Carmen Martín Gaite said that her need for writing came from her constant and failed search for the perfect interlocutor and insisted upon the fact that people wouldn’t need to write if they had someone who would listen. She was so obsessed about this some critics considered her work mono-thematic, saying that frustrated search was the one and only topic of her novels. I won’t go as far as calling this lady “obsessive” but she did write a book called The Perfect Interlocutor.
In my case, the search is a little more modest. Around 1994 I started writing a diary. I can’t really recall the exact date as all my memories of primary school are just that, primary school, and I seem to have stored all memories from 1988 (when I believe it’s my first memory) to 1997 in the same box. Nearly ten years of infant life tangled in the same drawer, all mixed up with socks and knickers. (That it’s clearly an exaggeration for I would never dare to mix socks and knickers, that’ll be simply too chaotic).
The fact is, I seem to be writing increasingly less. Funny that, increasingly (like those red lines in graphs) less (like skimmed yogurts). I am one of those people that would expose themselves to the slightest sympathetic smile and will dump all their mental dribble there and then. Should I be quieter and write it all instead? I do need to improve my writing skills.
a.
alex saum…si no recuerdo mal, entre las páginas de tu diario debe haber cierta descripción, de esa chica vegeta, que se sentaba en segunda fila, a la que le gustaba la sombra de ojos negra, las pizzas dulces y hacer girar la taza de cafe sobre el plato.
hace demasiado que sé de tí, no sé cuando vuelves,ni siquiera sé si vuelves, o si sigues comiendo carne, cuanto más roja y sangrienta, mejor.
En Granada nos veremos, recórdate. Habrá que poner a Dª Carmen en un brete.
Ni mentármela a Doña Carmen.