has to be a writer, a great reader maybe. Or a devourer of appetizers. Its particularity is to be present in all literary encounter, regardless of city, country or continent in which it is performed. At the end of each activity is about a writer and, without further ado, he launches his question:
-writer, where do you from?
I first came to me was in Malaga, my twenty-five years after an eschatological reading of literature.
Until then I had lived in Venezuela, in a mountain village called La Entrada because through its trails are accessed from Puerto Cabello to Valencia. Looking out the window, he saw the road go through thousands of trucks carrying goods to the city and almost every evening, the village boys who came out to parade with their donkeys One night, during sleep, I heard a detonation. Half-awake, mediodormido I ran to the window and saw four men armed with guns and knives walked among them being a prisoner. I always thought it was Niehous and her companions were guerrillas who through the years I've been changing the name: Douglas Bravo, Teodoro Petkoff, Jorge Rodriguez and Hugo Chávez. At twelve years, I dared to leave her mother's house and started to cross the driveway. It was a long road and old who walked all days to reach a point where the branches of trees on either side crossed. Initially, there I sat and began to read. Then I sat and I started to write. For all that, as the hors devours asked where I was, I replied that of La Entrada.
"But you're not in Venezuela?
"Yes, but primarily from the introduction.
Then I lived in Barcelona. First, a few months in Grace. And then several years in Sant Gervasi, where I was because she had started out with Giuliana and she was afraid of junkies. In Sant Gervasi Bisbe Sivilla carrer, I spent years writing and dreaming that he wrote while watching the abandoned garden of the former Child Care Institute. And the third year, I knew I was also there.
- Where are you from? "This time I took a drink before the presentation of a book.
-Input and Carrer Bisbe Sivilla.
Once married, Giuliana and I decided to invade the house of his mother in Salerno, at number 122, Via Arce. They were just eighteen months, but they learned Italian, I started and finished my thesis, I saw the best movie of my life, I read books and started sopotocientos waiting for my first son, Alessandro. There was, as always, a window, and a castle in the background, the Arechi. And as he left the balcony, the pescivendolo I waved an eel and shouting my name.
- Where are you from?
-De La Entrada, the Carrer Bisbe Sivilla and Via Arce.
football team Salerno I terminated the contract. Doctor, of course. And I returned to Venezuela. Not her mother's house. Not even to La Entrada. But to Caracas. He worked in a psychiatric hospital, The Rock, and Sebucán lived in an apartment that had rent the acupuncturist of President Caldera. I did not write much in those years, but lying in bed and saw the Avila, when he went for a walk, a hundred kilos black Elpidia call me selling daily newspaper and other former gave me that against all logic kept in his kiosk.
- Where are you from?
-De La Entrada, the Carrer Bisbe Sivilla, Via Arce and Sebucán. Giuliana
then came to live in Valencia, Spain. And I came up behind her, chasing her. Letizia was born. So we decided to live in a cottage on the outskirts of the city, near a town called Puzol (as Pozzuoli of San Gennaro). Here, when Labour came in Castellón, I order my books and, crucially, weeding the little patio.
- Where are you from?
-De La Entrada, the carrer Bisbe Sibilla, Via Arce, Sebucán and Puzol.
- Have not you forgotten something?
"You're right. Of all the books I have read and made me a little hole in the heart.
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