an undersized lawn and sat half asleep in front of the television after lunch.  On Sundays we ate with her parents who spoke to us but not to each other. Trips to the coast or up to the mountains always ran the risk of setting off an anxiety attack.  She would encourage me to go alone, and when I did, she would hold it against me.  My daughter would come to spend the odd weekend and Inmaculada would expend great energy to make her feel at home, and then resent it, and then feel guilty about it.  Our fights were crushing.  But desire never left us and  most of our arguments ended in Inmaculada's high pitched groans grunted against doors and walls and the brass spars of our marriage bed.  

I wore a tie to my classes in the mornings and to the dissection hall in the afternoons under my white lab coat.  I gave up other women and ceased reading fiction altogether as the work demanded by my studies grew.  I delivered children, assisted with minor surgeries, gave classes in anatomy to first year students.

We've loaded Inmaculada up on Mellaril and Valium and flown to New York to meet my family.  We visit my father out in Southampton.  He sits in the den in his red corduroy trousers sipping Budweiser, watching the Yankees,  surrounded by framed photographs of his congressional years with JFK and Sam Rayburn and Tip O'Neill, immune to the blooming lilac bushes and to the early summer's light piercing the curtains.  It is hard for him to speak.  His cane is close by.  He smiles at my new wife and I can tell he likes having us there.  At my sister's insistence I take Inmaculada to the Beach Club where her being Spanish and pretty is more than enough to compensate for her lack of social pedigree.  I introduce her to friends I have not seen for a long time.  I take her to East Hampton and to Amagansett where closer friends live, relieved that the short journey is lined with houses for her to hold onto.  She is shy, blushing easily and scared and overly polite to everyone but takes offense if her perfect but halting English is not immediately understood.  I am the guide, the shepherd.  She fumes at me by day and empties me by night.  We visit my stepmother in Palm Beach where the heat is overwhelming and where the strain begins to tell.  She wants to go home, earlier than planned.  She says she wants to change her ticket, that I can remain if I want for the extra two weeks, and she means it, and I hear myself saying fine, alright, even as I know she will find a way to hold it against me because she cannot help it.  We part at the airport back in New York.  She looks especially sweet waving good bye from the Iberia gate in her red dress and straw hat, downing her pills with a little bottle of San Pellegrino.


After seeing her off at the airport I returned to East Hampton to stay with friends.  Being able to move about on my own felt luxurious.  I would bicycle to the ocean early in the morning to swim and read the paper and lay in the sun until the crowds began to arrive.  In late afternoons I would play tennis with my hosts barefoot on the grass at the Maidstone Club or go sailing and then end up in the ocean again before sunset.  Three days later I met Carol at a dinner party.  She was out there acting in an independent film.  She was a beautiful, healthy, blond, large breasted, long legged, hazel-eyed girl from Minnesota who had learned Manhattan and its ways without falling prey to its fatuousness and who liked dirtying her hands changing the oil of her truck, getting lost in the woods up around her place in the Catskills.  She earned her living modeling bras for Bloomingdales and Bergdorf's that appeared in print ads in The New York Times, and got runway work in Paris and Milan, and catalog shoots in the Caribbean.   She was straightforward and optimistic and worked all the time treating her modeling like a serious, honest job, the way a level headed girl with Norse genes from a family of carpenters might be expected to.  She was Inmaculada's opposite and I moved in with her on a tree lined street near the Museum of Natural History.  

