has always fascinated me ... imagine that uncertain circumstances in which our ancestors, yet slightly different animal, baby language that allowed them to communicate, began, in caves, around campfires, in boiling nights of threats, lightning, thunder, growling of wild beasts, "to make up stories and tell them. That was the turning point of our destination, because in these rounds of primitives suspended by the voice and the imagination of the counter, civilization began, the long passage which gradually humanize us and lead us to invent the sovereign individual and detach them of the tribe, science, arts, law, liberty, scrutinizing the entrails of nature, the human body, space and travel to the stars. Those tales, fables, myths, legends, which first sounded like music to new audiences intimidated by the mysteries and dangers of a world where everything was unfamiliar and dangerous, should have a refreshing swim, a haven for these spirits always the one who lives, for which there is meant to just eat, shelter from the elements, kill and fornicate . Since the community began to dream, to share dreams, encouraged by the storytellers, were no longer tied to the wheel of survival, a swirl of mind-numbing chores, and his life became sleep, enjoyment, fantasy, and a plan revolutionary break this containment and change and improve, a fight to quell those desires and ambitions that they incited the lives figurative, and curiosity to clear the unknowns that I was starry surroundings.
That process is never interrupted when he was born rich writing and stories, as well as heard, could read and reached the residence, which confers the literature. Therefore, it must be repeated endlessly to convince it to future generations: the fiction is more than entertainment, rather than an intellectual exercise that sharpens the sensitivity and the critical spirit awakened. It is a necessity for civilization still exists, renewing and preserving the best of us human. Not to go back to the barbarism of the isolation and life is not reduced to the pragmatism of the specialists who see things in depth but ignore their surroundings, precedes and continues. For let us not serve us to invent machines to be their servants and slaves. And because a world without literature would be a world without ideals or desires or contempt, a world of automatons without what makes the human being truly human: the ability to leave and move himself into another, in others, modeled with the clay of our dreams ...
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