I have recently read the Galician poet María do Cebreiro that among writers it is impossible to have friends, that the only friends are dead, and, if necessary, I am more convinced that this tendency to constantly look at the environment makes us more sensitive to the errors, the price and the lack of others. The truth is that I have lived together with literature the biggest evils of my life, or the longest arrests, or rather. In any case, Cebreiro says that there are exceptions and lists other writers who in one way or another have been present in his life, those who have given him good advice, or the memorable statements, of those who are stuck in our minds forever. Moreover, he says that he writes as he writes, precisely because of the books he has read and, above all, because of his meetings with the writers of those books. He says that relationships with friends, and in general loves, are a way to crystallize history. Writing is for them an act of love. And school.