I remained enrolled in medical school in Spain and when I returned there to take exams Inmaculada would disobey the counsel of her friends and sleep with me.  But I was living in New York and working at the Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center.  During the day I worked in a lab investigating calcium metabolism and Hodgkin's Disease.  On three evenings each week I went on rounds with the doctor who ran the lab and who had taken me under his wing.  I grew used to the patients, the gaunt sallow-skinned ones in wheelchairs on their way to radiation therapy, the bald children with leukemia, and the tense professional women with breast cancer.  The only patient that had upset me was a pretty Brazilian girl in her late teens with a bone tumor just below her left knee.  We had gone into her room one afternoon to speak with her.  She had come up from Sao Paulo to have her leg removed and she was eager for it to be over with.  She was beautiful and looked even younger than her years.  Her little gown swam on her and her face had become extremely thin.  But she smiled the whole time we were there and talked in a slight, singsong voice spoken with the soft, swishing, nasal sounds of Samba ballads.  Just before we left the attending physician decided to examine the tumor and in a quick movement he pulled back the sheet covering her legs.

Up to that point in my life cancer had been a silent killer, painful and arbitrary about who or when to strike, but its visual evidence had been largely confined to garish photographs in medical textbooks and to the wasting effects it had on its victims or to the effects brought about by the invasive tools used to fight it.  With the exception of the tumors that disfigured the little mice in the lab I had never really seen a cancer per se, the growth itself, in all its ravenous, artery generating frenzy.  This one was the size of a large grapefruit and it came out of the bone just below her knee with an unremitting vengeance; a globular, ulcerous, butcherous thing; grotesquely disproportionate to this delicate girl's appeal.  All the white coats and horn rimmed glasses, all the subdued decorator colors the hospital used to soothe and sanitize the organic mess of life, were defenseless against this.  It was something to hide, to cover up, to negate and get rid of as fast as possible, and the fact that the doctor who lifted the sheet was confronting this monstrosity with relative calm and curiosity was a testament to both his professionalism and to his cauterized heart.  I felt I was going to faint and the only thing which prevented me from falling to the floor right then and there was a stronger sense of shame at what might cause further distress to this lovely girl.  So I mumbled an excuse to go out into the hall, where I lowered my head and tried to breathe and where I railed in silent futility against the fates.

But over time I grew more accustomed to it and I was all right with it, and though I was not yet at the point where I could flip back that sheet, I would feel faint no longer when someone else did.  I could stay in the room with her now, and with patients like her, pretending to joke and cajole, adding whatever I could to their compromised sense of normalcy.

Inmaculada is throwing my clothes out the window, just like in the movies.  They rain down upon the street and sidewalk.  It is late and there are few people about.  Then comes the suitcase which dents the roof of a parked car.  Then comes my grandfather's Irish walking stick.  She is screaming at me. The deranged beggar we have taken care of over the years watches from the shadows by the fountain in a pose of elegant solemnity, comprehending everything.  Carol waits for me in Paris.  I know all of this has to happen.  I also know we are not done yet.

One evening I found myself with two interns in a corner room of Memorial Hospital with a fine view of the East River and the Queensborough Bridge.  The spring night had turned stormy and it was raining hard.  The patient was an overweight black woman in her fifties being treated for an acute bout of diabetes.  She was there at the Cancer Center because she had had her larynx removed the year before and the research minded doctors had a rule of following their patients' every turn.

"My, my.  Come look at this."  said the attending professor of oncology and internal medicine.  I came away from the large window and over near the bed where the interns stood.  "Somebody turn off the lights."  the physician said.  And then he said to the woman lying on her back, almost as an afterthought, "You don't mind, do you?  It'll just be for a moment.  You've got a crystal clear example of a rare condition and I'd like these young doctors here to see it."

She looked up at him with a nervous smile, granting permission.  It was hard for her to speak.  I could see she felt at the mercy of these doctors, this hospital, these diseases that had come to define her.  And yet she seemed glad for the attention and for the company at that hour of the night even as it made her feel afraid.

The room went dark as the doctor took a small, pen shaped flashlight out of his lab coat pocket.  It projected a small beam of red light.  He widened one of her eyes with his free hand and aimed the beam there.  "Here," he said to them, "Look at this.  The fat content in her blood is so elevated you can actually see it in the arterioles of her cornea."  And so it was.  The tiny vessels that irrigated the white of her eye, though still colored by the blood they carried, were colored too by minute globules of white grease, like the shortening her South Carolinian grandmother might have used to make corn bread.

