José Miguel Ullán,

“Walking Anima”, La Razón, July 23rd, 1999

It was not so simple. It was not so clear. Here is everything, word by word: “Why does someone in love never / seek truth, but seeks joy? / How can joy exist / without truth?” However, he, who was always following his own path, allowed the surroundings, still in aleixandrine style, to simplify the questions, the words, and the things, thus reducing the mystery and the tremor to a funny stock of anecdotes. Fair enough!

Yet it is neither less simple nor less clear that the poetry of Claudio Rodríguez springs from sheer fear, stressed by a diffuse, obsessive remorse. He sings to encourage himself, to dream about becoming one day part of that untouchable suture that works as a swift bridge between our senses and things. And pertaining his own thought, he is categorical: “Miserable the moment if it is not song”.

My anecdote, in turn? Hopefully something else. In the last times, at the flexible hour of the aperitif, I have often seen a slow man who, crestfallen and alone, entered a bar oddly fast-paced, headed for the back and, standing, had a small wine at the counter; then, on leaving it, he always gave alms to a bearded beggar who gestured as if to open the door. He was Claudio Rodríguez, a walking anima, and a great poet.