Apparently, there is no single way of writing, what they call confronting the blank sheet of paper. In the Champions of literature, George Plimpton tells in The Paris Review that Ernest Hemingway did it standing up, in slippers two sizes too big, on a small, well-worn kudu-fur rug, with the typewriter at chest height. Adds Plimpton: “In the first phase of a project, Hemingway writes in pencil on onionskin using the easel as a writing board. To the left of the typewriter he has the blank sheets on a clipboard with a clip on which he puts ‘Pending payment’, and he takes them out one at a time as he needs them. With the sheet in a slightly oblique position on the lectern and his arm resting on the table, he holds the paper with his left hand while he writes with a letter that, over the years, has grown in size and has become childish, with few punctuation marks, very few capital letters and periods often marked with an x. Every time he finishes a page, he holds it with a clip on another clipboard to the right of the typewriter”. Delicious interview, I highly recommend it.
Herbert Gold tells in the same Paris magazine how he does it Vladimir Nabokov: “He gets up early and goes straight to work. He writes on index cards that he gradually copies, enlarges and rearranges until he forms one of his novels. During the hot months in Montreux he likes to sunbathe and swim in a nearby pool to the hotel. At sixty-eight, he looks thick but robust, and moves slowly. He is as quick to show interest as he is to get irritated, but he prefers the former.” Nabokov was also fantastic and his interest in demonstrating until the last day of his life that he did not understand English very well, something like Bale with Spanish. But he understood it perfectly, boy did he understand it.
So, as I was saying, there does not seem to be a single way of writing for the select participants of the champions of literature. In journalism, and more precisely in sports journalism, there is. And more specifically in the anti-madridista sports journalism. Hemingway wrote standing up and wearing slippers twice the size of him, Nabokov got up early and wrote everything down on index cards that he reorganized as the plot progressed and the anti-Madrid writer wrote squatting and with his ass in pomp. And not because of a problem of aerophagia, no. I don’t know if you’ve heard that when too many gases accumulate in the human body and you don’t know how to expel them, it’s very good to get your ass up. Anti-Madrid journalists don’t expel gas but articles, that is, they don’t fart but throw texts that they throw in the face of their readers as if they were stink bombs, and since they can’t explain what doesn’t make sense to them, they appeal directly to the personal insult to continue subsisting. It is not the case of Guillem Balague, which, however, has been telling us all in real time that series of calamities chained one after another that were going to happen to Madrid in their matches against Chelsea, City and, finally, Liverpool. The Guillem thing makes some sense because he is in love with the Premier and that football but there are others, such as Diego Torreswho have been writing for years squatting and with their asses in bubbles for pure pleasure.
That is what, this past Tuesday, he did in The vanguard an overreacted John Carlin when, in order to offend the fourteen-time European champion and since he cannot understand what happened, he used Jose Mourinho. I’m going to start thinking that Carlin is in love with Mou, which wouldn’t be strange either, really, because the guy is very handsome, that’s true. I will not refer here to the number of farts that Carlin farts in his article in La Vanguardia, let us say that this veteran (he is 66 years old) British journalist (born in London) has a paper in which you can read that he is Spanish but he has not fully understood nothing about one of the four or five national symbols, which is Real Madrid Club de Fútbol. His flatulence shows ignorance and the gas he expels from him when he writes squatting and with his ass in pomp denotes that he still has a lot of suffering ahead of him. The destruction that the achievement of La Decimocuarta, with which nobody counted, has done between the anti-Madridismo it’s just brutal. Today, without going any further, I saw Gonzalo Miró on Twitter saying in a television program that José María Aznar saved Real Madrid from bankruptcy. If they did not exist, they would have to be invented because, deep down, they are hilarious. Suffering and gases do not let them think calmly.