Both of the interns stared intently, and each asked a pertinent question, and each I knew would make a point of reading up on the condition in the library that very night or the following day while this hands-on viewing was still fresh in their minds.  And I looked down as well, even as I realized I had little interest in the physiological elements in motion there.  What I was gripped by was the scene itself, the entire thing.  The darkened corner room up above the river, the storm outside, the wind and rain and thunder and lightning and the lights of the bridge and the lights on the tugboat heading to harbor.   The light at the tip of Roosevelt Island and the reflections on the dark currents of the river and the moving clouds and the trees below surrounding Rockefeller University heavy with new leaves and blossoms blown to the wet walks by the weather.  And these dedicated men next to me who thanks be to god did not notice what I was noticing at all.  I wanted to thank them for their dedication and encourage them to continue.  I wanted to take the woman's hand and hold it and tell her not to fear.  I wanted to capture the moment for posterity and include the river smell and the way the earth under the Manhattan asphalt was moistening with Spring and the way the river flowed to the Atlantic wending its way between two islands that once upon a time had been rife with woods and clearings and animal tracks.   But what I knew I no longer wanted, was to be a doctor.

The blizzard hits during the night and after breakfast Carol and I go for a walk in the woods.  The snow comes up to our knees and sometimes we cannot see more than four or five feet against the wind that ruffles our eyelashes with thick flakes.  We climb up over the rise behind the house and down through the thickest part of the forest hiking a good half hour until we reach the stream where it drops and opens into the deep pool we swam in during the summer and fall.  We lie down on our backs in the snow and listen to the water rushing over the rocks and to the wind moaning through the trees whose thin bare branches glisten with ice.  We kiss and touch each other and lower our trousers and long johns.  She straddles me and rides me oblivious to the cold and screams into the wind like some Viking forest spirit when she comes.  Afterwards we head back to the house to undress and thaw by the fire and as we return I suddenly remember Inmaculada running her hand up and down my cock with olive oil she had stolen from a restaurant where we had eaten dinner one night.  We were in a small hotel in Sevilla.  She was sore from all we'd done that morning and afternoon  but we both wanted to go on.   I remembered the August heat and the ripe curves of her ass and the noise of students carrying on in the street below and the precious tightness of her rectum giving way to deep holding and then the loud way she came grabbing the sheets with those delicate hands and the smell of the nearby Guadalquivir across the park mixing with the shit smell and the smell of our sweat and the scent from the mimosa blossoms that came in through the open window.

The last time I saw my father alive was in the intensive care unit at Southampton Hospital.  He was drugged and connected to monitors and IV bottles.  He just lay there.  Before entering the room the nurse had asked me who Eleanor was.  "Why?" I replied.  "He called out for her earlier in the day."  For my mother, buried then for 28 years.  My father's current wife overheard this exchange and managed an accepting smile.  I went in and sat next to him and placed my hand over his his.  It was a small, manicured, uncalloused hand once greatly skilled at opening bottles of Champagne and Coke and Budweiser, at deftly slipping cash to bellmen and to headwaiters, at covering his mouth when telling off-color punch lines (a trial lawyer's stratagem aimed at frustrating lip readers that had stayed with him).  It was the same hand he had felt my mother up with, and had used to steady himself when barfing over the side of the transport ship he was assigned to on D-Day, or out in front of Toot Shor's years later in the small hours of the morning.  It was a hand that, when much younger, had gripped heavy metal tongs to haul blocks of ice off the back of a horse drawn truck in the Bronx that delivered to the saloons along Ogden Avenue and to brick row houses that had wooden porches and small narrow yards in the back.  It was a hand that had pressed a good deal of flesh, Presidents and sports heroes and reporters and countless constituents living in six story apartment buildings along the Grand Concourse.  It was a hand that had even held mine on occasion, taking me once to have a tooth pulled, or when he ferried me each June from the gray and amber particulate light of the Bronx out to our rented summer homes in Southampton where cut grass and dunes and Atlantic moisture gentled down the morning glimmer.

