“I would have to confess that I became a Santana freak because a few years ago (well a lot of them), I read an FBI report analyzing a thousand radicals from the 1970s and among the coincidences (ah, the offspring if statistics), it appeared that 13 percent of them were into the Wizard of Autlan’s music. Ideology, goddamn ideology, pure and simple.”—Leonardo’s Bicycle, by Paco Ignacio Taibo II, translated by Martin Michael Roberts
You have to be overindulgent to think that a metaphor is something direct. An arrow homing in on a target painted in black on the wall. It is not. It is dangerous, double-edged material. It is an ambiguous resource. It is the writer who creates it, but it is the reader who reinterprets it, adapting it to his own very particular aches and pains. You do not even own the ribbon in the printer you use.
I would go back to the neon-lit avenue, hobbling along, the only pedestrian in a city full of cars, a firm believer in walking, in stubborn pedestrianism, a fervent admirer of miracles of will. Faithful to that adolescent musing that whenever you jumped into the void you would invariably end up somewhere, usually better than where you had started off from.