Miquel Bauçà

My name is Miquel Bauçà


Bauça1
The following lines appear under the title "Author's note" to the Obra poètica (Empúries, 1987). They are reproduced with permission from the publishers.

I was born on 7th of February in the year 1940, and on the 14th of the same month, twelve years later, mother decided to make me into an orphan. I do not know if this was so as to take revenge or simply because she was moved by an instinct for imitation. Four months earlier, I had run away from home, taking advantage of the fact that father, a very God-fearing man, had agreed to deliver me over to a sect of devout peasant men, still burning with the ardour of having won the war.

All these events had as their backdrop a countryside home in the south-east zone of the largest of the [Balearic] Islands, a home built by my maternal grandfather with pieces of ashlar, which he himself extracted from a nearby quarry. This grandfather had gone off to Argentina, in a transatlantic ship full of Slavs, who drank, sang and sweated in the hold. In the latter country he got so homesick that he had to come back, carrying nothing else but a revolver, which soon got rusty, exposed as it was to the rough handling of the children.

So, the winters I spent in the company of those devout men, in the Capital; in the summer, on the other hand, I helped father with his most clearly defined passion: building dry stone walls so as to divide and subdivide a plot of brushwood, which had been purchased with the jewels of his wife.

This lasted until I was eighteen. From that time onward, I do not believe it is necessary to mention anything especially remarkable.

Miquel Bauçà








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