This wordless final meeting seemed appropriate because we had never had a real conversation.  Our exchanges had always been conducted in short sentences about topics of little importance; baseball scores, crossword clues, brief logistical issues.  We had always been shy in each other's company.  My father's most loquacious, heartfelt moments had transpired when I was still a small boy.  In the dark of night during the year after my mother died I would sometimes sleep in his bed and he would return drunk from Shors' and tell me what a good man my maternal grandfather was, the Judge.  On her death-bed my mother had entrusted my well being to the Judge.  Perhaps my father had felt guilty for his many absences and wanted me to feel I was getting better care with my grandfather than I would be getting with him.
He dies two days later.  I am back in the city when it happens. Carol and I drive out there again for the funeral.  We stay in an attic bedroom at my step sister's in Sag Harbor.  Carol wakes in the night allergic to the cats and the mildew.  We dress and get into her Peugeot and drive east, out to Montauk.  It is December and I turn the heat on and crack open the windows.  I take back roads I know by heart.  I make Carol put her seat down to try and sleep.  I park in the large lot by the lighthouse.  A Christmas cross made from light bulbs shines at its base.  We are the only people there.    Carol wakes, looks about and then leans over the gear shift and rests her blond head in my lap.  I hold her shoulder and feel her fall asleep again.  Three months later I cash in my small inheritance and return to Granada.



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_HistÓrico_Literatura * Ensayo

