When my friend Nacho [Ignacio Alvarez Vara], around the ship 74, wanted to be a journalist, I talked a lot about America and say that New York is like a little to the Gran Via in Madrid, and was a city that was sure that I would like very much.
We were at times at night to buy newspapers at the kiosk from the Puerta del Sol which is before the Mallorcan, because it is the last one closed in Madrid and Nacho had a huge obsession with newspapers.
was doing a translation of Dylan Thomas The visitor and other stories and some evenings I was going to help your house Nuncio nine, then I was baptized with the name of "refuge for turtles."
much is desperate to translation and also with montoneras and clutter of papers and letters, he was always saying that he ate the books, but did nothing to buy more every day and did not know where to put them. I helped him install some shelves in brick and gave her a poster of Marilyn Monroe. Later I introduced him to M. Angel Aguilar. Nacho was the first person I spoke Sallinger [sic] and Nuncio at his home nine first saw a reproduction of a painting by Edward Hopper, I was very impressed. A painter who later in my trip last year to N. York, I kept track of museums and came to worship.
If all this has come to light is that this afternoon in New York, and causally linked by the press, have appeared Ignacio and Edward Hopper (and strangely united by the disappearance of the old Arturo Soria, who I met at Café Gijón, and as Hopper and Nacho's father and mine, with pen as I write now, and inherited only absence.) Silver Philip was with the 5 th Avenue and also the New York Times Magazine, which carried an article on Hopper, English press looking for something, because I'm ten days without knowing what is happening in Madrid. They had only Cambio 16 and bought it. Then I was in the library of Columbia University and wrote to the strained.
Arriving at my apartment on Rue 119, I looked the other newspapers and I found it funny to have brought together on the bus, without knowing it, one against another, the image of two people who, in my personal discovery of America have so much to see. As a tribute to Hopper, and in memory of Nacho, I have decided, therefore, begin this scrapbook of the press, occasionally glazed with a comment. Because New York is a city that can not be captured or transferred only with the pen, it takes pictures.
has begun to rain, at night, I have the radio on, the rain has turned into a thunderstorm. Almost all the house lights are off, but there is still some on. From the solitude of my room, the other, in the light of lamps and fleeting silhouettes of people moving in, look inside Edward Hopper. I myself am now as the wife of a Hopper painting, as I think of him and feel a little melancholy and uprooting, eating an apple alone.
American people be lonely.
Suddenly the phone rang and it was the (what a wonderful voice!) I turned [her daughter's nickname] said that he repents of me. We talked for fifteen minutes. I have no reason to be jealous of Jacqueline Onassis.
Carmen Martin Gaite
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