MY WRITER FRIENDS TELL ME that to do a blog is to do politics, that I must confine myself to literature, this is the way to defend it, continuing to publish in my country, surviving with the status of a writer. That walking around on the Internet is a way to lead myself into the swamp, evasive, illegal, free-willed, to turn into a wild animal.
My creator friends think that to publish what you think is to be involved in politics. They assure me that my books denounce more than an opposition political party. That first of all I need to think about my work, then my readers, the culture, myself.
My literary friends create conflicts in me: I do not want to do politics. What I want most is to defend my literature. But how to gag my mouth?… Silence the spontaneous scream? If I tell stories it is because my stories write themselves, they jump out at me, independent, making fun at times of my absence. Nor do I ask them to be grateful. I just finish what they put there, act as a scribe, give “life” to those who have always existed, a kind of Geppetto who forges, from pure emotion, the characters of a secretly hidden reality.
My learned friends receive publicity and their books are republished. They agree to be jurors on contests they never won. They applaud when the news cameras approach. Go to Book Fairs in distant countries, cultural places they dream of visiting, but in payment I could not give more than my creative honesty.
My erudite friends say I can’t complain, that despite my anti-establishment literature I have had more opportunities than they’d have had if they’d tried it in their time. That in exchange I must be quiet, accept that they marginalize me, and show my gratefulness at all times for the space I inhabit, and for their kindness in not suppressing me. So I might even deceive them, they say, beg forgiveness for my literature, a kind of complicity between official and writer. To make their job easier, I think.
My skilled friends want to take a cynical attitude, as their way of protecting me, as they have done to protect their own existence. But as much as I explain this venture into a blog as a way to continue my role as a spectator and writer, they can’t understand. They toss me a look that says, “There you go, don’t complain when they show you the instruments.”
My illustrious friends are admired by me: I don’t have their capacity to stay quiet. I don’t have their resistance to the sound of silence. I don’t enjoy it when they throw bread crumbs but not the bread. At times, I envy them, because only I know what perks I reject, in exchange for all the disdain I receive.
My thinking friends will have to accept me as I accept them.