Abstract

There are surely some dozens of young Spaniards who, submerged in the obscure depths of provincial existence, live in a perpetual and tacit irritation with the atmosphere around them. I can almost see them, in the corner of some social hall, silent, with embittered gaze and hostile mien, withdrawn into themselves like little tigers awaiting the moment for their vengeful, predatory leap. That corner and that frayed plush divan are like the solitary crag where the shipwrecked of monotony, of utter banality, of the abjection and emptiness of Spanish life, hope for better times. Not far away, playing their card games, making their petty politics, plotting their minimal business ventures, are the "life forces" of the community, these men who contrive this ominous moment in our national life.