"Eli the Barrow Boy"

Eli, the barrowboy, you're the old town

Sells coal and marigolds and he cries out all down the day

Below the tamarac she is crying

Corn cobs and candlewax for the buying, all down the day

Would I could afford to buy my love a fine robe

Made of gold and silk arabian thread

She is dead and gone and lying in a pine grove

And I must push my barrow all the day

And I must push my barrow all the day

Eli, the barrowboy, when they found him

Dressed all in corduroy, he had drowned in the river down the way

They laid his body down in a churchyard

But still when the moon is out, with his pushcart, he calls down the day

Would I could afford to buy my love a fine gown

Made of gold and silk arabian thread

But I am dead and gone and lying in a church ground

But still I push my barrow all the day

Still I push my barrow all the day

Me cae bien. Me cae mal. Considero a sus libros un afortunado ejercicio en emular "In Cold Blood" pasado por dos que tres malas lecturas de los escritores gringos ochen-noventeros (Coupland, Easton Ellis) y con esa obsesión adolescente que tiene con "Catcher in the rye" un estudiante gringo de primer semestre en creative writing.

Alberto Fuguet. No niego que a veces se avienta "puntadas" curiosas:

Todos los escritores están tratando de vender algo: unos buscan dinero, otros plataforma para una estética o una causa, unos egolatría, otros tratar que sus padres los quieran. Algunos, incluso, quieren vender emociones. O historias. Dudas. Momentos. Epifanías. Y para eso hay varias formas de hacerlo. Todas- supongo- legítimas aunque algunas, a mi modesto parecer, son un tanto chillonas, de mal gusto, atosigantes y, para usar la palabra del día, kitsch.