It hurts a lot to have to write here that Juan Forn has died, at 61 years of life in ink and because of a heart attack that leaves – for now – paper newspapers, endearing books and desperate letters without the last page . Forn dies and I only wish that his ghost manages to claim the right place in the memory that his novels and stories deserve, but above all those chronicles that intertwine the essay with the speech where the stories of the little life were projected on the curtain of History capitalized, much more than simple articles that populated for years what they call back cover in the Argentine newspaper Página12 and that they signified the miracle that the last page always became the first (either in electronic edition or in the paper destined to yellow), since Juan Forn had conquered the unavoidable restlessness of those of us who followed in his wake every Friday.
I owe to the beautiful Kimiko, my cousin who has lived in a Japanese garden in Buenos Aires for years, the unexpected gift of the first volume of Fridays, contratapas anthology that would add up to four volumes, edited by Emecé in Argentina and which I hope will now be sold by the thousands, but not before noting the following: the reader of Forn’s weekly texts has to assume the guaranteed expense of at least two or more books that mention his genius per week and at the end of each volume, the reader will contemplate an endearing shelf of trips through the past, landscapes painted by words, supposedly dead living poets, immeasurable novels, life itself as an exercise in the plot that it tangles and unravels in unexpected outcomes with a rain of chance and magic of synchronicities. All this written with the delicious prose of a novelist who now deserves to have his novels reprinted forever and a true tireless of the editorial trenches where he gave more than half his life in constant stress, in adrenlin between egos, in readings and opinions, reports of reading and tireless compadrito laburo who had finally decided to leave the bustle of Buenos Aires and the literary world and anchor himself by the seaside to enjoy life and his family … without imagining that his immense heart reached until today when he leaves us all in literal desolation: the world without that Sun that was Forn.
I owe to Miguel Repiso, the great REP, the miracle of having been able to meet Juan Forn from afar, as he brought us together in a radio program that linked Madrid with Buenos Aires on the various fields of the 2018 World Cup in Russia. cry, because at least out loud I was able to express to Juan Forn the true admiration that I profess for him and for the emails that they added from then on and until a week ago I can try to comfort with knowing that we read each other with affection, that he advised me not a few invaluable paths for a novel that owes so much to its lyrics that it even unknowingly shared the same title as a novel that he had published years ago.
Of all the much I owe to REP, the pending trip in which I thought I would see Juan Forn in person, by the sea, and learn up close the palpable greatness of a true man of letters, will always be the icing on the cake. pretensions or poses, the erudite erudite without pedantry, the disciplined reader who was exhausting the shelves of all the books that he proposed to read forever, always with pleasure and the novelist who signed for now posterity Mary Domecq Y Pure lies, the storyteller of all the stories that he carried in his veins … but above all, the writer who closed the newspaper with pearls as paragraphs, chronicles rather than articles tending to brief essays on life that seemed eternal, blond hair flying in curlers Ruffles amid smoke like mist, the pen at the ready and a sharp gaze, the deep voice in each silence … and the unexpected nostalgia to keep due silence now that its last page flies.
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