The Trumpet of Miles Davis

It was in that Paris of the spring in the 1960s, in the Latin Quarter, whose recently watered down streets in the early hours of morning smelled of freshly baked baguettes and croissants, when I settled in the Hotel Louisiana on Rue de Seine, lured by the mythology which forgave the austerity of the place […]

The Rebel

When I was 18 years old a bookseller in Valencia clandestinely offered me, under the counter, a red-covered copy of Camus’s book Summer, which had been printed in Argentina. It came wrapped in brown paper and I read it in a hammock surrounded by the sound of cicadas and the odor of pine needles, sweltering in the summer heat.