Medardo Fraile:
true tales
In Spain have not storytellers. Or not have known, because then, in the posh events that give awards of tens of thousands of euros, rather than showing thousands of stories, written mostly by authors of the Peninsula. The truth is that publishers do not seem very lively to launch the careers of storytellers quality patriotic. Medardo Fraile is, however, an exception to this ruthless rule. For decades, the writer has been publishing books of short stories (stories for adults, it is understood at this point, I say) and one novel, as I read there. It seems to Medardo Fraile he did not want to become famous, because in a market like English, where publishers asshole we are bombarded with seudomisterios farfolleros of zillion pages, there seems to be much room for a volume such as this, a delicious collection of stories, some better and some worse, some fantastic and other realists, some of evasion and other hyper. As is the courtyard, it seems much Medardo Fraile say is one of our best writers of short stories, because there is no competition, why fool. They say that gender is difficult, the genre of story, it is difficult to create a frame on four, five, ten leaves. Meanwhile, the shelves of our bookstores are full of crap literature to stun the residents work if it is not morons and with school teachers, the abnormal and memos television broadcasters who design computer games (ah, and the bastards who sell drugs ). The book we bring here can be a potent vaccine against stupidity, a poultice of euphonious words to divert us from the abyss a bit supine stupidity that rules this world. A balm against the folly, or that it could make several million copies and giving the class to get them to take charge of our hapless schoolboys, as they are doomed to be cannon fodder in the ruthless world of the future that is already present tense, present a play fuck.
0 comments:
Post a Comment