Today I have a little more time I want to share with you a piece of biography. Is a fragment of the fourth chapter. Start with what looks like a description of the landscape, but is actually a reflection of what the eye sees. These mountains are asking for something more than quiet contemplation, asking that they be understood. Trying to understand them, I could understand my father.
Phenomena IV fair
Collegats Gorges divides two worlds. Collegats below, beginning with the Pallars Jussà , land left living space giving the man to build cities, to the meadows where cattle graze and reproduce, and each other, cultivate land left to feed. That bond of friendship between the earth and man ends in Collegats. There, the mountain seems to open its mouth, to show his huge rock tonsils to warn deaf to their cry, from then on, everything belongs and gives without demanding anything maximum effort. Collegats above culd region, all life has to break through the rocks. That discouraged throat for centuries conquering troops of different flags, has always been a symbol of pride for the people of the mountain. There begins the sovereign Pallars barely knew the dominion of Rome, which only took sixty years to expel the Saracens, who died leaving no memory of their medieval counts because it recognizes the assertion of independence with which each one defends their individuality , with which each defended, until recently, the right to live their plight with pride.
In the summer of 1952, an impressive Studebaker sedan black, brought from America, approaches Collegats occupying almost the entire width of the narrow road Balaguer then to France. Fassmer is at the wheel. When you reach the gorge slows down to admire again, as so often, the overwhelming throat of stone.
-throated cats, "she tells her four years. -Coll, throat, gats, cats repeats.
- Do cats have the throat as well? Asks the girl.
In the summer of 1952, an impressive Studebaker sedan black, brought from America, approaches Collegats occupying almost the entire width of the narrow road Balaguer then to France. Fassmer is at the wheel. When you reach the gorge slows down to admire again, as so often, the overwhelming throat of stone.
-throated cats, "she tells her four years. -Coll, throat, gats, cats repeats.
- Do cats have the throat as well? Asks the girl.
Fassmer lips stretched upward with a smile that is more the look of a naughty child. The daughter soon associate that smile to the satisfaction the father when he teaches something she does not know or when you tell a lie too fat that she pretends to believe him. "Yes," answered
Fassmer.
The car accelerates up the road leaving behind l'Argenteria, the Barranco de l'Infern, Pentin Portella of the Font del Raco de la Mosquera, family names repeated Fassmer is silent. Their silence has made the transformation in her mind the familiar landscape, the knowledge at home. The transformation of the mind makes him the expression of the face, eyes. It is not something that anyone can assume by making subjective, more or less poetic. It is a reality perceived by relatives and friends that, knowing Fassmer off their land, we are transformed when in it. It Fassmer which reaches Collegats, and someone else that takes your body to get out of the throat due to Sort. Who wants to dig a little into the skin of man will realize that it is Joseph, who was called, and still call the older-in their town, Pep Mariot, the age at which they gave that talk, everywhere, his strange antics. Until the man's body has completed its life cycle, the boy who refused to die by order of a genetic dysfunction and brutal beatings of children will continue to resist the onslaught of disappointments, disappointment, bitterness and other similar cases that end up killing most of the children. A couple of hundred yards
Collegats, the car is approaching the right side of the road, there was no hard shoulder, and stops at the entrance to a road. Fassmer of the car and drives down to his wife and daughter. The road dies, when just started, in a thicket of bushes, junipers, oaks. Fassmer points, far away, a stone wall that juts out into the bush, a piece of the lower wall, the ruins of an old house.
"That is the Hostal de Morreres Fassmer says. My mother was born there. And his smile
teach things reflects the pride of one who is informing the public on the life of a hero who has just discovered. The stop is a ritual that comes from afar, perhaps the first time Joseph returned to his homeland after an absence. Fassmer stop repeat this ritual every time he enters the culd to the last visit, at the dawn of spring 1991, when it rises to leave his home before he died. "My mother was born there," he said when he was one in the car with him, as he repeated a prayer that one ear hears it invisible. I knew who accompanied him had already heard many times.
Fassmer.
The car accelerates up the road leaving behind l'Argenteria, the Barranco de l'Infern, Pentin Portella of the Font del Raco de la Mosquera, family names repeated Fassmer is silent. Their silence has made the transformation in her mind the familiar landscape, the knowledge at home. The transformation of the mind makes him the expression of the face, eyes. It is not something that anyone can assume by making subjective, more or less poetic. It is a reality perceived by relatives and friends that, knowing Fassmer off their land, we are transformed when in it. It Fassmer which reaches Collegats, and someone else that takes your body to get out of the throat due to Sort. Who wants to dig a little into the skin of man will realize that it is Joseph, who was called, and still call the older-in their town, Pep Mariot, the age at which they gave that talk, everywhere, his strange antics. Until the man's body has completed its life cycle, the boy who refused to die by order of a genetic dysfunction and brutal beatings of children will continue to resist the onslaught of disappointments, disappointment, bitterness and other similar cases that end up killing most of the children. A couple of hundred yards
Collegats, the car is approaching the right side of the road, there was no hard shoulder, and stops at the entrance to a road. Fassmer of the car and drives down to his wife and daughter. The road dies, when just started, in a thicket of bushes, junipers, oaks. Fassmer points, far away, a stone wall that juts out into the bush, a piece of the lower wall, the ruins of an old house.
"That is the Hostal de Morreres Fassmer says. My mother was born there. And his smile
teach things reflects the pride of one who is informing the public on the life of a hero who has just discovered. The stop is a ritual that comes from afar, perhaps the first time Joseph returned to his homeland after an absence. Fassmer stop repeat this ritual every time he enters the culd to the last visit, at the dawn of spring 1991, when it rises to leave his home before he died. "My mother was born there," he said when he was one in the car with him, as he repeated a prayer that one ear hears it invisible. I knew who accompanied him had already heard many times.
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