belong to a generation for whom the name of Viñas is less a critic than an epic character; fault that superstition a stubbornness (That of having spent hours reading his invaluable critical work) and recklessness (that of writing about it some cumbersome pages). Aware of his death, I yield to the temptation to reread the bunch of yellow cards in which, or dumb or lazy, the old disputes or skillfully eludes my hypothesis. Do not look at these almost illegible scrawl, the sign of complicity (if I sensed that in these shipments Viñas I wrote, just writing, period), but rather a tone, a voice that suddenly I feel a retreat. As its text in the convoluted prose of the critical tradition in Argentina, his monologue elliptical me, but yet classic, clean, consistent and sharp, and pulled back in a puff of smoke a cold evening in the bar La Paz. The raspy voice takes on a nearly solid mineral, progressing to short, weaves a rhetoric of protest (own assembly-utterance) which, paradoxically, the link to the tradition of the public voice in the word liberal. Leaving the area of \u200b\u200bregistration, peremptory voice assumes Viñas, consistent with their critical (merciless with the adjectives), its ideological inflection. It's the same voice that bring their books, a voice in action on stage, in the present: the living voice of leftist intellectual who says his role when he commits and promises to return the critical work of political action that role many times resigned in the icy waters of egotistical calculation.
* For the Culture section of the newspaper Pagina 12 , Saturday 03/12/1911.
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