Ahora imagino cosas

If, as Alfonso Reyes said, the essay is the centaur of genres, the chronicle is a more exotic or wild mestizo: the tap of literature. This book is a cage without bars where some of those creatures roam: the withered eternity of Acapulco and the vocation of Mazatlán as a food court of the soul; a rockstar season in the desert and a souvenir of the 2006 World Cup in Germany stolen by the author from an ex-lover of his girlfriend; a hotel in Shanghai where he plays the oldest jazz band in the world and the visit of the Queen of England to the port of La Paz, Baja California Sur; the brutal murder of a Chilean teenager in the Maule region and a freehand portrait of the Iron Prosecutor, persecutor of suicide guerrillas, Marxist homeopaths and narco-matriarchal gangs who led the fight against organized crime in the seventies in Nuevo Laredo. The eight narratives in this book carry out one of the greatest chances in literature: going from the intimate to the general, or vice versa. They also remind us that there are no promises without a hangover.