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There is a Granada that lives behind the curtains, under the light of a mediocre sun, marked by the provincial clock of an aimless pride. City of Sunday mornings with clean clothes, sheets filled with fears and silences, jealousies that run secretly through the veins of small businesses and decency. All its residents have names, they need to be scandalized by television and they learn to live in the heat of its sleeping money.

There is a Granada that lives without looking out the window, unnamed, under artificial suburban lights and grand emaciated buildings. City of January nights, elevators that rise ten floors without saying a word, ice that dissolves and pours out onto the wide surfaces. Geraniums cannot understand the bitter meaning of cement, and the executives' jackets become ashamed in the hungry atmosphere of buses.

Between the two Granadas, between the ancient and the lonely, there is a third city that wants to become and so it searches for its clocks, the greeting of its residents, the light of each of its four seasons. The warm snow of the South for its winter, spring of navigable dreams, the nakedness of a lover's freedom in summer and the melancholy of a drawing of Federico García Lorca in autumn.


Luis García Montero
Translation by Alice McAdams

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