Vargas Llosa Cathedral of the word

Abstract

When I shook the right hand of Mr. Mario Vargas Llosa-that opaque morning of a happy and almost forgotten year-I doubted the strength of the five knuckles, the weight of the flesh of his hand that was soft and soft, and that, now , the time had stained with freckles that moved on the skin like small sand lakes. "Good morning, it's a pleasure," he said with his eyes still alive and flaming, like that of a young limousine willing to face the dialogue, the unexpected onslaught of an alien, shaking his arm gently for the greeting to pass briefly, but cuts, dry but firm, distant but willing to be generous.