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200 pages, Paperback
First published October 1, 2013
Recuerdo el miedo que yo era, hecho carne, el amasijo de nervios, y cómo me notaba a mí mismo más o menos como se percibe un temblor, los movimientos bruscos de un corazón agotado que dentro del pecho parecía ir cambiando constantemente de postura sin terminar de encontrar el sitio.
Pero no más promesas pronunciadas de verdad, a corazón abierto, porque son mentira las promesas de verdad, no más deseo de ese que al contacto con la piel se vuelve veneno. Nunca más, mi amor, nunca más esta agotadora persecución del delirio, de ser ambos uno, y ese feliz uno en el centro del viento.
all of which is to suppose that there is any point in doing that which cannot be repeated or remembered, much less told. pure performance for no one's eyes, like a poem written on a lost rock in a language mankind has long forgotten.while the stories of author carlos castán are highly acclaimed in his native spain, none of his short fiction appears to have been (yet) translated into english. bad light (la mala luz), his 2013 debut novel (following several story collections, the first published in 1997), is a remarkable work of angst, longing, and existential musing. castán's bad light is the tale of a nameless narrator finding good company and conversation with his friend jacobo, both on the other side of failed marriages. following increasingly paranoid ravings (or so they seemed at the time), jacobo is found murdered in his apartment. in an effort to make sense of the crime, the narrator seeks out a female acquaintance of his late friend, from whom he inevitably receives more than mere answers.
it strikes me that every collector, be they a consummate bibliophile or a teenager looking to assemble the complete output of their favorite band, has in mind, albeit in an ill-defined, generic, or prototypical sense, the idea of a visit that will one day be paid by an individual they have not yet met, someone to whom they will reveal that treasure trove of items gathered together over the years, not without a great deal of hardship and penny-pinching (or, better still, who will see it for themselves, without the need to have it pointed out to them, and who will spring up from the couch in one single bound to take a closer look), and who will know how to appreciate it and will be able to spot there and then, thanks to all that stuff, the sense of a whole life, the identity of a man. every library, no matter how personal, is arranged as if on display. it seeks out the other, it craves admiration, the simple recognition of a like-minded soul or a polar opposite. this is not altogether uncalculating, for it is, when all is said and done, a language. and as such, it may be heartfelt or duplicitous.