Sunday always comes with its contrasts. Some go on a family picnic while others smother their conscience against the pillow. And about that strange transition between real life and the construction of the odd Saturday night gone as a mother, there is always something to write about. It already happened with The blue raincoat by Daniel Cid recently. Now it's up to Ray Loriga with his particular prose evocative of the satirical novel passed through the filter of the times in which transgression is precisely a hurtful form of mockery of the established, the politically correct from the hyperbole of extreme life. That is a possible reading of this novel "Saturday, Sunday." And from there, the composition of the place already depends on each reader, on their knowledge of the underworld in their own flesh, from the crime novel or from the events reported by the media.
The novel takes us to a Saturday night in which a young boy uninhibited by alcohol gives himself over to his most primitive instincts. But access to the animal essence of being can lead to bestial circumstances that reason and the remnants of later morality can try to bury at any cost.
That the past always returns is a necessary argument for any novel that seeks to travel through the most unsuspected mysteries. But also that past space of what we were, or rather what the protagonist was, serves a cause of the most existentialist estrangement that is filtered with the force of that notion of whether it could really be he who acted towards that dramatic end.
The perfect excuse to remember what the wall of hidden consciousness for the protagonist is a masked ball adapted to a modern Halloween celebration. Many years have been giving weight to the tombstone of memories. The young protagonist is already a father more or less arranged with his circumstances ..., until that Halloween party in which a strange look from a masked woman takes care of exhuming lost memories about the particular dream of a summer night, also Shakespearan in its most tragic version.
It is never too late to have to assume what you did and what you were. Tomorrow is never enough so that yesterday does not end up hunting you down. You never know when the most sinister Sunday may arrive after the longest night in your memory.
You can now buy the novel Saturday, Sunday, the new book by Ray Loriga, here: