Requiescat in pace for this writer who will now stir people, and specially readers--in different ways, of course--from their indifference and quietness regarding his work. Death is, as seen, a good chance for life to notice life, isn't that poetic? Haven't you been pondering around this while I was dealing with money issues and left this blog to its luck?
Perhaps. I, for instance, and not to say about the whole corporation of unemployed creatures that feed this page, never wondered about Álvaro´s life before his unlucky--unlucky?--ending. And here we are. Such a shame, eh?, the fact that artists work for posthumous fame and recognition.
And they might not even get that much. Statistics would confirm, and I´m fishing blind here, that artists die all the time, at a rate of some dozens per second. Indeed, we could say artists hardly matter, since there are too many. You could say the same regarding humans, but it wouldn't matter anyway.
From a background of well prized and sizable artists that drown in their own number, here he is. One more of the already large list of writers who could have been close to get a Nobel.
Many have read him; read him as if you were getting something else out of it: as if poetry cared, when poetry is dispensable.
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