Guillermo Busutil is one of ours. A writer who has understood the culture as honesty and shining brilliance , like that firm pulse of a boxer and thinner who shrinks on the flank before releasing his direct sound on the tremor of the world. He has done so as director of the sadly deceased Mercury magazine and also in his articles, for more than four decades, although he remains a young man in the attitude of endurance and power in the fighting for all the islands he has inhabited

Culture as a mystery and hallucination has always been present in its columns as the only certainty in the face of discouragement, in this succession of renunciations and assaults that accumulate landscapes. Culture, which appears to us as the last redoubt for those who seek their vents, becomes the Alamo in front of the army of reality of General Santa Ana : because it makes us feel Davy Crockett with the intimate mission of protecting the Golden Vellocino from prose scalded of disappointments and betrayal of living, and also of having survived, as Ana María Matute told her.

The infinite word, founder of ages; but also vitiated, so groped that it grimaces in those who do not frequent it or glimpse it as a slogan, with its vast domain that ends up reduced to an empty set when pronounced without the faith of true love. Guillermo Busutil has looked straight ahead, putting it in the title of the book Culture, dear Robinson (Fórcola), because he himself is also a Friday born to the beat of the waves between burning winds that speak of whispering and prosperous fires. We are not before his collection of articles, but before a treaty or a notation of notarial and poetic faith between the two covers of a book. Before the public newspaper of a life picking up the promise of the novels that will be rescued , of the new images that will shape a golden age in the retina, of the cinema that makes us arm the abyss to save Homer through the desert with John Wayne, from the burning painting of the lost paradise and the slender, cardinal and elusive music, which always ends up finding Jay Gatsby with days of wine and roses lurking the glaucous light of the pier.

Antonio Muñoz Molina's excellent prologue highlights another aspect of Culture, dear Robinson : his generational key. Ordered by disciplines or looks - that world map of the word, the camera, the cinema, the foam of the memory, the plasticity as an adventure or the actresses that make us vibrate, each sealed by two interviews with people like Muñoz Molina himself, Elvira Lindo or Javier Marías-, we are witnessing a loss : the one led by those who built the arrival of democracy as a building in progress with a fullness of humanized art and spirit, and now attend the demolition of the ruins. And it is a desolate feeling, but also of frank rebellion in defending the last rubble.

Guillermo Busutil does it in this book with reflective texts that contain flaming beginnings for his metaphoric scalpel. The structure of the book also narrates, and the page quality was taken for granted by the author of Drugstore or Promised Lives ; but here it reaches a level more ignited, of angry indignation and lyrical prose in the revolution of a thought that will resist. Culture, dear Robinson , is a journey from the flashes of a frizzy time to which we continue to hold his pulse , with the glasses on the table and writing as salvation.

According to the criteria of The Trust Project

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