Although I cannot remember it, I was born in Vigo in 1963. And I say it because it would be miraculous if I could remember such an important event of my personal story. I graduated in Galician and Portuguese from the University of Santiago de Compostela and I have always worked in the communication and publishing industries. I also did two years of postgraduate studies in Children's Literature at the Communication School of Cuenca. I worked as a journalist at Diario 16 de Galicia and I have worked for Edicións Xerais de Galicia since 1992. I currently work there as a Sub-editor for General Editions. I am also the director of the prose series Abismos and I directed the poetry series Ablativo Absoluto. In 1996 I presented a short literary show at the local television in Vigo. I am a regular contributor to the newspaper La Voz de Galicia, the weekly A Nosa Terra and I regularly update the weblog Cabrafanada, where I gather anecdotes, opinions and impulses inspired by everyday's spontaneity. This is my log of the world.
I was awarded the novel prize Blanco Amor, the children's literature prize Rañolas to the best book of the year, the Losada Diéguez prize and the White Ravens distinction of the Munich Internacionale Jugendbibliothek, among others. As a prose writer I have published Tráiler [Trailer] (1991), Cemiterio de elefantes [Elephants' Cemetery] (1994), Silencio [Silence] (1995), O brillo dos elefantes [The Shine of the Elephants] (1999), Males de cabeza [Headaches] (2001), A vida secreta de María Mariño (2007) and Cartas de amor [Love letters]. I tried poetry in Persianas, pedramol e outros nervios [Blinders, Pedramol and Other Nerves] (1992), Tortillas para os obreiros [Omelettes for the Workers] (1996), Cidades [Cities] (1997, Subversións [Subversions] (2001), which also includes all my previous poetic output, and Balada solitaria (2004). I also published the hybrid book A lúa no probador [The Moon in the Changing Room] (1992). As a journalist, after much struggle, I published Territorio ocupado [Occupied Territory] (1998), a journalistic chronicle about the Sahara conflict; and Un país a medio facer (2008). I also travelled Nicaragua after the Mitch hurricane, accompanied by the photographer Manuel G. Vicente, where I wrote several articles. My books Cidades and O brillo dos elefantes were published in series of children's literature, as was the illustrated albums A casa da duna [The House of the Duna] (2002) and A araña e mais eu, translated to english by Kalandraka as The spider and me, for which I collaborated with photographer Manuel G. Vicente. I also co-authored the translation to Galician of Charles Perrault's Thumbling (1995).
And, although it seems I have already finished, I would like to say something else about me. The most important thing I would like to say is that I am a normal guy. No, really, I'm being serious. I am a normal guy. I say this because many people think that us authors are strange guys, people from another planet. Some of them might be strange people, for sure. But I am a normal guy. A bit absentminded, yes, but normal. I like literature but I like life much better. There are many things I like, and most of them have to do with enjoying life. I am passionate about travelling. I love reading in t he bathroom. And I absolutely love nuts with bread. They look like wonderful banalities, but I am very interested in the theory of banality.
In which concerns travelling, I am not difficult to please at all. I enjoy a good hotel as much as spending the night in a tent and go to sleep on the grass, looking at the stars (not in search of inspiration, because true inspiration is what I gather from smelling the thick and doughy oil of the señora Lola, who cooks omelets for the workers). By the way, speaking of it, I will say that I do not think of poetry as that stupid, bucolic genre in which inspiration comes from the smell of the flowers in the spring. For me, poetry is deeply subversive, flexible as chewing gum, and diuretic: it gives relief because it is a wonderful tranquillizer you can get over the counter. In high doses, it creates addiction or allergies. Its subversive potential and its allergic reactions allow me to cast an interpretative and critical look on my era, of which I am an unavoidable ch ild. And this is valid for all kinds of literature. In this domain, I am not interested in anything else. (So far).
In regard to literature, I have to confess that writing a book and knowing that someone is going to read it is a profoundly gratifying experience. And it is evident that it is readers which give life to books in each reading. So I would like to express my thanks to every of them, because they have made a writer out of me.
I think literature helps us understand the world we live in much better (and this is, probably, the main reason why I live), and this is quite a lot. This is why I cannot share the opinion of those writers who claim that literature is great because of its disinterestedness. The comprehension of the world given to us by literature (as readers or writers) is so extensive that it goes beyond disinterestedness, in my opinion.
Unfortunately, in the world there are too many things which I don't like. We still live in a shameful world, dominated by infamy, injustice, discrimination, economic interests, speculation, selfishness, poverty, pain, intolerance, fanaticism, sexism, racism, violence, and war. I consider profoundly perverse all those things which make their own interests dominate over those of the community.
