Just after having mention Milan Kundera (still alive), I went to Conde Duque's library. I looked for a novel of this writer, I wanted to read more from him, the only book I have read is The Unbearable Lightness of Being. As a coincidence, I found a girl who was exactly at the Kundera's corner, at that solitary and calm moment of the afternoon. Fortunately, she was not interesed in the same titles than me. I chose La identidad, written in 1998.
Seconds later, I took also La caida, de Albert Camus, a very thin book, but full of promises. I prefer thin novels than very big ones; I sleep all nights with La noche de los tiempos close to me, but I feel not strong enough for such literaty venture.
So I started La identidad and I discovered why Kundera is each year nominated for the Nobel prize. His deep psychological sight, for instance. When you read about his characters, you feel as if you were inside their minds, men or women, and that is admirable. For example, when Chantal (the main female character) became sad because of a conclusion: men don't look her as in the past. She had become older, less pretty, less charming. And it's hard to assume it.
Once, I made an experiment, in the Madrid subway corridors. I put myself just behind a pretty young girl, and I walk like this for a while. I saw what she saw, and it was shocking. All the guys, almost the 99% of them, stared at her body, her face. Some of them with briefs sights, some of them without catching their desire at all. I found it quite stressing, having all those odd eyes like glue on her skin. Why does the girl felt in that situation? I'm not Milan Kundera to figure out it.
But, thinking about Chantal's complain, I feel lucky. Girls don't use to look at me in that way, and if they do, they look so surreptitiously that I never notice it. But there is a moment, in every pretty woman biography, that people, men and also women, stop looking at her, their eyes choose new aesthetic goals. A small drama, if you want, but not at all light or superficial. It has to do with beauty and his unfathomable misteries.
De Fuencarral a Ópera, apoteosis del tránsito
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