«Sometimes it is like a flash. You see it, and then you don’t. Suddenly you dream of your future, a promise made flesh is there, waiting at a traffic light, with a melancholy expression, a grey dress, glass stockings.» Carlos Castán’s stories could not be called perfect, technically exact or calculated (those kinds of stories that usually end up dissected and lifeless in writing schools). Castán’s stories bleed. He writes about dislocated people, without a map or compass. People who suddenly escape in search of what might have been, people who die a long time before their bodies. He writes about solitude, empty afternoons, roads, plans and of the end of the journey and the dream of peace. He writes of people who miss trains and those who resist, despite the boredom, the repeated days. He writes about the thirst for intensity, about how freedom scratches the conscience and how to keep fear on the back foot. Castán writes with honesty, and manages, for good and ill, to write stories that devour the reader who see in their pages an essential image of themselves.
"Carlos Castán takes us into his overwhelming and sometimes difficult to take world, leaving us shaking, on the edge of the precipice, in pain." ANTÓN CASTRO