01-05-16_ PLATH (straight... no chaser)
24-04-16_ La carta de Lord Chandos [ revisited ]
04-04-12_ El libro en tiempos del capitalismo electrónico
04-04-12_ DOS CUENTOS BREVES (Para Agustín Fernández Mallo)
13-10-12_ Una lectura de Serán ceniza*
13-10-12_ PÓSTUMOS
06-07-11_ Subversión más allá de la sospecha* II
30-05-11_ Qué le hace ZEMOS98 a nuestro cerebro
18-04-11_ Baader-Meinhof
15-09-11_ Consideraciones acerca del duelo, una lectura de Barthes
31-10-10_ El artefacto precioso
23-10-10_ Fantasmas semióticos: referencialidad, apropiación, sci-fi, historicismo, etc
19-10-10_ RIZOMA
30-10-10_ GPS5/ Splice, o la crítica de la razón científica
21-09-10_ La imagen-(contra)tiempo
03-01-10_ En grand central station
06-01-10_ [Noli me legere, e-cK y cultura_RAM : 3 Libros + en PDF de autor ]
28-02-10_ Una imagen es una imagen es una imagen (tres escenarios)
07-02-10_ El último Joyce
18-10-09_ The Charles Bukowski Tapes
17-11-09_ La muerte del autor, de Roland Barthes * Simón Marchán Fiz
06-09-09_ Tres faux amis, desenmascarados mediante el análisis de conceptos
09-10-09_ Ernst Jünger * Tiempo mensurable y tiempo del destino
22-09-09_ Thomas Pynchon * Inherent Vice
03-09-09_ Muestra tus heridas
18-09-09_ Telepatía colectiva 2.0: pequeña teoría de las multitudes interconectadas (2007)
28-06-09_ Comer con los dedos
17-09-09_ La crítica de Postpoesía que estaba esperando
05-07-09_ La palabra más terrible de nuestro tiempo es ERE
05-07-09_ Manuscrito hallado junto a una mano * Julio Cortazar
17-09-09_ Gilles Lipovetsky y Jean Serroy: La pantalla global. Cultura mediática y cine en la era hipermoderna
04-05-09_ El método de la igualdad * Jacques Rancière
17-09-09_ Ayn Rand [el manantial]
17-09-09_ Zizek aprieta fuerte el lápiz
17-09-09_ _ _ _
12-07-09_ Una vida absolutamente maravillosa
28-04-09_ On the idea of communism
12-07-09_ Envasado al vacío [noir and white]
06-09-09_ En busca del catálogo perdido
09-02-09_ SIN
03-01-09_ Beckett emocionante
09-02-09_ Peter Lamborn Wilson in NYC
29-01-09_ The Uses of the World "JEW"
03-12-08_ ¿Qué es lo contemporáneo? 
25-01-09_ Heidegger y el "Asereje
18-09-09_ Acto de Novedades [1964]
10-05-09_ Figures of subjective destiny: on Samuel Beckett
18-09-09_ Tan íntimo y efímero
02-01-09_ The girl who wanted to be God
26-10-08_ ctrol + c, ctrol + v
22-02-09_ Tejido cicatrizal
18-09-09_ Little Brother by Cory Doctorow
26-10-08_ Yo también odio Barcelona
28-09-08_ En el mundo interior del capital * Peter Sloterdijk
11-10-08_ No existe lo híbrido, sólo la ambivalencia * Jacques Rancière
18-09-09_ El fantasma del fantasma * Aproximaciones al régimen escópico de Las Meninas
11-10-08_ Remembering David Foster Wallace (R.I.P)
18-09-08_ Milagros de la vida * J.G. Ballard
08-09-08_ Rudyard Kipling * El rickshaw fantasma
07-08-08_ Descansa en paz * Leopoldo Alas
02-09-08_ Diseccionando a JG Ballard
01-08-08_ Las artes espaciales * Entrevista a Jacques Derrida - Peter Brunette y David Wills
02-09-08_ Ser es ser mediático
02-09-08_ Teoria del significado
22-07-08_ ¿Dios ha MUERTO?
30-06-08_ Tales of natural beauty * Edgar Allan Poe
22-07-08_ Passages from James Joyce's Finnegans Wake * Mary Ellen Bute (1965-67)
22-07-08_ El ejercicio crítico de la filosofía * entrevista a Barbara Cassin _ Gustavo Santiago
26-06-08_ Otra noche
18-09-08_ Baudrillard * La violencia de la imagen
