I run into Albert Sánchez Piñol on the street. We hadn't seen each other for years. I was a passionate reader of his. He likes excitement, and in a matter of seconds we are already arguing about politics, of course. A hasty dialectical combat. But neither I, nor the person accompanying me, an ex-girlfriend of his, have any intention of convincing him: we already know what he thinks. Annoyed, he turns on his heel and leaves. That's Albert! He has hot blood. Surely we agree on one thing: both he and I only know how to read and write, nothing more. Naturally, he writes muuuuch better.