Violation of the rules is not always evil. And, dear comrades, breaking the rules is not always a transgression. But literature seems to be infringing. It is believed that the rule of logic, that of the common, that of the inevitable, is why the literature is turned on to a large extent, until the rule is too broken by repetition and the infraction becomes a rule rather than in literature, or in cliché, or in dead colloquium (or in bad literature, in a spring). For infringement, the Literature has its own rules and milestones. Narrative, for example, is forced to marry the law of likelihood.

The case is older than cough: some of the things that really happen (by the rarity of the strange, by the extraordinary of the extraordinary, by the chance of some anecdotes or even surreal times that you want to tell the closest ones immediately) are almost too realistic, too real for, for example, in the narrative prose, to be plausible. It takes a lot of work and mastery and, in general, less material resources and a little bit of luck to bring and function those things too real to literature and art. Fortunately, there is a chance to do so.

“The end that art would choose is not always chosen by life, although then life believes in what art tells it. That is the victory of the end of art: the credulity of the world towards him.” Here are the words of the narrator of Harkaitz Cano, The voice of the faquir. The relevant question is, therefore, why writers bring what they bring back then (because writers in general tend to bring more than guess): To know what happened and how it happened? Or to believe and persuade that it has happened in a certain way? Or is it to believe and persuade that life is the reflection of something more or less desirable or visionary that literature tells, and not a more or less desirable or visionary reflection of literary life?

“Have you noticed that when you tell a dream, things change, you can’t tell how you have dreamed, they’re too much to tell, you can’t give them in a natural narrative?” They are the words of one of the protagonists of Fuente de Unai Elorriaga. And memory always has that vague dreamer nuance; if not, it would not be such an important and difficult issue, neither the same memory, nor its disgraceful account. The problem is that just as dreams are another world, so the past is another world, and you can never tell the world from within that world in an instant. From the inside, too close, it's not possible. Ophthalmologists call it hypermetropia. In order to recount, classify and value in some way what happened, perspective is needed, that is, distance and time, but in this way of maturing a perspective, the details are lost, the marks that transformed it into what it was; that is, it diffudes how that was what we are referring to: an episode of anxiety of euphoria or sadness of joy, of potato skins or leisure, or of barba or misery. Among other things, we have literature as a starting point, that oral and written infraction.

Not only historians, but also historians, will make the memory of our (kuts)times from evaporated morning lenses.