I’m going to tell you about myself to see if you can guess who I am.
I am from Moguer, a small town in Huelva, Andalusia.
Here in Spain, everybody knows me and children study me at school.
I’m the main character of a book published in 1914, but don’t think I’m a human. I’m much better than that.
In the first paragraph of the story, the man to whom I owe my existence wrote a wonderful description of me. Even though it’s prose, it’s so beautiful that it reads like a poem.
He says I’m so soft it seems I’m made of cotton wool. He also compares my eyes to a mirror made of jet stone. However, if you want to understand how wonderful his words are, you have to read him, because I’m good at many things, but I’m no poet.
I mustn’t forget to tell you that my creator got the Nobel Prize in 1956. The poor man didn’t have much time to enjoy it because he lost his wife two days later.
If you can, please do read this little book about me. It won’t take long, it’s just around 130 pages long. And if you understand Spanish, read it in this language, because I doubt any translator will be able to do it justice.
I have to tell you, however, there’s something I don’t like about the story: the ending… I suppose you can imagine why…
Anyway, it's time to say farewell, my friends. Take care of yourselves. I hope we'll meet one day.