The Last Image Before My Camera Was Stolen

Before being stolen in the bus between Brussels and the Airport of Charleroi, I could take some pictures of a cold and grey Brussels morning.

This one shows the pub called Zebra. It is a really good place to have a good time. It is usually full of people and there is live music but thanks to the magic of photography I could catch this quiet and silent instant of serenity.

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

He put his hands in his coat pockets and turned back eagerly to his scrutiny of the house, as though my presence marred the sacredness of the vigil. So I walked away and left him standing there in the moonlight watching over nothing.

First he nodded politely, and then his face broke into that radiant and understanding smile, as if we’d been in ecstatic cahoots on that fact all the time.

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

(This is the last sentence of “The Great Gatsby”. This sentence is also on the grave of Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda.)

She Never Loved Any One Except Me!

"I've got something to tell you, old sport. 
Your wife doesn´t love you. She's never loved you. She loves me.
She never loved you, do you hear?
She only married you because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was a terrible mistake, but in her heart she never loved any one except me!"

The Great Gatsby

9910 Theory of Love

Having breakfast. Close to the “Puerta del Sol” in Madrid. As you can see in the attached photo it is a really delicious breakfast. Yogurt and forest fruits (I do not know if this expression makes sense in English).
On holiday, yes, the life is easy.

The background music is jazz and softly enter our minds… There is a lonely girl reading. She would be a character of my current reading (The Great Gatsby).

Three noisy Spanish people speak louder than the rest but the general sensation is good.

Behind me, in the other side of the window, the Sun. Although it is 10:08, this town appears to be awaked just now.

Scott Fitzgerald is really good. I found him some years ago when I read “Tender is the Night”. Last December I read an interesting book on his wife Zelda and him. Since then I love this couple.

Another point for Fitzgerald: one of my favourite current writers, Haruki Murakami, likes him. In fact, Murakami has translated “The Great Gatsby” into Japanese.

I love the way he describes people, not only their bodies but their behaviours and thoughts too. The way he is able to paint people with words. 

 This is a love story. I think this is one of the two best books on love I have ever read. The other one is “62 Modelo para armar” by the Argentinean writer Julio Cortázar.

(I have just known a lucid moment and it is clear for me the fact that I should leave all and try to live. Maybe I am a poet… or something.)

(Excuse me boss, don’t worry, next Tuesday I am going to be working again.)

Here I live

Ludwig Wittgenstein

"What can be said at all can be said clearly; and what we cannot talk about we must pass over in silence."

Murakami_What I Talk About When I Talk About Writing

Hi everybody,

The following excerpt is from the book "What I talk about when I talk about running" by Haruki Murakami. I recommend you this amazing book because Mr Murakami doesn't only talk about running but about the way he writes too.

As I suspect is true of many who write for a living, as I write I think about all sorts of things. I don't necessarily write down what I'm thinking; it's just that as I write I think about things. As I write, I arrange my thoughts. And rewriting and revising takes my thinking down even deeper paths. No matter how much I write, though, I never reach a conclusion. And no matter how much I rewrite, I never reach the destination. Even after decades of writing, the same still holds true. All I do is present a few hypotheses or paraphrase the issue. Or find an analogy between the structure of the problem and something else.

This has been the fourth book written by Mr Murakami I have read. All of them are really good though  for different reasons.

The first one was The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. A magic novel about love and mistery.

The second one was Norwegian Wood. The same rithm, the same music behind the words,... excellent.

Then I read a really hard essay about the terrible terrorist attack in Tokyo (The Tokyo Gas Attack and the Japanese Psyche) . (I talked about it in a post of this blog on XXX),

And this autobiographical text has been the last one (until now).