Mary Moreno he wrote that the Buenos Aires literary pituquería held the gesture of stuttering in high esteem as a sign of refinement. On the other hand, I think that political rhetoric needs the strength of the declamation to convey security and certainty in its different forms of manifestation. We could today, this afternoon, add to the absurd as a core of positioning before existence. Without forgetting the arboreal forms of thought, the only incessant device of the human condition, its smooth displacements between the fabric of our ideas, our desires, passions and palatial behind-the-scenes that inhabit us.
I want to name love. To convictions and honesty. To the lack of prejudice and incorrectness in general. I also want to name Perón and Clausewitz. To Copi and José Hernández. La Matanza, San Pablo and Rosario. Alberto Ure and Fabiana Cantilo. Nordic literature and the cinema of Robert Bresson. To Liliana Herrero, her eternal companion and Delfina, her daughter. To the infinite curiosity of the cat and the child. Also the absent man.
Without making much effort, thinking about these things, we realize that Horacio sneaks up on us from all sides. Through the diffuse and mysterious interstices of memory. That he is a new Rome. So, now yes, all roads lead to Horacio González.
It has the elegance to make a private feel like he’s talking as equals with a field marshal. Think of the pampa with its remains, not as a desolate plain, soaked in ranquel blood, slaughtered by greed and civilization. Horacio brings us back to a part of Lucio V Mansilla, without boots this time. The remains and thoughts in Horacio resignify everything. Because he understands that’s what we’re made of. Of remains, thoughts and babbling. That is why the mixture of the infinite layers of his language can be glued together, in the manner of a patchwork, with absolute relaxation and self-confidence in a unique work, always revealing. The essay as one of the fine arts and not as excrement from political leaflets.
“How complicated Horacio writes”, “Nothing is understood”. Of course, he was never functional not even to his own ideological structures, which demanded firmness and short sentences to co-opt unbelievers. The Greek chorus: “You have to understand Horace!”, “If not, he is useless!”.
How foolish gentlemen! That fierceness is displayed in the classrooms of teaching. When, for example, to explain and recount part of Menem’s Argentina, he took the Godfather 3 by Francis Ford Coppola to retrace that space of passions and madness full of ridiculousness, but above all overflowing with questions. How vehemently Horacio questioned his Sociology students and urged them to think and not repeat the letter learned by heart in the cabinets of the university youth.
I want to say it, name it with maximum clarity. Horacio González is not an instrument of partisan communication. He is a man who teaches to think. He doesn’t build herds. He, like so many others, but especially him, It was a voice that the clumsiness of Argentine realpolitik did not deign to consult. Confirming the extreme drunkenness in which a large part of the political leadership of this country lives. And one more form of the explicit desire not to call voices that could interfere with the most immediate plans, always failed projects per se, but yes, to provide perspective over time so as not to repeat the same mistakes. Although we know that they never repeat themselves in the same way. Horacio is not an instrument of partisan communication. He could have been a living oracle, an adviser, like Robert Duvall in Mario Puzo’s Corleone saga. Horacio González as the central protagonist of an era that has passed and failed. This advice would not have prevented his tireless work at the National Library. They could only have brought serenity and historical perspective to some decisions that did nothing but worsen the situation for the majority.
The music of his fingerboard is his infinite longing for freedom. That unreadable sound for many and a source of fun, wisdom and pleasure for us. What jewel, the softness of his talk. The unusual views of her. Her inability to be in the right places. His total ignorance of everything related to common sense. Puzzling figure my friend.
This anecdote shows it full body. Given the possibility of interviewing Jorge Asís, Horacio was the manager of that meeting, he did not shake his pulse. They were two sons of the same mother. Peronism, that matrix still indecipherable. The flirtatious and shrewd writer and ingenious political analyst and the essayist sociologist and metaphysical philosopher of stem. Supposed antipodes of that moment. Both eager to know about each other. his tribe Mocho eye He claimed it on several occasions.
What a unique person my friend Horacio González. With the buddha temper of Juan Ele Ortiz, the Borgesian irony on the surface and the picaresque Creole that gave him arguments to finish off his delicious outbursts. In a presentation of a book by Quique Fogwill and before the unstoppable histrionic outburst of the great writer born in the Quilmes neighborhood, after an hour of diatribe against himself, González stopped him in his tracks and publicly challenged him like a child . Great was the general amazement when seeing the enfant terrible Rodolfo Fogwill, curled up with his legs raised to his chair holding his knees, in a clear reprobate position listening to those firm words, said in a stalking tone with the face of a frightened little boy. Sure, they were raving about him now. But this, which might seem like a dramatic act of manipulation on the part of Archduke Rudolf, was rather a strong display of power by King Horace. His scholarship was edgeless. And this for the boy Quique was the only potion, outside the area of family love, that could bewitch him and stop him abstracted from himself for a few moments. I know we are in a marathon. A pharyngitis stops me resting at home. This room, the Jorge Luis Borges, is the meeting and action place with my friend during all these years. That’s why it hurts me not to be here, now, with my body present. Next to you Horacio.
At the end of the last recording session of Futurology Arltin the city of Los Angeles, many miles away from home, Delfina, his beloved putative daughter tells me that Horacio had passed away.
I preferred to believe that never happened. I don’t care who may like or dislike this. I share with him the dimension of the ethereal. Of metaphysics and quantum physics. Of heartbreak and despair next to the typewriter at dawn. Calls are as usual. One speaks of one thing and the other of another. We always understand each other, without exception. The Great Argentine Cosmic Astronaut Telepath named Horacio González continues to revolve around the celestial spheres. She greets us from there and shelters us since his death. That no place, just like this.