I put the coffeepot on the fire. I turn on the computer, which is how to raise the blind of the haberdashery without much hope I sit at the table with the vague idea of winning the plate of macaroni Talking about the fading of the middle classes, but I remain stuck like a vinegar fly to the interview by Manuel Jabois with Mario Vargas Llosa in the newspaper ‘El País’, in one of the first statements by the Spanish-Peruvian writer after his separation from Isabel Preysler, the ‘queen of hearts’, and on the eve of his admission, on Thursday, February 9, at the French Academy. “I do not regret anything,” confesses the Nobel about his sentimental breakup. Bravo. ‘Non, je ne regrette rien’.
Stories happen. The experiences are lived, and that’s it. “Oh, what will it be, what will it be, who is sighing through the bedrooms…”, the song wondered. «I was very much in love with Isabel. But let’s say, that world is not my world”, declares the Nobel Prize winner in another interview with Maite Rico for ‘El Mundo’. “Even a blind man could see that,” my mother would tell him, which is very much yours, using the same phrase you use with me when I’ve made a mistake with a man. And? I think it’s great to keep the ability to being carried away by passion at the age of 79, the age that the author of ‘Conversation in the cathedral’ was when his relationship with the ‘celebrity’ was announced. “Oh, what will it be, what will it be, that it has no government and will never have, that has no shame and will never have, because it has no judgement.” Servant, who is competing for a witch, detects in the author a slight patina of sadness in the look of the latest photographs, but don’t pay too much attention to me. Fear, pain, heartbreak are healed (a little) by writing.
THE FIRE OF VOCATION
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“I am back in my house, surrounded by my books,” says the writer, and that is the only truth because There is no more homeland than the pages read. With Mario Vargas Llosa I could disagree until dawn on political matters and, nevertheless, I am infinitely grateful for the reading enjoyment, mastery, elegance and generosity. Few writers have been so prodigal when it comes to sharing cooking secrets, the few certainties that are acquired after a lot of sweat and elbow bursitis, findings scattered in books like ‘Letters to a young novelist’ and ‘The perpetual orgy’.
Vargas Llosa is traversed by fire, like Flaubert, the same one who wrote to his friend Louise Colet: «Why, as I think I get closer to the masters? the art of writing seems to me more impracticable and I am more disgusted by everything I produce?». Everything else is wind that passes dragging the dust of the road.