I am publishing “Letters to Helen, my English daughter,” whom I barely knew

My twelfth book appears in the Sevillian newspaper Puntorojo. There are 241 bone pages and at the end an album with photos of a lifetime.

I tried to build an internal novel and the result was a satire. It focuses on a woman who was the reason for my existence, but hidden within the angel is the satanic and the tragedy: Suzanne's thyroid disease, which caused me to have a mental breakdown (equine depression),

Immediately afterwards I got into my Mini with a few books and a guitar and returned to Spain, giving up my house in Edenthorpe and my job as a teacher at a school in Yorkshire, looking for work in Spain and writing reports on everything that entailed moved and how Through my persistence I realized my career dream of becoming a correspondent in London.

   Suzanne had made a miraculous recovery from thyroid cancer and this encouraged me to visit her in Essex. They didn't welcome me, and rightly so. I asked the Virgin in the midst of my despair and I believe that she healed me. I even reached Lisieux, one of the shrines I visited and whose healing meant my life to cure cancer.

   This book is a convulsive train of misery and regret, an account of madness and a gratitude to the Providence that has saved me, my sinner, from so many dangers. The pain of attrition hovers over his sides. I am remorseful for having been a villain.

   By the way. I unforgivingly criticize the stubborn feminism that prevents parents from seeing their children and is the cause of many disputes and even murders. His marriage to Suzanne was dissolved by the church and she obtained a restraining order.

The girl Helen was placed under the protection of the juvenile court. This meant that I wasn't allowed to see her, but my ex waived alimony and living expenses.

I think one of the reasons my marriage failed was my poverty. She was upper class in London and I was a poor, lovelorn student. I think I still am. Well, love conquers death.

Disastrous events led me to remarry in church in Spain. With this marriage, I entered a portable hell, a chamber of horrors, torture, ruthlessness, contempt, and even cuckoldry, but here I long for the English love that made me dream and that made me write.

   Today Helen is a beautiful childcare worker working in the city's best maternity hospital on the Thames, and Suzanne is a beautiful septuagenarian with gray hair and a tree-like smile.

God bless them both

This final book is the crest of an extensive iceberg of unpublished work. I've been pressing the keys for over sixty years and if I hold on to it, I'll die. Long live love, I will fire furiously at the twenty-four white cartridges that will take my last breath away.

   Wednesday, January 3, 2024