Healed from nostalgia, I got rid of many items. It all started with the relics of childhood, toys, school supplies and countless little treasures that smeared my fingers with melancholy. Awareness of our process cooled my resolve to preserve possessions from the past; but I keep the letters received in boxes. Before the digital age, they came to me in abundance. The daily rite of opening the mailbox door was often accompanied by an element of joyful surprise. Today the postman only brings bills in window envelopes, advertisements, a newspaper to which I subscribe and little else. Of course nothing that would mark a turning point in my life.
There will be a letter from the late 1970s in which Francisco Brines summarily advised me to give up poetry. The poem I sent him must have been so bad. Jaime Gil de Biedma suggested that the verses should be conceived in their relation to the group rather than as individual pieces claiming their own brilliance. Juan Larrea overwhelmed me with a typed lesson, and Rafael Morales repeatedly lavished his friendship on me in writing.
Now I keep getting messages in messaging apps and in email, but it’s not the same. They are concise, functional messages, often peppered with acronyms and cartoons. Fortunately, I still have a correspondent with whom I have maintained an ongoing correspondence for decades, enabling us to confide in one another, check current readings, comment on current affairs, report juicy gossip, chronicle the latest illnesses… Thank you , he gives me the pleasure of checking the mailbox every day. I keep an old letter opener for him, which is lying on the desk and is starting to look more like an anachronistic dagger than it really is.
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