I saw Guillermo every two years, We met in Madrid at the presentation of a novel. That afternoon we both appeared out of nowhere and began to treat each other with a gloomy, spirited loyalty. The encounters that followed were always at a bookstore or book fair, I don’t know that we were friends. Maybe not, but maybe yes: his affection reached me, and I transferred mine to him. Let’s just say we were willing to believe in a very fragile friendship, one sustained by delay and worry, and less by diligence. Perhaps our friendship was impossible to prove, but believing the evidence itself, which anyone can see, eventually becomes rare.
At the turn of ten years we were kind of not a few minutes for each other, But what a minute. He loved to find me when the day came, and find him for me. Every time he published a book, he revealed himself, almost like a ghost, without much ado, that if you think about it, Guillermo, it’s a beautiful destiny. Or maybe the ghost was me, who appeared and disappeared from Madrid a few hours later. Punctuality What we came up with was pure science. I really like the idea i write books for her, The succession of one and the other in time now makes me doubt it. Everything always followed a plan that was never concocted: He presented the book, we saw each other with our own eyes through space, we hugged each other, we chatted, we took a picture , we said goodbye until there was a new novel. medium.
Guillermo was 36 years old and a telecommunications engineer., Her partner Virginia wrote to me on Sunday afternoon. «You know that Guille appreciates and admires you and has deep respect for you. Shortly before we said our final goodbyes to him, “he announced to me.” “About the plans we had to adjust so that your submissions would not be lost,” he called out. Death, apparently, came in the midst of what Joan Didion calls “an ordinary moment”., which makes it more brutal. I was caught in the most violent confusion. I had long forgotten that shock: someone close to me who, suddenly, is no more.
I immediately remembered something I had heard Antonio Lobo Antunes About how he ended up writing thanks to the extreme pain. One day he realized that all his life he had written for the dangling leg of a dead child. In his time as a pediatrician, working with mentally ill children, he couldn’t help but be friends with Jose Francisco, Four year old child dies of cancer, On the day of his death, a caretaker wrapped him in a white sheet and took him in his arms. Lobo Antunes was there and saw how the fellow walked with the boy whose leg was hanging from the savannah. The Portuguese writer could never do without the image of that swinging leg. I guess I won’t even be able to separate myself from Guillermo. We had both surrendered to the belief in our ghosts, so, deep down, I would continue to write for them despite their absence, and when I finished the book, Guile would get in his way.