25-05-08_ MiCrOsOfT suelta el SCANNER
06-06-08_ CAFÉ PEREC * Enrique Vila-Matas
10-06-08_ Unraveling Identity
11-05-08_ Hacerse sentir en el presente
13-05-08_ La responsabilidad del artista * Jean Clair
08-06-08_ La obra de arte y el fin de la era de lo singular
31-03-08_ Del Amor y la Muerte
01-04-08_ PROFESORES
13-04-08_ Los domingos de Baudelaire
24-03-08_ Samuel Beckett * Stirring still
22-03-08_ Llámalo NOCILLA
13-03-08_ Sombras y fantasmas aterradores, irónicos y malévolos
24-03-08_ Ecology: a New Opium for the Masses
02-04-08_ Encarnar la crítica
31-03-08_ Todo es y se ha hecho posible
02-03-08_ Dos días en Viena
16-03-08_ mirad, mirad, malditos (en souhaitant beaucoup de papillons)
19-02-08_ Download Steal This Book Today Alpha… Today!
24-03-08_ J. G. Ballard, de Shanghai al neo-barbarismo
24-03-08_ La educación del des-artista
24-03-08_ El descrédito de lo visible
24-03-08_ La inconsistencia de los modelos propietarios
24-03-08_ Censorship today
31-12-07_ ¿Estamos preparados para KINDLE?
25-12-07_ Arthur C. Clarke o la razón soñadora
16-12-07_ Alrededor del sueño africano
09-12-07_ 10 types of publication
11-12-07_ Chuck Palhniuk * Entrevista
31-10-07_ EBOOK: Overclocked by Cory Doctorow
02-11-07_ Amsterdam MON AMOUR !
14-10-07_ Y después del Pop
02-11-07_ Trouble with the Real: Lacan as a viewer of Alien*
25-09-07_ La paradoja del escritor sin cara
10-10-07_ La era postmedia
25-09-07_UBU. Selección Otoño 2007
19-09-07_ Cultura_RAM
15-06-08_ Corporeidad Kafkiana
26-08-07_ SPOOK COUNTRY, el manifiesto del pasado reciente
26-06-08_ El teatro de la resistencia electrónica
05-01-08_ McLuhan's Wake
31-07-07_ Alberto Vázquez-Figueroa: "Primero que lean gratis, luego ya comprarán"
23-07-07_ Writing's Crisis v.1.0
23-07-07_ J.G. Ballard - Shanghai Jim
23-06-07_ This one shooting skyward
13-06-07_ Noctem Aeternus
06-06-07_ J.G. Ballard: Shanghai Jim
26-06-07_ Un paraiso extraño
10-05-07_ Persuasión * Jane Austen
10-05-07_ Orgullo y Prejuicio * Jane Austen
23-05-07_ Everything is weird, Epifanio said.
06-05-07_ Hatred of Capitalism: A Semiotext(e) Reader
25-04-07_ El buen soldado * Ford Madox Ford
09-04-07_ Germán y Dorotea *  Goethe
09-04-07_ Esperando a Orlando
05-04-07_ Llamadas telefónicas * Roberto Bolaño
30-03-07_ Hatred of Capitalism: A Semiotext(e) Reader
28-03-07_ Los inconsolables de la catorce
27-03-07_ Los papeles de Aspern * Henry James
29-03-07_ Ortodoxia * G. K. Chesterton
24-03-07_ Kawabata * Lo bello y lo triste
20-03-07_ Jane Austen * Persuasión
10-03-07_ M. Eliade * Visiones de Oriente
30-05-07_ Gate of Heaven
31-05-07_ Noam Chomsky and the Media
06-03-07_ The atrocity exhibition * GJ Ballard covert art
06-03-07_ Secrecy and responsibility * Questions for Derrida and Dostoevsky
04-03-07_ Negro como el carbón
23-02-07_ Jacques Derrida * Leer lo Ilegible
07-03-07_  The End Again 
18-02-07_ Entrevista * Peter Sloterdijk 
19-02-07_ El manifiesto Neoyorkino y las gentes que lo abrazaron
11-02-07_ Siegfried Kracauer * Estética sin Territorio
04-02-07_ UbuWeb Featured Resources February 2007 Selected by Charles Bernstein
31-01-07_ The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot
03-05-07_ La historia del buen viejo y la bella muchacha
03-05-07_ La mujer zurda * Peter Handke
23-12-06_ El ayudante * Robert Walser
22-12-06_ Hypertext 3.0: Critical Theory and NewMedia in an Era of Globalization
