Before Jaime Lannister threw him from a turret, the child Bran Stark had dreamed to be a knight of the royal guard. With his back broken all his dreams came down. Analogously, before my parents dismembered my soul and my sister’s, I dreamt to be a film director.
Instead of a life in Hollywood I have spent most of my life in the cave of the Three-Eyed Raven among huge roots, dense darkness and skeletons to try to understand what happened in my family. Such time in that underworld, and thanks to the retrocognitive vision that I developed about the most unpleasant human events, has transmuted my soul into a kind of fusion between the Night King and Bran the Broken.
Although last Thursday I translated a few paragraphs from one of my books, I promised myself not to talk much here about what I have seen in the darkest passageways of the cave. But that does not mean that I cannot begin to translate it, tome by tome, so that my most intimate confessions reach the English paper. Only thus, in the printed word, it could be understood why I want only a fraction of compassionate whites to inherit the earth (as I said on the 5th of this month when talking about the novels by George R. R. Martin).
Unfortunately, apparently my main sponsor died and, since I must put some bread on my table, the translation of the twelve books will take longer than I had originally expected.