Miguel Delibes has left a trail of words on the bedside table of many English who learned to hunt water voles in the wintry dawn of childhood, or imagined five hours with Mario, or ladies in red on other funds, or they learned to walk in the village square of old Castile, Milanas beautiful cover-girl did not know who screamed his servants at that time black another Spain, long forgotten. Sculptor stories
curds losers and sadness has been given by settled his trip: "I give my life for lived, "he said recently, to the astonishment of the reader. Its melancholy, marked by the early death of his wife melted in these closing words of a newspaper editorial, adding: "The only thing that binds me to life is the love of my family."
wanted to say on his epitaph put "I hope that Christ fulfills its promise," a promise where his wife waits at a landing, its quiet elegance, leaning into the sky impatient of waiting, "We look at ourselves and know ourselves enough. Never mind the silences, the tedium of the early afternoon. We were together was enough. When she left, I saw it still clearer: those desktops without words, those looks without project, without expecting great things of life, were simply happiness. " Delibes
leaves and with it a feeling of loneliness old conservatory on the roof of a fat-free existence for the absence. A loneliness with words wounded and thrown into the abyss of the literature, perhaps because writing him a little bit closer to those first hours of the evening, illuminated by the tedium of a wonderful happiness trapped in her memory until the last few days, until the last breath . Has died, finally, the genius who dignified sadness making supreme art of life. Rest in peace, maestro.
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