20-12-06_ La mejor serie de TV
19-12-06_ Andre Gide * Los sotanos del Vaticano
18-12-06_ Robert Penn Warren * Todos los hombres del Rey
13-12-06_ E.M. Forster * Regreso a Howard's End
12-12-06_ Thomas Bernhard * El sotano
10-12-06_ Atrapada en el Limbo
28-12-06_ Impostor
15-12-06_ La herencia de Dorothy Parker
05-12-06_ Books... that's all
02-12-06_  E-BOOK: Top Ten Titles at Project Gutenberg
28-11-06_ El imitador de voces * Thomas Bernhard
07-12-06_ Notas sobre Imitación y Contagio en la Novela (a partir de Bakhtin)
10-12-06_ Del Limbo * Giorgio Agamben
21-11-06_ Pincha Pynchon?
13-07-07_ Qué sabía Descartes, de verdad? Dos biografías del filósofo
10-11-06_El Crimen Invisible * Catherine Crowe
06-11-06_ Un visionario entre charlatanes
01-11-06_ E-BOOK: Books to Read Before You Die, Part 3
29-10-06_electronic literature collection - vol. 1
26-10-06_ E-BOOK: Books to Read Before You Die, Part 2
22-10-06_ E-BOOK: Books to Read Before You Die, Part 1
09-10-06_Paz y surf
08-10-06_Zonas Autónomas Permanentes
20-09-06_Goethe * Las afinidades electivas
18-09-06_ AUDIO BOOK * Longer Poems from Librivox
14-09-06_Félix Duque * ¿Hacia la paz perpetua o hacia el terrorismo perpetuo?
02-09-06_Only Revolutions, Danielewski on the road
01-09-06_International Man of Mystery
31-08-06_Rudiger Safranski * El mal
07-09-06_Andre Dubus y los cánones
03-05-08_ Ernst Jünger * Tiempo mensurable y tiempo del destino
14-01-08_ Ernst Jünger * La Emboscadura
30-08-06_Sloterdijk en la era de la levitación
28-08-06_Escribid, malditos, escribid
20-08-06_AUDIO BOOK: Genesis (in Hebrew)
15-08-06_Thomas Bernhard... y yo (BobPop)
15-08-06_El Gran Hermano «BEAT»
13-08-06_E-BOOK: Five of Shakespeare's best
11-08-06_Cory Doctorow * Down and out in the magic kingdom
11-08-06_Stranger than science fiction
10-08-06_AUDIO BOOK: Metamorphosis by Kafka
07-08-06_Dave Eggers... y yo (BopPop)
06-08-06_Enséñame a filmar
01-08-06_Pensar el presente
30-07-06_El cuarto purgatorio * Carlo Frabetti
30-07-06_El hijo de Gutemberg * Borja Delclaux
27-07-06_On the Road' again -- this time unedited
25-07-06_Thomas Pynchon — A Journey into the mind of [P.]
26-07-06_Strange sexual practices take place
22-07-06_Talk Talk * T.C. Boyle
22-07-06_“Cuentos completos - I” de Philip K. Dick
01-08-06_The Second Coming of Philip K. Dick
25-07-06_¿Le sirvo un poco más de té, señor Nabokov?
04-07-06_Man In Black
01-07-06_Las preguntas de Heidegger
29-06-06_Más de 300.000 obras gratis
26-06-06_Charles-Louis Philippe * Bubu de Montparnasse
18-06-06_Juan Carlos Castillón * Las políticas del secreto
18-06-06_Vernon Lee * La voz maligna
12-06-06_Bloomsday 06
12-06-06_Animales todos
07-06-06_De Sun Tzu a la Xbox: juegos de guerra
03-06-06_James Mangan * Una aventura extraordinaria en las sombras
12-06-06_Harold Bloom * Jesús y Yahvé, los nombres divinos
01-06-06_Conferencia de Felipe Martínez Marzoa: El pensamiento de Heidegger
30-05-06_Stefan Zweig * La impaciencia del corazón
22-05-06_Joris-Karl Huysmans * Cornelis Bega
19-05-06_Metáforas que nos piensan
06-06-06_Synesthesia and Intersenses: Intermedia
06-06-06_The Gospel according to Philip K. Dick
14-05-06_El Dios de las pesadillas * Paula Fox
14-05-06_La pelirroja * Fialho de Almeida
07-05-06_Chuck Klosterman * Pégate un tiro para sobrevivir
07-06-06_Slavoj Zizek * Lacrimae rerum
