were met one year after the disappearance of writer Guillermo Bustamante, author of The last round and The murmur of the blood (novels) and two books of poetry. Although I still feel it in the seventh race, where he always talked about literature, politics and contributions, is that it is just an illusion. Transcribe a text that I sent Leonardo Agudelo, written for the anniversary: \u200b\u200b "Guillermo Bustamante: the joy of leaving all
The Cat in the Roof
William died in the law of the asphalt on a sunrise near Santander Park, in this hostel called public space. His body, lifeless and abandoned word. I met him invited to the Writers' Workshop at the University, in a room where chairs drew a crescent moon, he sat with his chin high, eyes bright. Once or twice we met on the streets silent, until one day SINTRATELEFONOS cafeteria, where he arrived with a book of American fiction. That was the moment to break the ice. Dressed in a sloppy outfit, her body, with the strong smell of street fighter, emerged a deep and unique voice, clear as dew on the grass feeds ... His words had the sound of the Magdalena River, where he was born, wrote and fought. Alternated palabras una vena constante de humor y rabia que inspiró su obra El último Cartucho y lo llevó a ser el Balzac que reclama Bogotá hace 500 años. Sus cortos monólogos hechizaban a su interlocutor no sólo por la erudición, sino también por esa sabiduría teñida de humor espeso. Era un hijo de ciudad venido del campo, donde los estertores de la violencia no han dejado en paz ni a vivos ni a muertos. Con él aprendí a ver otra historia de Colombia el día que me dijo que la mejor crónica de la violencia estaba en la literatura, porque las academias habían llevado a la verdad a vestirse con el ropaje de la ficción, verdad atesorada en cuentos y novelas escritas por profesores, jueces y priests from regions where violence rules over liberal-conservative. One day I asked: "William, why the violence does not stop running down the Magdalena River? There began the story of the origins of the paramilitary. Each word was coloring a mosaic of sunrises and blood, a mixture of personal reminiscences, readings, and experiences as a journalist and writer. In the early 80's, peasant instinct that something would change inevitably foreshadowed in the history of the region forged beating navigation, civil wars and the Tropical Oil Company, when he heard from the lips of an attendee to a meeting near Puerto Berrio, in 1982, repeat the words of an army officer: "The circumstances of the region will change and we believe that you are the people who can join us on this project." I never heard a story where the narrator was actor and writer, like that Saturday morning when we happened across the street from Gabriel Garcia Marquez cultural and a coffee. His words could not be hesitant in memory, I decided to write as he walked away with the step Chaplin Writers Workshop. Just wrote our conversation, I learned the true value of the encounter. The next week I went to the shop and talk: this time I wrote his words in front of their eyes. At the time I ordered a brandy and I said was better to make sober history. He was silent, got up and, before her figure fade into the door frame, said: "This talk about dead without a drink is not for me." Two weeks after our first meeting, the eve of presidential elections, I arrived early to attend the Saturday coffee attending the workshop. It was a cold morning of a crystalline silence. William did not come. His steps were taking to the road and at night, to a park where the game took leave of loss and gain, on a Sunday morning. "
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