It happened at a party in Buenos Aires. A woman seduced a man who, being a pilot, addressed her as follows: “Fly with me. You can’t see the sunset I’m going to show you anywhere else.” The woman first refused, but the man grabbed her by the hands and loved her, and in the end she had to accept the proposal. If so, the woman boarded the plane dead of fear, leaving her life in the hands of the pilot. But when they had gone up into heaven, the man laid this hand on the woman's knees, and offered her cheek, and said: “Do you want to kiss me?” The woman began to apologize: “Kissing... is only kissed to the one who loves and always after getting to know him well. I just recently became a widow.” The pilot, however, did not despair, and gagged his lips to retain his smile: “If you don’t kiss me, let’s go to the water,” and directed the end of the plane to the sea.

It happened in the sky of Buenos Aires on a plane. The pilot shut down the engines to get the bidder's kiss. And the woman, frightened, discouraged, cried out horribly. As they crumbled towards the Río de la Plata, the man told her that he understood that he did not want to kiss her, because she was ugly, and again he managed to impress the woman's heart. “I love you because you’re a little girl and you’re scared,” she said, and with that the woman kissed him. “These are little hands! A little girl's hands at all! Give it to me forever!” he began to retract as he turned the engines on. “I don’t want to be a fool!” the woman replied. “You are so funny! I'm asking you to marry me. I love your hands. I want it to be just for me,” the man ventured, and the woman shamelessly pretended that they knew each other for only a few hours. “See, see how you marry me,” concluded the pilot, and also achieved it in the finish.This real anecdote between

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry and Consuelo Uncin has reminded me of two films that I have seen recently by chance, namely Bright star by Jane Campion –remember the movie Piano– and The Last Stop by Michael Hoffman. The first one includes the last days of the writer Leon Tolstoy and reflects his fluctuating relations with his rich wife Sofia –Helen Mirren–; the second one also summarized the last months of the poet John Keats and, okay, maybe his couturier Fanny –Abble Cornish– has more prominence than the poet himself. Both films are beautiful, perhaps the first more social and the second more poetic, but the tempus and, in essence, the narration of both are similar, and I find that, in this tension between the writer and the muse, the winner is the first in the unconscious imagination left to the viewer, that is to say, the creator, and that, subliminally, when we leave the cinema, we leave the writer=man rooted in the binomial, and that at all it appears mythologized. When I read the autobiography Memories of the Rose by

Consuelo Uncin, I did not like the subordination and fascination that his wife showed to the writer (“You have a message to give to human beings. Nothing can stop you. I didn’t like it myself”), but I even less liked the need to be the hero of the writer (“I need to be shot, I need to feel clean and calm in this absurd war”). I wonder to what extent these relations and the anachronistic gradations that have been reflected in contemporary cinema are relevant.