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Don't be afraid of the waterfall you will sense ahead of you. Who knows, falling might be just what you need.

From the foreword by Gilles Durand





The story I am about to tell

is not only true, but also transcendental, if you will pardon the word. It is like a living entity that one fine day I stumbled upon, never suspecting that it would eventually absorb me to the point of disappearing into it. And I begin today, on one of those unceasingly rainy evenings, at six o'clock, at six o'clock in the evening, following the metallic dictation of the water hitting the terrace railing, still not knowing whether I am facing an essay or a novel.

And it is raining.

And you know well that rain does not favour decisions. I seek to be born in these lines, idiotically chasing the words that take over the page letter by letter in the hope that these furrows sown with signs will green up despite my doubts or thanks to them. "By their fruits, you shall know them," the Gospel states resolutely.

In the meantime,

I draw closer to you, and you to me. Each paragraph we overcome shows you what I am and tells me what you are like, it speaks to me about the reasons why you stay. And it is all happening now, in this present that we share, in this precise now in which I am writing the words that you are reading.

By surprise,

without even waiting for the first cry, in the midst of giving birth, I am urged by that question that precedes me, a basic, inescapable dilemma that I should have resolved in a yesterday before the "I" that I am about to construct, as if such a thing were possible. Novel or essay? And while I improvise an escape, an even greater enigma is already haunting me: why you? Two questions that assail me at the first corner, before the first full stop, they put a knife to my throat and ask for answers that I still do not have. They tell me they are there, in the pockets of memory. "Whose memory, whose pockets, if I am just beginning to be born? Use the knife, and everything ends here," I assure them, "and if not, wait for yesterday to sprout from this today of written and read words".

And ahead lies a white plain,

the canvas upon which we will draw our path as we approach that expectant distance where we are supposed to discover our promised land. Promised Land. That is better. True and Transcendental Story, Novel or Essay, Why You, Rainy Afternoon.

And we have just begun.

I cling to the present, trusting that these simple rows composed of a few combined characters will do for me what I, just barely being born, feel unable to do.



The Narrator sets out to tell a "true and transcendental" story, in his own words, that could change the world, and he will do so by confronting that natural impulse that leads us to conceal our contradictions, convinced that without them, there is no possible truth. The inner storm unleashed by this simple premise will lead him into a real-time struggle against the narrative on paper and beyond it, realizing with helplessness that the more he pursues reason, the further he strays from it.



The book will be available in digital and print formats at the following link:




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