Dermatitis On My Eyelid

Other notes

I
Since long ago, when the references to literary diaspora were scarce, we instilled the fear of losing the concept that governed our writing. Served as another way to control the impatience, the objections that we expressed and naturally. Should we save as individuals or as writers? Could save as both? And we talked about Padilla and Arenas, who referred to a well thought out compassion as if they were such orphans, or lost. We could learn a lot from them, and almost nothing positive, because our officers were in charge of fixing this myth of the futility of abandoning everything. There were times when we believe no one can make credible literature if you decide to erase or delete the country. I think now, without my own any kind of enthusiasm or disdain, that uprooting them wielded (and even wield), which may in some touch of melancholy or desolation, are a triumph for us, if it really existed. Because it means the failure of the country, maimed and raped in her being, the country that they imagined and they broke his hands. A failure in which they take the most laughable, clinging to a dusty and smelly wasteland, which is not even country or nation or guard against anything.

II
finished reading in public or give lectures, and the invariable question is: How has exile literature? I guess three or four writers on the island, whom I consider exceptional, and I'm not wanting to respond. But it is said, are rare and I doubt that anything make them change their uniqueness. Who knows what to say? I vouch for me. It must also take into account the physical pressure, the peculiar sense with the borders of the island. Just go out and look back and feel the slime rhetoric one hangs everywhere. You have to know detaching, washing. Did I write because we had no other choice? Were we doing literary career or looking for a meaning to our lives? We can be sure that certain writers are simply out of the bubble to recognize the end. And transcribe and no god or pressure can make them territorial. I vouch for me. It may contain the words and caress the arch that looked tense and order. You can choose to imagine the target and shoot at the empty, just the opposite of what I was about to applaud. We write what we can not blend into action. Our literature does not depend on atmospheres, boundaries, rhetorical conveniences. Nobody covers or represents, no one is on their lips to justify an order. We are alone and we are free.
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