Fachosphere

I was alarmed by the title of a book with a very complex question. It was called What do we talk about when we talk about love. It was the story of a disturbing writer, a stubborn drunk, named Raymond Carver. He was not the sublime Fitzgerald, speaking of similar themes, but he seemed authentic, badly wounded, original. And I still wonder in my old age what we talk about when we talk about love. I still have no conclusive answers.

But in a perhaps capricious way I relate this worrying question when I listen to the leader of social causes, the supposed champion of the most vulnerable, to that cynicism without masks in the name of power, to that shameless possibilist called Pedro Sánchez, who resorts, aided by the payroll of some ingenious assistant, to refer to those who are against his authority as something called “fachosphere.” In other words, the usual scam, the good and the bad, those who are right and their blind oppressors. The message is so stupid and opportunistic that it makes me sick. It is a lying and shabby theater, it is a bad actor with an opportunistic and filthy script, it is an offense to the intelligence of any recipient with half a brain and a heart.

They tell me that in the next week the paper newspaper will see its space reduced, but that the columns on television will be larger. And I say to myself, what a disgrace. Continue writing about the nothingness or squalor of something so abject called television. They are going to dispense with the recommendations about her. What a thankless, imaginative and heroic work of those who dedicated themselves to that. What garbage television, before, of course, but especially now. They live off rape, torture, incest, crimes, sadism. The stupidities of the universe of the heart are already on the way down. Poor people, almost all of them elderly, who have no choice but to live with the bug.

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