A couple of days in the past I introduced at Espai Subirachs del Poblenou Desescalades, the final guide by Joan Rendé Masdéu, revealed by Cossetània.
A couple of days in the past I introduced at Espai Subirachs del Poblenou Desescalades, the final guide by JoanRendé Masdéu, revealed by Cossetània. It is a scrapbook. For me this isn't a flaw in any respect and I feel it should not be for many civilized readers who have not been by the perfect vendor grinder. Since romanticism, literature – and tradition – has integrated the fragment. In our crumbling and cracked on a regular basis life, the fragment makes rather more sense than the sheet, the monument and the tabarra. All of us have our heads in items and we learn in items, however the status is taken, quite, by the mastodons of tradition, the ingots, skyscrapers and pharaonic novels. Typically, deservedly so. Rendé's guide collects a couple of tales that may very well be a novel – within the fashion of Italo Calvino and Pere Calders – round a person who climbs to stay on prime of an antenna and from from there he contemplates the issues that occur. There's a very humorous chapter concerning the wars between road musicians and one other a couple of plague of untamed boars, lighter and extra exhilarating than Raül Garrigasait's novel, as a result of in Rendé's textual content the wild boars take the town and a pig keen to make propaganda in favor of domestication is the candidate for mayor of Barcelona "of the yolk of the egg". Then there's a half, which I actually like, of very brief tales and on the finish a miscellany of assorted tales amongst which stand out an autobiographical narrative and a fable of Voltairean or Swiftian social criticism a couple of society of ants.
Certainly one of my favourite texts known as The Escape. It tells the case of a person who – like Peter Schlemihl from Adelbert von Chamisso’s 1814 novel – loses his shadow. It's positioned on the sting of the church and runs out. The shadow doesn't comply with him. After which one thing formidable occurs: it's not the person who creates one other shadow, it's the shadow who creates one other man! If this story, as an alternative of being written by Rendé, who's an eighty-year-old gentleman with a bow tie, hat and scarf, had been written by a younger man with an empire shirt and an earring in his ear, there could be copious urination of water of colony
We had dinner on the Sala Beckett and, on the finish, we went for a drink on the Balius cocktail bar on Carrer Pujades. Can Balius was a Poblenou drug retailer all its life. On the Rambla/Almogàvers it had its mom home: a big ironmongery shop, from when Poblenou was bravely hanging there. Each time I'm going to the Balius cocktail bar, I've the identical fantasy: that there's a strip in space-time by which a wall painter from fifty years in the past enters the premises of 2023, so effectively positioned. "Grasp, the place are your work?" The Italian waiter would take a look at the person with the white frog, stuffed with coloured lanterns, to rub his palms and brushes with. When the waiter approaches I say: "Boy, as we speak you could have an excellent author from Poblenou having drinks at your own home!". Lluïsa, in Rendé Jr. and Helena Pol applaud. And laughing, laughing, we end the second negroni.
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