It is still heard that nonsense about “truth being stranger than fiction”. When I finished reading Postcards from Río, I knew that I had –from that moment on– something to face that commonplace that denies those sewers in which love wallows, in which it shreds and devour the bodies. In which only the best literature sheds its daylight, and dynamites all gloom. Luna is a doctor of violent midnights, of gagged screams, of standing deaths claiming to be loved. He doesn´t descend to hells to find himself –he knows it’s impossible– but to get away from the certainty of the vacuum. With a tenebrous beauty, Martin Doria tells us a love story. It touches, it provokes, it suffocates and lights up the necessary fires. He tenses the reader’s attention until he turns this desolate urban chronicle into a journey to the end of the night that Céline would not denied it.
“One is the most solitary number” at Solo tempestad blog
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