I was born in Buenos Aires on November 8th, 1942.
Most of my childhood and adolescence was spent within the grayish square formed by the four avenues of Santa Fe, Juan B. Justo, Córdoba, and Dorrego. In my youthful days I was an insignificant office employee. In my not so youthful days, and for a very long time, I was a teacher of language and literature in several high schools; in general, I have merited the affection of my students and colleagues, which tells me that I’m a pretty good guy.
During intervals in my work, I’ve tried to read and I’ve tried to write.
I possess the sensibility to appreciate poetic beauty, but I lack the minimum talent to write a worthwhile poem. With no remorse I destroyed the poems of my youth, since it made no sense to me to add more ugliness to the world.
On the other hand, I’m quite pleased with my narrative creations. As men worthy of belief are wont to say, in my prose fiction there is a curious mixture of fantasy and humor which flows within an occasionally grotesque yet verisimilar framework.
In general, I’m quite comfortable with myself. I’m completely devoid of the calling to form part of any literary group, of any committee of people all with similar literary ineptitude, or of any mutual admiration society. I do confess, however, that I serve militantly among the steadfast hosts of fans of the Racing Club soccer team of Avellaneda.
I like reading more than writing, and, actually, I write very little. Over a period of almost forty years, I don’t have too much bibliography to show.
Like everyone, in greater or smaller measure, I have received several literary prizes.
In a word, I’m relatively happy.
Martínez (Bs. As.), May 2018