“Alone, closed in this hotel room, my passion for lists and catalogs is accentuated. Ephemeral lists, ultra-fast, daughters of great difficulty. It’s an absolutely crazy time, my love. All times are, but one fine day a crack appears and, glups, a doctor -or an imposter- sneaks in and invents a new disease that cures the old one. I think that, in reality, what changes is the gesture to be repeated. The repetitions change. All epochs, in their own way, have been crazy. We have long since lost our heads: and now the lost head has doubled, and there is oblivion, and the elongated shadow of oblivion with no surface to project itself on.”
W is a mixture of poetry, fiction and epistle, straddling several genres and techniques (collage, textual samples, appropriationism), which starts from the resource of the found box to reach a fragmentary reflection of the world around us, hand in hand with an unconventional love story. It takes its title from its main character, W, a character who travels through cities around the world with a strange mission: to transport a red toad with mysterious powers. W blindly follows the orders of his bosses, invisible and all-powerful beings who will send him to the most unknown and remote places on the planet, almost always in shabby hotel rooms. From these rooms W writes letters, poems and all kinds of reflections to Anastàsia, his beloved, that the reader will only know through the voice of the protagonist. Letters, poems and reflections that are sent not only from various corners of the globe but also, it seems, from different times: the middle of the nineteenth century, early twentieth century, in the twenty-first century or even from the twenty-second century. Who is really W?
