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rarefies and takes awayone’s energy, but critique, on theother hand, wakesoneup. I amaneophile. I love thenew, the yet-to-arrive, but not just anything, but that thingwhose importance involvesmy feelings. Everything that asksmequestions through its silence. ‘Mr. Palomar always expects that silencecontains something more than languagecan say’. Weareat amarvelousmoment, tumultuous, ideal to feel thingsbothgoodandnew, andweneed topay attention, turnonourwirelesses, tonotmiss the frequencyof our own listening. Rhetorichasovertaken themodusoperandi and the internetmixes it all together, favouringquantityover quality, and thiswill havedreadful consequences. Any idiot cannow beof interest tomillionsof nosyparkers. Thegreatest andmost notableabsence inour current lives is that of thinking. Suchacatastrophe! It’s not about finding meaning ineverything, but rather about openingdoors to placesof freedomandprogress. Of respectingandbeing respected. Of opiningwithanopinion. AsClariceLispector wrote: ‘I don’twant tohave the terrible limitationof thosewho livemerely fromwhat canmake sense’. Neither do I, but that doesn’tmean I flatter inconsequence, brutality, social chaos andananything-goes attitude inart or poetry. If art hasgot one foot in thegrave, let’s not evenmention poetry. Therearemafia-likeclans, absurdpower groups that imposeand silenceothers’ voices, with true thuggery. But, from youth tooldage. The silence that coverspoets like Jesús HilarioTundidor or JoséAlcalá-Zamoraand the superiority given to younger editorial voices cannot beunderstood, the latter constantly contributing to thepressbymeansof using any information to their ownends. Thereareno trueprofessionals inour littleartworld, nor are therenatural relationships, nor freedom. There is imposture, despotism, fascismand idiocy. Theywhisper one thingand writeanother (you shouldhaveheard thecomments at the inaugurationof the Ignasi Aballí exhibitionat theReinaSofía Museum). Thepeoplewhowriteabout art have starteda competition to seewho says it best andmost beautifully, to seewho is thegreater advocate, who is themost ambiguous, givinguponanalysis and reflection. Wehave set off on thegrandmarathonof flattery, and the clichés are repeated shamelessly, inaway that is hurriedand vulgar. Thereareexamples that are tooembarrassing tocite. Wearecoming toapoint of fakery that is alarming. A few days ago I readanobituary about CarlosBousoño that containednot a singlecorrect point.We speak about corrupt politicians, but not about corrupt ‘intellectuals’ and thepeople that survive in thecircleof so-called intellectual creativity: teachers, writers, journalists, artists, intermediaries, cultural managerswhoareallmore concernedwith the industry thanculture. Given the strengthofmoney ethics areunhooked, hidden and vilified. I’mnot talking aboutmorals, but ethics, that whichmust takemandown the liberal pathwithnomind to slavery. The specificplaces us in theworldandallows us todreamanddoubt, to fly and seekout thosepaths thatwewouldnever find otherwise. ‘If theheavenlybodies are loadedwithuncertainty, there is nothing todobut trust in darkness, in thedesert realms of the sky.What couldbe more stable that nothing?’ Mr. Palomar askedhimself, althoughLucienBlagaalready warnedus: ‘it’s true that shadows looks likedarkness, but they aredaughtersof the light.’ TomásParedes 35