An illustration by Jorge F. Hernández.
I will try to defend with words what seems to be clarifying with my fists.
Elvira Lindo and Antonio Muñoz Molina have been attacked but not intimidated and insulted from anonymity not only in the threatening format of a letter deposited in the mailbox of their house, but perhaps also between the changing screens of what Antonio himself calls
fecal networks
, those platforms that have degenerated into portals of hatred (for example, that branch of the immense tree where it is assumed that we can all chirp in harmony against the constant diatribe, gratuitous insult and not so veiled threat).
In an envelope sealed with zeal, the anonymous stalker has managed to awaken in the couple of my friends that nefarious feeling that afflicts so many in this world where any passerby is suspicious and one stares at the mailbox like a slight crack in the reality where they invade our privacy so much unnecessary talk of advertising, but also and apparently the anonymous words of anger.
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'Castilnovo', by Jorge F. Hernández
Elvira and Antonio are of words, they are of words and both have flourished as people and a couple in the tuning of the paragraphs and pages that they read as daily sustenance and with the books that they have shared with us, outlining all the virtues of walking thought, of the prose of imagination, the art of narrating and flying in times and spaces that seem far away. Both have sealed an example of the quiet decency and the sober thought of those who bet on the equanimous in the midst of so much vehemence violence ... and yes, unfortunately the frustrated authors, fueled by envy and anger, seem to crawl, either on the networks or on pages that are neatly folded to hide in anonymous envelopes.
Howls with hollow threats the inmate of the psychiatric hospital and the desolate depressed, has anonymity at hand not only because he is capable of trying his last name, but because he only has an ovoid and badly ironed face with which the bile with which he writes dribbles insults, bravado and threats. Between fangs of a lamentable loneliness, the maker of these evils does not notice the concentric damage caused by his mischief, the concern of those around us and the courage that grows among those who love and seek us, ready as these lines to radiograph the bad milk of the stalkers to scourge them before it is a mirror of their own stupidity, where they themselves look helplessly at the decantation of their stupid endeavor.
What does the anonymous accuser gain from the cowardly trick of pretending to be many? What enjoyment can truly digest a gang of infuriated people whose fervor cannot be expressed in public or on any platform? How does the sour imbecile purr with his pet who thinks he has fulfilled an authoritarian duty to revile his neighbor, beat up movies that he has not seen on screen or novels that he supposedly read when he came back? Nothing, absolutely nothing.
Or something. Perhaps the only thing that emerges from these increasingly sadly common and shared news is that in reality those who receive the sour stink of hatred in any of its forms are not alone and, although the lonely gandallas who throw stones as if they are not so alone are not so alone. were they orgasms, the clear dignity of those who walk with their gaze reading the world and their steps as prose will always be far above the putrefaction of the rich; I speak of thought above the hollow foolishness of the intolerant, I speak of the patience that deals like birlibirloque the despair of the insane,I speak of the quiet serenity of those who opt for sobriety in the face of the sugary drunkenness of dwarfs and cowards ... and I try to speak in defense of those who exert and perspire a life of letters as a couple and in person, against the grain of the fading madman who does not even have the word with which they name it.
The black saliva with which the anonymous hit man insults –or the one who without shame makes public the rottenness of his heart– pretends to become a punch, shove or razor, but the intact cloth of the Righteous is only truly palpable with full words, words as encouragement, synonymous words or better yet, only those souls are touched with the hug that I try to send them.
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