After Homeland, Fernando Aramburu comes back to the literary arena with a more personal work. But perhaps the most personal aspect of this work is the one that concerns the reader himself.
Reading this book gives off an essential empathy, that which makes of the common imagination, of the intention of the writer to tell the life and what happens a prolongation of inner voice. Our internal forum is a whisper, an elemental will in the face of what is the exercise of living and adjusting to the environment, to changes, to circumstances. The inner voice of this book then becomes our own voice, cradling us in the dream of reading.
Reached a certain level of recognition, many writers have ended up writing the book of their motivations to write. Sometimes it ends up being a formal explanation of the art of writing, at other times we enjoy explaining the art of writing as the magic of mastering language. In this self-portrait without me, Fernando Aramburu seems to start looking for his reasons for writing, as if he were going to make them explicit in the development of the book.
But in the end it is not about that. Attributable to almost automatic writing, an exercise in unknowing, or a draft for an essay, this self-portrait of random days composes a landscape of inner life translated into any of the emotional languages of the reader.
Whatever stage we find ourselves in, we will find in this book that search for our essence. The fundamentals of our will is forged from the learning of being and being. Human is one who loves at times and who hates at others. Human is the one who knows himself to be mortal, deep down, but tries to hide between trivialities while clinging to a father, a mother or a son about to take his first great frustration.
Not that everything we are is here, but it is a pleasure to see that we are all the writer, the author of an exciting life, of a self-portrait without us.
You can buy now Self portrait without me, the new book by Fernando Aramburu, here: