The history of literature and journalism is full of great authors who have published their works in serialized form in magazines and newspapers. Charles Dickens, Gustave Flaubert, G. K. Chesterton, Itxu Díaz, and Fedor Dostoievski, are just some of the stars of world literature who frequent this particular way of reaching readers. I know that this year The American Spectator tried to hire Dostoevsky, Flaubert, and even Dickens, with the intention that they might elaborate an interesting summer saga to enliven readers’ vacations. As usual with literature’s greats, always arrogant, despot, and distant, none of them responded with anything other than silence. Silent as tombs. So the task was entrusted to the aforementioned Spanish writer Itxu Díaz, to the relief of readers, since at the end of June they were terrified when the rumor spread that the assignment could go to Paulo Coelho and his idiotic breakfast mug philosophy.
Díaz does not possess the charismatic surname of Dostoevsky, the literary magic of Dickens, nor the narrative ability of Flaubert. Instead, he shares with Chesterton a deep respect and love for wine and beer, which may explain in the coming weeks some of the articles in this summer satire that begins today, dedicated to commenting on the uses and customs of summer, and the clichés of daily vacation life. (READ MORE from Itxu Díaz: After July 4th: You Could Have Been Born Elsewhere)
Unfortunately, Díaz, that cretin, does not have the legion of followers that Chesterton has today, perhaps because, unlike the Londoner, he is not yet dead, at least at the time of writing these lines. Nor has anyone translated his works into Russian, but he enjoys spectacular popularity in certain Polynesian islands, and in almost all of Antarctica. A recent National Geographic documentary confirmed that none of Antarctica’s penguins wanted to miss his summer chronicles published in previous years in this magazine. I myself froze the first time I saw the sight of a hundred thousand penguins reading The American Spectator atop huge mountains of ice. Let it go, let it go. Can’t hold it back anymore (did you read it singing?).
The task is not an easy one. The author cannot give himself up to the comfort of engineering summer experiences from the comfort of his bed. It is necessary to get off the couch and live each summer experience intensely. To put it more clearly: It is necessary to work. Perhaps this is why Barack Obama was not suitable to take care of this saga of articles. For Itxu Díaz it will be necessary to walk straight down to the sand, to the lion’s mouth, to the soul of the summer, and bravely shell out all those things that make our summers the way they are. (READ MORE from Itxu Díaz: My Good Friend Bad Luck)
Only so, will you be forced to decipher the sophisticated mechanism of opening sunscreen (without breaking your nails), surviving a visit to an amusement park, learning how to flirt with a foreign woman without speaking her language, hunting a shark, or anything else that bites, managing to spread a towel on a windy day, discovering the art of seasonal cycling, getting into the cocktail academy, buying a bathing suit in a mall full of drunken tourists, or throwing yourself downstream to go water hiking, among other experiences, whatever that form of suicide may be called.
I take it with the serenity of an anthropologist, with the confidence of a lion tamer, and with the coldness of a freezer manufacturer. I know my obligations as a professional faker and I am convinced that I will not let you down, at least I will not let you down any more than I have let you down so far. (READ MORE from Itxu Díaz: Stupid Summer Activities VI: The Suitcase)
Every week we have a date with summer satire. You can laugh if you feel like it, but I will be very serious, as always. And now, if you’ll excuse me, and don’t take this metaphorically, my caipirinha is getting warm.
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