“It’s the only long line of the year that men make”. The sentence is from Asun, eighty-eight years old, who while saying it looks amused at the swarm of ants waiting to buy a rose with ornaments in the early hours in the morning.
The advantage of getting up early is that you can take your pulse – and yawn – on St George’s Day, and see some literary authors, who have not slept today, type on the computer in the tents to set final point to a novel that for months they don’t know how – or when – to end. The coffees that the municipal services of the Sapastrell Town Hall have kindly arranged help them to keep their eyelashes open and their eyes glassy, ​​redness that could be as much from the hours without sleep as from the substances that facilitate creative activity (and allow let’s not be more specific). They won’t sell a single book, but it’s a shame to have them here, as entertainment for the staff.
The writer Brigita Farsipal, a renowned author who sweeps every day, presents a work that does not have any verbs, as a protest against the conjugation of the passive diacritic proposed by the Institut d’Estudis Catuflans. Florenci LlambordÃ, his fearsome competitor, tries to cast a shadow over him with a preface that brings critics to their knees, since the novel has only three paragraphs that make sense.
On Rà dio Sapastrell, Karen Castellà , who has questions as sharp as her eyes, hosts a talk show where three novice authors explain their literary adventure – with plants – and listen to each other with bright eyes and the conviction that they will never live literature Two are journalists – poor people! – and the other is a computer engineer – you know that! – and has dedicated himself to traveling the path of fantastic literature, where the bit tastes the blood that oozes from the sword
The readers queuing at the Farsipal and Llambordà tents complain that this year they leave with the work without a dedication, although they admit that taking the book free and twenty eurets as a gift is not bad at all. At the tables with the least success of the public, the authors play cards or buy each other’s books, while they dedicate themselves to them and reflect with depth and joy on this great thing that is that people do not read.
In the queue of the flowers, the ants – males – wait, disciplined, to take home a well-decorated lettuce, which roses have not been for everyone.
