Very sharp broken nails
Sorting old books I open a box and I almost cried: I find a dozen copies of the really mythical theater collection of Notebooks for the Dialogue, by Pedro Altares, directed and translated by Álvaro del Amo, María Luisa Balseiro and Miguel Bilbatúa, about which the kids like me, crazy about the scene, rushed in the early seventies, and rightly so, because we could discover nothing less there that to Pinter, to Stoppard, to Brendan Behan, to Beckett, to Strindberg, to Sean O'Casey, to Brecht, or to the newest Arthur Kopit. I was also fascinated by the Argentinean editions of Losada, where I met Tennessee Williams, or the Barcelonians from Aymá, who published "difficult" texts, such as Return home, by Pinter, who rode Luis Escobar, or Marat-Sade Weiss, who premiered (and starred) Marsillach, but on top of the podium were the books of Notebooks, just as if I had to choose between how much and good is being published today in that negotiation, I would say that my editorial is Segovia and is called The Broken Uña.
