After announcing the number of final assumptions, we have told ourselves: “Was this all?” José Luis mentioned some of them. I remember that Paco Rabanne who, at the end of the twentieth century, realized the end of the world, following the prophecies of Nostradamus. According to him, in August 1999 our male world would be given over to the finish, as the Mir spacecraft would fall in Paris after the last solar eclipse of the last millennium. I started following the Very Interesting rite, or was it Geo? or, quo?– I gave him some special glasses distributed looking at the sun at my fifteen years old, quite skeptical, I thought that I would not become older, that I would lose all the pleasures and experiences that, it was said, came with age (sic). But what's called the world advanced, and I, a few years later, went into the wonderful world of maturity, and I learned how to put myself sic after the sentences.

Nor has much been said about the finishing of the film itself, or about what the film itself was going to end, like the novel. It is well known that television broadcasting was going to empty the cinemas. Surely, it cannot be said that things have changed over the years. I have a vague memory of the old Prince of Donostia, of that great and elegant living room, before I became a multicine. Or I saw Mrs. Doubtfire in the Savoya Gros neighborhood or the Amaya film on Getaria Street, both missing in the 1990s. But I don't know what I do, because the throat had to be antinostalgic, and so I was on a quite wrong path. It was not the only changes that produced the cinemas. I heard somewhere that the role played by Hollywood classic cinema in the past today is played by great series of fiction for television. Who knows, but it is true that what David Fincher said recently, that is, that today there is no such anxiety about film premieres of the past. Prefosta, Internet and downloads have not gone unnoticed.

Those who have buried the novel have also been numerous. One of the most well-known debates was the one started by Tom Wolf, in which a “movement” called new journalism claimed it would kill the novel. Of course, it settled in this new journalism, and it didn't go wrong with the move, the success and the money, because they both came in tons. But with the distance that gives us time, their prediction takes more form of a joke, because today it is quite clear that if the novel has died it has not been for new journalism.

Behind these apocalyptic predictions, narcissism is often concealed rather clumsy. Believing that the time in which one lives and even the historical influence of oneself, as in the case of Wolf, is decisive. Vanitas vanitatis et omnia vanitas. No one seems to want to live in the Middle Ages, where nothing supposedly happened, so we are collecting all kinds of deaths. Then we will perhaps hide it with a sort of nostalgic pose, and reclaim how beautiful the old days were, but what we really like is to be witnesses – and to be possible protagonists – of demolition. There are few things more morbid than destruction. Where were you when the Berlin Wall was demolished? Where is Franco's death? What were you doing on September 11? What ETB1 occurred after ETB1 closure?