As some have marked on 27 September and others on 20 November on the calendar, I had a striking red on 6 October. Because the first issue of the writer's journals Rafael Chirbes was marketed. I asked for it in the morning from the particular book dealer. He'll let me know when I arrive. Message shortly: “Rafa is in da house.” Of course I was the first to get the book, I don't know if it's all over the city. I have a story to tell my grandchildren.

Although I don't know why I read writers' diaries. Even the writers' newspapers that I like. Not rarely do I feel a little humble to meet some writers firsthand. Or simply because I find it almost a violation of a person’s intimacy, even when the newspaper is not a betrayal, because it ordered – after death, yes – the publication of the writers. I also try, like Marta Sanz, to put aside what the newspapers have about rude. And taking almost as a game: annulling or reaffirming the hypotheses I have made, between the imagined character of the writer and the character that is built in the newspapers. Because there are always interesting things from the very beginning: “Feeling of temporality. I feel completely on the edge of the chair, comfortably putting the buttocks: a nervous way of being.” And precisely because these newspapers had been waiting for me for a long time, since they were announced before the summer, even Beniarbeig, since in the house of Alicante he taught us manolo, the nephew of Chirbes, the manuscripts.

Even though literature is a gender, I've always loved memories, collections of memories, biographies, autobiographies, newspapers. We have mentioned here Carlos Blanco Aguinaga, the teacher of Chirbes in literary subjects, Iñaki Uriarte, Miguel Sanchez Ostiz, all of them men, negative point. Although newspapers have always created my concern, it will be because the daily life of writers is also very much like our daily lives.