I'm attending the Night of Catalan Literature at the MNAC. My colleague Xavi Bosch and I are presenting the awards, and we've been able to read the chronicleWe award the Mercè Rodoreda Prize for short stories, which used to be called the Víctor Català Prize (I wouldn't have changed the name). The ceremony is broadcast on television and radio, and that's a good thing, because literature should be an industry, and that's what they call it. glamorSince it's a literary gala, the presenters don't joke around much. The stage is elegant, and the award is lit up in pink like a cheap lamp. I'd love to win two literary prizes just to have two and put them on my nightstands. The old one (I have it in my bookstore, my dear Mercè Rodoreda) was made of pumpkin-shaped wax.
And so, since the gala is being televised, the presenters and winners are ushered into the makeup room. There are canapés, which the Catalan author is always thrilled about. The makeup artist sits me down and puts wipes on my neck to prevent staining. Then she asks me:Are you going to cry?" I don't understand. "Are you going to cry at the gala?"
Of course, it could happen that I win an award, dedicate it to my mother, and cry. She doesn't know this, and she must ask me if she should put the so-called "waterproof"A mascara that's proof against emotions. I really like this professional gesture. In Hollywood they cry, and at a literary party, I should be able to cry, especially when you think about the prestige of certain awards. She wants to know something she thought I had figured out. Will I cry or not? If I'm going to cry, if I'm going to cry, if I'm going to cry, if I'm going to cry, if I'm going to cry, if I'm going to cry, if I'm going to cry, if I'm going to cry, if I'm going to cry, if I'm going to cry, if I want to smear my eyes with black, like the Joker. I love the question."
