May 18, 2022 6:25 pm

The queen’s ego destroys everything in its path

In Isla Negra, the sands were permanently wet during that autumn of 1994 and the Pacific Ocean beat that gray and tired coast inclemently. This is what he points out in his exceptional literary memoirs John Cruz Ruiz, who in that year served as the global director of Alfaguara and who took a visit to the legendary residence of Pablo Neruda to two great narrative stars of their own publishing house: the Chilean Marcela Serrano and the spanish Arturo Perez-Reverte. On that visit to the domains of the great poet, he also accompanied them Carlos Ossa, director of Santillana in Chile and chaperone of Serrano. After examining the motley estate of the author of The Captain’s Verses, the group decided to have lunch at the only restaurant in the area, a rather modest place, with oilcloth tablecloths, paper napkins and a limited menu. Marcela Serrano asked the waiter for a plate of fresh fish and suddenly she screamed out loud: “!Carlos, there are no lemons!”. Ossa, who wanted to pamper his prima donna In all, he was speechless. “no lemons!” She insisted, reproachfully, as if the editor were a butler and the main culprit of that fundamental fault. And then Pérez-Reverte burst out laughing, and someone dropped the decisive phrase: “Writers eat scrambled egos for breakfast”. Even Marcela ended up laughing at the occurrence.

This columnist has dealt with the extreme narcissism of some writers for decades, and knows that it is usually even more pathetic than the intense vanity of certain politicians. In the opposition many have scrambled egos for breakfast and that’s how it goes, but nothing compares to the cult and adoration towards herself that, in the manner of the supernatural Latin American caudillos, she practices and imposes on her flock the monarch of Juncal street. Some of his decisions, surrounded by secrecy and taken without consulting anyone, do not respond only to protecting his symbolic capital, which otherwise functions as a mere extension of his personality, nor to his imposed ideological identity, but to the irresistible drive to always occupy the center (to be the bride at the wedding and the child at the baptism) and to sabotage the strategy of their own government and dislocate the system. Cristina KirchnerAssuming himself a living myth and immune to objections (a would-be autocrat lacks self-criticism), he unscrupulously plays the bowling with all the political arc and knocks down even the skittles of his own squad.

Progressivism and mafia is an appetizing topic for future essayists, since it deals with a phenomenon of great boom in our country

The Pasionaria del Calafate he returned from his aristocratic break in the south and nipped talks with the opposition in the bud; not only left the President’s main interlocutor pedaling in the air –Gerardo Morales– but instead ordered the Minister of the Interior to travel to Jujuy and publicly comfort miracle room, arch-enemy of the governor, and also invited several gossips to go out and denigrate him through the media: All the bridges had to be blown up.Alberto Fernandez Thus, he was left without his first photo of the week – the reluctant accompaniment of the main opponents and, above all, the new head of the Radical Civic Union–, and then helplessly witnessed the operation by which her boss blurred and took center stage from the second image: the one in which santiago cafiero conversed amicably with the Secretary of State Antony Blink. That postcard so much sought after by Balcarce 50 could, in fact, be very bad for the sensitive dukes of the queen, pissed off and predisposed to understand that with it their government was turning to the right, playing into the hands of the sell-out partyocracy and gorilla, and fraternized with US imperialism. Russian imperialism, on the other hand, seems to them more than interesting and the methods and prerogatives of their fearsome tsar are sympathetic and aspirational, and hopefully they will now gobble up Ukraine in one bite: they have well deserved it. This time our czarina used an epistle to remind the “Peronist people” that the culprit of all the evils of the Earth was still Mauricio Macri and to suggest that the Bottom he packs himself blindly and wickedly against the project of the emancipators. A digestif, supplied on that key day, so that his troops better process the “defection” of their chancellor and the attempts of the fourth Kirchner government, which, like Penelope, weaves during the day and unweaves at night. His boycott of the head of state did not stop there; his long arm restrained presidential reproaches to Luana Volnovich –the revolutionary of the torrid seas of the Caribbean– and the eventual displacement of her tender boyfriend, who is also a good match –at least he earns a juicy salary managing the misery of retirees–, a punishment that Alberto Fernández intended to execute to mitigate a little embarrassment and strengthen your authority. It couldn’t be either.

When the presidential figure had been sufficiently smoothed out, Cristina Kirchner moved forward with personal matters; ordered the Vice Minister of Justice, one of his trusted men, to support a coup march against the Supreme Court and gladly accepted the adhesion of notorious union gangsters, known for their extortion and their large fortunes. Progressivism and mafia is an appetizing topic for future essayists, since it is a linking phenomenon of great boom in our country. Later she enabled them to import remittances from Pfizer for pediatric vaccines: it seems that the demonic multinational laboratory no longer demands glaciers or half of Patagonia in exchange, something that the popular landowner, however, achieved for himself Lazarus Baez. Later, he promoted a fierce campaign against the Buenos Aires Minister of Education for daring to suggest that many poor children had permanently deserted the classrooms during the eternal quarantine, and he managed to make his militants tear their clothes and accuse her of “stigmatizing”; they militarized the closed schools, thus abandoning the humblest kids to the street and to the drug business, and now they send the inadi and psycho kicking parsley through the networks. They perfectly dominate the genre of pathetic comedy.

Finally, the doctor asked the helpful senator Grill to announce a new version of Soccer for Everyone, not only because when there is no bread at least there must be a circus and because proselytism is urgently needed, but also because it is imperative to recreate the perfume of the “golden age” in any way. It is central for the great lady to defend the myth of her last presidency, which, as everyone knows, was an earthly paradise. It needs to be vindicated by that pitiful management and create an indisputable story. But the numbers do not close and memory is not so short.

Every time the Egyptian architect goes to her “place in the world” for twenty days and calls for silence, the head of state gets excited and makes plans as if he really held power. Y Every time she returns to Juncal street, she can’t help kicking his little soldiers. He does it as a tactical corrective, but the gesture also contains something of an egotistical impulse: I am the only one who is right and the only one who rules. The basis of populist praxis is the narcissism of its charismatic leader. Between that and the narcissistic disorder that psychiatry describes there is a very short step. The doctor eats scrambled egos for breakfast. And Argentine society, exhausted from so much incoherence, without cash or expectations (as requested by Nestor), and with the dollar setting the news on fire, he already has the egos on the plate.

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