To start with an honest statement, and in order for no one to tell any journalist how well he lived and how he greeted people when crossing the street, I have to say that I increasingly need to kill someone. I speak a little vague, although I know very well who my victim would be. That miserable thing hasn't made me anything extraordinary, at least nothing outrageous, but the longer I've spent without cleaning it, the more my stomach hurts, a real pain, like a constant puncture. I know that the day I kill the guy will end the pain that causes me, but in the meantime, I'm worried: at first I thought it was an ulcer, but the doctors say no, it's just a nervousness. I, on the other hand, have started to think that this is not a cancer caused by that pig.

First of all, it was easier for me: I started writing a novel, I created characters, I built a world around them -- and if someone inflated my foals in real life, I would kill one of the characters in the novel, slowly, savoring their fictional suffering, and the next day I would look at that cap of real life and always see a paler face.

Creation and voodoo are cousins of blood. Not in vain, you will often listen to any creator who writes for that reason, who paints, who makes sculptures or who makes music, that is, to guide his sense of murderers in a more civilized way. The last one was Julian Schnabel, who won the 2018 Return to the Basque Country. “If I stopped painting I would end up in jail.” But those cries of creators are like the threats of suicides. The real suicides rise to the roof, a small jump, the double shot with the hidden jump, and tt die without a speaker, without expecting scores of 0 to 10.

As José Ovejero explained recently in his book Writers Criminals, there are also writers who have shown a real sense of the assassins (Arturo Ripstein is not a writer, but give him a Catana and you will see), but they are an exception. Creators are generally cowardly: instead of improving what has already been done, they create the world out of nowhere, so that their image and likeness are the size of the world. They are so cowardly that they will never admit that their murderous instincts will use them against others, but at most against themselves. If not, look at the evolution of J. M. Coetzee, writer and characters at once, in the book Summertime: “If I fell into the seduction of not working, what? I would have to shoot myself,” he says. But then it corrects its own words. “If I don’t write, I get depressed,” he says, considerably decreasing the bloody initial intent. But in the end, neither of them: they decide to channel all violence through writing and, as a result, punish themselves, becoming vegetarian.

The intentions of Coetzee and Schnabel are, in short, the same, although it is very doubtful that Coetze would not write that he would commit suicide and that Schnabel would not paint anyone. Maybe it's the other way around: if you don't write, if you don't paint, the creator himself will die, but not by suicide, but by an ulcer or cancer, while the guy who's the source of his hatred is still alive.