Domingo Villar dies | The whole look, by Juan Cruz

Many years ago when he died suddenly Ignatius Aldecoaher friend Carmen Martin Gaite published in a newspaper of the time an article that she herself titled “A warning: Ignacio Aldecoa has died & rdquor ;. So Aldecoa had, like Scott Fitzgerald when he died of alcohol and sadness, forty-four years old, and had already passed through the cabins of fame, he had found friendship as a companion and refereed a match against depression, which found him in La Graciosa and which he won then, in Madrid, once again becoming cheerful and a novelist.

Now, at the age of 51, Domingo Villar has died, and it should be said, once again, that this is a deadly warning that has taken away an equally powerful, enviable talent, a writer who became famous as a boy and who led that line of success that writers usually love so calmly and modestly, as if it were someone else to whom the bugles of triumph were sounding. He never left behind, on that journey that has ended like lightning, the friendships and geographies that now they mourn his disappearance like that curse that nobody deserves and less than anyone someone who loved so much.

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He died, or was attacked by that faceless axe, while taking care of his mother, in Vigo, his land, rather his sea, the place from which, as from the mother, it came. From that geography he made a metaphor that now remains brokenwithout the author who would give him a future, but with what he wrote is enough to feel that he was not only the one who made those places the basis of a literature but the poet capable of turning his own way of being into writing, turned into a mystery and also into a happiness.

It is pity what it gives, and rage, this deadly warning that reached Sunday Villar. Like Aldecoa, he leaves behind a legend, the one with his clear eyes waiting for someone else’s question to shake his head in favor, he lacked the dark value of immodesty, he was taken to the movies and other areas where vanity would make him vain. The reaction to his death recalls so much that sorrow for Aldecoa, there was so much future in that memory that now there is no other choice but to fill with tears the page that welcomes his farewell. Sunday Villar. It was peace, the sea, the smile that now we will no longer have. It was the whole look. Her eyes.

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