We Live In A Very Peculiar World.

As So Often Happens, The Thing Left Undone Tires You Most Of All, You Only Feel Rested When It Has Been Accomplished.

Every Novel Is Like This, Desperation, A Frustrated Attempt To Save Something Of The Past. Except That It Still Has Not Been Established Whether It Is The Novel That Prevents Man From Forgetting Himself Or The Impossibility Of Forgetfulness That Makes Him Write Novels.

Some Drivers Have Already Got Out Of Their Cars, Prepared To Push The Stranded Vehicle To A Spot Where It Will Not Hold Up The Traffic, They Beat Furiously On The Closed Windows, The Man Inside Turns His Head In Their Direction, First To One Side Then To The Other, He Is Clearly Shouting Something, To Judge By The Movements Of His Mouth He Appears To Be Repeating Some Words, No One Word But Three, As Turns Out To Be The Case When Someone Finally Manages To Open The Door, I Am Blind.

Very Few People Are Aware That In Each Of Our Fingers, Located Somewhere Between The Firs Phalange, The Mesophalange And The Metaphalange, There Is A Tiny Brain... It Should Be Noted That Fingers Are Without Brains, These Develop Gradually With The Passage Of Time And With The Help Of What The Eyes See... That Is Why The Fingers Have Always Excelled At Uncovering What Is Concealed.

That Is The Dream Of All Novelists-that One Of Their Characters Will Become 'somebody.'