I am writing to order and texts that hardly surprised myself with, searching loan books and rare tracks startups that will allow me to troubleshoot issues bad I know, beyond the quick study and the urgency of a deadline. And suddenly I find a whiplash of people living with enviable romantic fury, but also with the seriousness of the quiet, facing hard times and bad solution. First I with Augusto Ferrán, the first translator of Heine into Castilian, romantic writer, bon vivant in the bohemian Paris, that went hard time pursued by creditors who did not understand his prodigality, he traveled to America and lived to sell books in Chile, who died in the asylum fortified Carabanchel. And then I come back to Becquer, Ferrán friend, rather with words of Becquer had completely forgotten:
"Live! ... Surely I want to live, because life, take it as is, without exaggeration or deception, is not as bad as some say, but dark and happy life as possible, without desires, without concern, without ambition, with the happiness of the plant that has your morning dewdrop and sunshine, then a little dirt pitch with respect and not packed, and kick those buried by trade, a little soft, loose soil that does not drown or depress, four nettles, wild thistle and some grass to me cover with its mantle of roots, and finally, a mud that serves to keep sand on that site or stir the bones.
Here, today, all that ambition: to be an extra in the great comedy of humanity and finished my paper to the package, put me between racks without my whistle and applaud me, no one even noticing it my way. "
In From my cell, letter III.
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