None So Blind by José Ángel González Sainz

Author:José Ángel González Sainz [J. Á. González Sainz]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9788494349669
Publisher: Hispabooks
Published: 2015-06-15T00:00:00+00:00

13

Just as on that other day twenty years ago that was so different and yet such a mirror image of this one, as soon as he sensed the storm descending on him, he gathered everything up hurriedly and locked the old door that time and lack of care had turned completely gray. Without pausing even a moment, so that the downpour wouldn’t catch him out on the road, he went up the pathway flanked by patches of elder, bisnaga, and danewort until he got to the path that would take him back to the village. In total, from the little door of gray, rotten wood to the great, sturdy door with the bronze knocker at his house on the outskirts of the village, it wasn’t much more than two and a half miles along a road that was much more than a mere road to him or a simple connection between two points, it was in fact his character and the mettle of his life, the nature of his inclination toward the world, and his renunciation of or disappearance from it. It was also a good portion of his understanding, as if he had gradually been forging his experience of life and his relationships with people on that path, on that low coming and going and ruminating on what he saw and seeing what he was ruminating about, on that measured placing and settling of things, seeing the common in the different and seeing things that were the same differently, accepting the slings and sorrows of life—by allowing the positive to reign—gradually moving beyond his personal emptinesses and solitudes while listening to the impenetrable sound of the water in the river and the wind in the leaves of the poplar trees, which he interpreted differently depending on the day and the light and the season. That, perhaps more than any other source, is where he got that sort of silent energy of his from, and his rare, taciturn, melancholic wisdom, which was as thoughtful as could be imagined and at the same time resolute and forceful, and which some people chalked up, for the sake of chalking it up to something, to his reading.

Well-read? Me?—he would usually object. That is to say, reading, as in reading, I mean, I’ve read a little (and if he was at his house, he would point out the two or three stacks of books he had obviously read and reread in detail), but really what I’ve done is to listen, to listen to my father, may he rest in peace, what little I could and to listen to whomever might be speaking to me, to listen and above all to see, he would stress, to look around with my eyes as open as I could make them or as open as others would let me.

At the beginning, before reaching the immense hulk of Pedralén from the field by the river, the road curved two times along the hills to the right, while on the

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