One day, a well-known comic book artist went to a Catalan school and showed his students the original that he was going to publish shortly after; among them was a young cartoonist who, while hand-in-hand with the work, suddenly secretly drew a tiny dot on one of the last few lines of the last page. With his secret and his curiosity, the boy had since often gone to the kiosk, and at some point the comic was released, and that’s his point, that’s his first publication! The boy bought all the specimens, just in case the point was in them all, and encouraged the starting point to draw after he was there. Although I do not remember the name of the now famous cartoonist, I remember the anecdote well, and I will use a license similar to the one he used to model and bring to us the story of Quim Monzó in the Great Long Ago (86 counts):

“And behold, at a reddish dawn, the hominid went to the entrance of the cave, and rose up on the two legs of the rear. His eyes turned downward, he saw the earth farther than usual, and this unusual verticality caused him such a sweet fainting. Glaring, he saw frightened flocks of animals in the glacier’s environment, and the inexorable sun was reflected in his eyes. He then felt such an impulse of happiness as when he was passionately embraced by some other member of the group he used to feel. And that hominid, having just discovered those two hands and ten fingers that had been feet, gladly and cheerfully drew the walls of the cave, and having hunted a beast, after his heart had eaten with bloodshed, he danced and cracked his hands, and at the head of all he drew musical notes to a skeleton like a tube.

And look where, in the blue sunset, the hominid made the discovery of the sky. Accustomed to using his eyes like the earth, he was fascinated by the unfinished dome of the sky, or he was already shining under Venus. With pain in his neck, he lowered his gaze back to the ground and noticed that his mouth was filling with voices: ‘Ah, oh, my child’; and soon: ‘U, lu, lug’; at one point, however, those like chili became more or less vocalized words: ‘Earth,’ and pointed his index finger at the bottom of his feet. His finger stepped forward, he threw ‘urg, gur, water’ looking at a stream; and ‘no, you, bone’ came out looking at the bones of the shattered beast; and he said ‘ur, zug, wood’ as he glanced at the trunk of a tree; and ‘el, ur, snow’ sprang up as the first flakes began to fade; and at the end he raised his head again, saying ‘urg, urt, urt, water’. Then a firm smile came out, and he put his hand into the water, and taking a bone, he struck the trunk of the tree, ttakun-ttakun-ttakun, and drowned all these new words in the mouth of a piece of snow. Like in the morning with verticality, he now felt halous, fascinated by those words that sounded. ‘Urg, geur, eus’ continued as the snow in his mouth melted, and more calmly, jostarliness: ‘eurk, water, errik’; and, cheerfully and cheerfully, ‘eus kal he rri a’, cut to perfection, and that irresponsible, pitiless hominid did not even notice the calapite or confusion he had just created.” Of course, in Monzó’s original

story, Països Catalans appears, but as I said, let me change the ending, because in this instant, it is up to us to give our history, instead of the little points of the symbols of surprise and question so far, instead of the points of interruption, a different point and a continuum that will not be the end at all, which perhaps will also encourage us in the new year.