Victor Hugo’s voice

We are always going back to places we have never left. We recognize the best times only when we leave them behind. Those places where it is still possible to conceive a utopia of the spirit. We are beings sculpted by time, language and memory. This weekend a luminous, penetrating party is going to be inaugurated. “LA VOZ” (with capital letters) returns to AM 750 with all the soccer of the Argentine Professional League from the Relatorxs platform. Victor Hugo insisted on recovering Voltaire: “football (life) is wherever I am”, to design a scented, penetrating space for football, with an electrifying story, right at the bottom, demanding the ball, taking care of it, protecting it; pressing the exit, recovering the spaces, triangulating. All this from the universe of radio. It is the way to drink Argentine soccer in gushes: “something that allows me to continue to excel in vice, accompanying the boys,” he declared. A bright warm sun that insists, once again, in caressing the passions of the soul.

Victor Hugo flows, permeates, filters, phrases. A “Voice” that tells us about a place so intimate that it belongs to all of us. In these times of so much out of tune reality, where the primacy of the story over the argumentation stands out, living means looking at, saying, tasting, feeling, sniffing the world; something Victor Hugo does with sudden efficiency. He intertwines making tapestries of words that tie the threads of language like a poetic gleaner who collects pieces of human experience. He inherited that way of looking at the world going from the lump in the throat to the naked word. He opens our eyes to all that we have left over, and he comes from afar exclaiming that the world is badly done. That epiphany that underlies, sustains and penetrates. That very personal way of reading the world, his and ours.

He has long lived on the difficult and combative shore of communication. They wanted him banished, walking through hell with his decapitated head under his arm. There are still scars from that drowning. The mother of all furies, which is hate, only rage remains. He continues there, firm, intact, luminous, looking for suns of life in the corners. In this here and now that flows mightily with the political reality of the morning, television in the afternoon, and, now, all the unleashed football of the weekend: “They have been seven years of great personal and professional happiness (on AM 750 Now the news causes me double emotion, because it has to do with football”, he qualified.

Sometimes he looks back, with some vertigo and a certain melancholy. The intense happiness of her childhood palpitates in the sweet look of her grandmother and in the deep smell of the sweet potato cooking over a slow fire. Memories of him have always awaited him: the sound of the river, the shadow of a vine, the serene burnishing of boredom, an unexpected trip, a drink with friends, the shelter of the family, the black misty forest and the road. For some time he wanted to go away, go completely and truly, to release that profound poetry that inhabits him. That poetry that is out of the market, so innocent and pure, like those early snows that settle luminous with a cotton silence on the roofs.

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