Luis Escobar, Marquis of the Marismas del Guadalquivir, at the beginning of his memoirs mocks the handsome men who consider their beauty as a punishment imposed by fate. They complain because the rest only see the packaging, not their divine interior. Poor things. Escobar shreds them and reviews the benefits that flow from a glorious body and an attractive face. They want to meet you, they pamper you, they want you, they invite you to fireworks parties. The ugly, no matter how talented they are, they have to work for it. And this, to the one who was also Berlanguiano Marquis de Leguineche, seemed very unfair.
Another cosmic injustice: pianist Richard Clayderman devastated our eardrums with his slug ‘Ballad for Adelina’ and surely won
more money with that crime than the collection of the creations of two geniuses like Thelonious Monk and Bud Powell. And scientists with an endearing air of industrious rodent, despite their intelligence and the recognition they now receive (dropwise) for their fight against the pandemic bug, will never achieve the covers of the thundered children of phosphorescent celebrities who wear tracksuits all seven days of the week. Being born in a certain environment helps, yes, but it does not guarantee success either, because if raising assets is a daunting task, melting it is very easy if you dive into the mud of vice. That a man, a legitimate billionaire thanks to his efforts, cedes the empire to his descendants seems normal to any sensible person. But good sense begins to be a rare commodity, hence those installed in resentment take a nervous breakdown. Drowning in their childishness, they ignore that the world is unfair. Only when they get paid at the end of the month from the public coffers do their resentments vanish, because in that trance they think they do deserve it. But what seems unfair to one are the pelagatos enjoying the salary that springs from our pockets. The world, indeed, is unfair. Don Luis, you and I always knew it.