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To Federico Garcia Lorca.

How high you used to soar, my Federico.
How could I then, and later, read you, without shedding at least a little tear?
Federico, Garcia, Lorca.

I mentioned you and I found imbeciles ready to badmouth you, what a communist, what a “maricòn”.

To begin with you were not a communist but righteously out of any party that wasn’t composed of pieces of Art. “Maricòn”, that you actually were, but for me, I couldn’t care less.

It’s true, you then ended up killed, but you know, that also happened to Caesar, to Kennedy, to Abel.

Federico. My Federico.

For me, by far the greatest… but really by miles, as we say here amongst friends, and again, amongst friends, I would add: like Louis Armstrong! Because after somebody of this calibre, and even before, there is no space left for anybody else.

Your Torero, Federico, is all yours and it is you.

It makes me suffer since the time when, still a child, I would re-read it, incredulous, and I would listen to myself reading it aloud, alone, inebriated and well hidden in the house, with the key left in the door, blocking the keyhole.

I fought a tough battle with everything, to reconcile tauromachy with my passions, but without an exit… I wish they would show the exit to me too… the men with the hardened voices…

But I cannot resist you and Ignazio, the two of you together are too impossible to beat for a simple bull. And on this point I will have to square out with Eternity.

It will be worth it.
Confusion, says Avati in between the lines, is a marvellous state of mind.

Yours sincerely