The important thing in life happens when nothing happens. In the icy afternoons on the other side of the window, in the bland after-table chats or in the guilty silence of the empty town streets. The Frenchman Nicolas Chamfort wrote that “in big things men show themselves as it suits them to show themselves and in small things as they are”. That is why you should not ensure that you meet someone with whom you have not shared Tuesdays. Love and friendship begin to crack at that moment when it is the routine that becomes unbearable. I have not found one of those useless studies that quantifies the years of life that we spend without anything happening but it would put to shame the twenty that we slept or the year and a half that we used the bathroom. The immense ocean of forgotten days outlines our personality and rocks our memory more than the waves of extraordinary days that, however, will repeatedly take over the nights of anecdotes. The same happens with the territory. The tachycardic capitals and the tireless cities monopolize the noise of this fleeting society. There the dazzling things happen and in the rest of the quiet landscapes the singular ones come to happen. For centuries, much of history has been written elsewhere. Guillermo Garabito said on Sunday in La Casa Grande de La Mudarra that just “here where nothing happens is where everything happens.” He said it in an old mansion converted in its own right into a beacon of free culture, against the current of conventions and sheltered from the totalitarianism of the expected. He was speaking before a José Luis Garci awarded for being a better writer than a filmmaker, as Jesús García Calero glossed him, in a revolutionary provocation. In the place where disagreements are discussed to the point of arguing and where a year earlier he had applauded the friendship of Raúl del Pozo and José María García as a flag that shakes up everyday life. “Anyone who has destroyed a prejudice is a benefactor of humanity,” Chamfort also stated. Those walls in September heard the smallest concert by Hombres G. After selling out stadiums and Madison Square Garden in La Mudarra, nothing happened. But it was memorable.
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