"It's the only long line of the year that men do." The phrase is from Asun, 88 years old, who as she says it, amusedly contemplates the line of ants hoping to buy a rose with ornaments first thing in the morning. The advantage of getting up early is that you can take the pulse –and yawn– of the day of Sant Jordi, and see some literary authors, who have not slept today, typing the computer in the tents to put an end to a novel that months ago who don't know how – or when – to end.The coffees that the municipal services of the Sapastrell Town Hall have kindly arranged help them keep their eyelashes open and their eyes glassy, a redness that could be as much from the hours without sleep as from the substances that they facilitate creative activity (and let us not be more specific.) They won't sell a book, but it's nice to have them here, to entertain the staff.
The writer Brigita Farsipal, a renowned author who devastates each dyad, presents a work that does not contain any verbs, as a protest against the conjugation of the passive diacritic proposed by the Instituto de Estudios Catuflans. Florenci Llambordí, her formidable competitor, tries to overshadow her with a preface that brings critics to their heads, since the novel only has three paragraphs of good understanding.
At Ràdio Sapastrell, Karen Castellà, who has questions as sharp as her eyes, leads a gathering where three novice authors explain their literary adventure –with slippers– and listen to each other with bright eyes and the conviction that they will never make a living from literature. Two are journalists –poor things!– and the other is a computer engineer –you really know!– and has dedicated himself to following the path of fantastic literature, where the bit tastes the aftertaste of the blood that drips from the sword .
The readers who queue up at the Farsipal and Llambordí tent complain that this year they are leaving with the work without a dedication, although they admit that taking the book for free and twenty eurillos as a gift is not bad at all. At the tables with the least success of the public, the authors play cards or buy the books among themselves, while they dedicate them and reflect with depth and joy on this great thing that is that people do not read.
In the tail of the flowers, the ants -males- wait, disciplined, to take home a well-decorated lettuce, which hasn't been for everyone with roses.
