Worst part

From that, the philosopher Fernando Savater decided that he would not write more books . She was no longer there and he just threw himself on the keyboard for liking him more, for telling him in folios what it is not always possible to say loudly for life. Savater is one of the most lucid essayists here and there (without knowing how far he reaches 'there'). It does not matter to disagree on some matters, there is always a precise idea in his things, raised by the grace or rage and in which he is right. That is a philosopher: who accompanies shedding light, keeping the eternal wound open to wondering things.

Savater said he was not going to write again. Happily you have betrayed yourself with the worst part. Memories of love It will be published in two weeks by the Ariel publishing house. It is a tremendous journey, where the author's human surface is exposed to the weather of himself. A book written to his wife, by his wife, to his wife, from the pure howl that causes the absence. She passed away four years ago, from cancer, and this man grabbed until suddenly getting old. Not old of intuitions and certainties, of doubts and misses, of successes and skids. But old vacuum. Old man of loneliness. Old by the lack of that other half that no longer goes with you, without remedy. Old of the cold of not having nor cold.

The book shakes. It is one of those who can annihilate everything in minutes. And, instantly, raise a love of blown kisses when saying goodbye. Rosa Montero titled one of his, evenly, The ridiculous idea of ​​never seeing you again. Some human stories happen like this, with the humid mutual flooding to never sink. Sharing life humanely is more than sharing it biologically. This is what Savater talks about. Of a passion and how premature death always bursts with the perfect hands to steal. And mutilate. Intelligence is nothing compared to feeling, as in Gustave Amiot's novel.

Neither Savater nor anyone is conditioned so that one day there is not what he believed in, especially if that is where he existed so much, where he lit the fire bluntly to have fun. Literature relieves, but only that: literature imitates memory without being entirely memory.

In the worst part there is a man who cries. That cries like dolphins and children, with fat tears. He cries for someone he loved in a way that does not accept consultation. That does not understand truces. And now what, ask. Where, while with these pages a little rope is given to the heart. Saying without saying, as in the poem: " You who know what I am / and I still owe you everything ."

According to the criteria of The Trust Project

• culture
• Philosophy
• Cancer
• literature
• books

Photography Leopoldo Pomés, Spain's contribution to world photography

Tadeu Valeriana I

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