04-05-06_Eugenio Trías * Prefacio a Goethe
04-05-06_Ray Bradbury * Calidoscopio
04-08-06_Un día perfecto para el pez plátano
04-05-06_Seymour Glass
04-05-06_Julio Camba * La ciudad automática
07-06-06_Dictator Style
04-05-06_Rudiger Safranski * Schiller, o la invención del idealismo alemán
28-04-06_Michel Houellebecq * H. P. Lovecraft. Contra el mundo, contra la vida
04-05-06_El corazón de las tinieblas * Síntesis selvática
22-04-06_G. Flaubert * Diccionario de los lugares comunes
21-04-06_¡¡MADRID LEE!! (y otras pildoras de su interes)
21-04-06_HOWL fifty years later
21-04-06_Cees Nooteboom * Perdido el paraíso
01-05-06_Las Tres Vanguardias
19-04-06_El libro de Jack. Una biografía oral de Jack Kerouac
23-04-06_Hegel - Chesterton: German Idealism and Christianity
10-04-06_FRENCH THEORY * Posteridades intelectuales
11-04-06_La literatura y el mal
09-04-06_Corman McCarthy
09-04-06_Gabriele d’Annunzio * De cómo la marquesa de Pietracamela donó sus bellas manos a la princesa de Scúrcula
09-04-06_Saved Kashua * Árabes danzantes
09-04-06_Jim Mccue * No Author Served Better
09-04-06_Gary Adelman * Naming Beckett’s Unnamable
09-04-06_Thomas Browne * Sobre errores vulgares
08-04-06_Encuentros con Beckett
09-04-06_Michiko Tsushima * The Space of Vacillation
08-04-06_Trotsky * Memoria de un revolucionario permanente
08-04-06_Rafael Doctor * Masticar los tallos...
03-04-06_Edie... Sedgwick
02-04-06_El corazón de las tinieblas * Joseph Conrad
01-04-06_Parientes pobres del diablo * Cristina Fernández Cubas
01-04-06_China S.A. * Ted Fishman
01-04-06_Subnormal * Sergi Puertas
21-04-06_Homúnculos y Demonios
30-03-06_Creación e Inteligencia Colectiva * El libro.
28-03-06_Young Adult Fiction
25-03-06_Nada es sagrado, todo se puede decir * Raoul Vaneigem
25-03-06_Tras la verdad literaria * Herman Melville
22-03-06_Lovercraft según Houllebecq
19-03-06_Cees Nooteboom | Perdido el paraíso
16-03-06_La idea de Europa | George Steiner
16-03-06_Contra el fanatismo | Amos Oz
16-03-06_La sociedad invisible | Daniel Innerarity
13-03-06_Ashbery. Autorretrato en espejo convexo
23-07-07_ Autor, autor
25-03-06_Pushkin, Mozart y Salieri
04-03-06_Across the Universe | 'Counting Heads'
13-03-07_El Hombre variable
19-03-06_Entrevista: Bret Easton Ellis / Lunar Park
26-02-06_Bloy, profeta en el desierto / Historias impertinentes
26-02-06_Tratado de ateología
13-02-06_Contra la escritura por encargo / Hipotermia
07-02-06_El mono científico
07-02-06_El Relojero
19-03-06_La obra maestra desconocida / Honoré de Balzac
29-01-06_Un caso de Identidad / Arthur conan Doyle
29-01-06_Una escritora entre Oriente y Occidente / Entrevista: Amélie Nothomb
29-01-06_Viaje al fondo de la habitación / Tibor Fischer
23-01-06_Puntualmente / Günter Grass
18-01-06_Two Million Feet of Vinyl
16-01-06_No tan libres como parece
09-01-06_The Coming Meltdown
07-01-06_Nada volvió a ser lo mismo
06-01-06_A Debut Novel Serves Up an Irish Stew in London
27-12-05_Jazz and Death: Medical Profiles of Jazz Greats
06-01-06_John Berger: /«Una vida sin deseos no merece la pena»
03-12-05_La gran obra de Murasaki Shikibu
03-10-05_« Tríptic hebreu » / (fragmento)
10-06-05_Anthony Bourdain » Confesiones de un chef
10-06-05_Samuel Beckett » Deseos del hombre y Carta Alemana
06-06-05_Ali Smith » Supersonic 70s

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