I think about it, but I wish I didn't.

Joan Perelló is—and we can say this with pride—one of the most valuable poets we have in Mallorca specifically, and in the Catalan Countries in general, but in recent years he has also proven himself to be a prose writer with a sharp wit, a dry plot, and a truly first-rate style. The truth is, both his short stories and his novels have always thrilled me; they taste of gin, smell of strong tobacco, and read like classic literature. That's why I'm somewhat pleased that Ensiola Editorial is once again backing this writer of red-hot streets and rough-hewn stone, who returns with a collection of short stories that reads like a novel and has a beautiful, unflinching, and perfect title: Intruder's air

Joan Perelló's narrative universe is inhabited by anonymous, inglorious characters who find solace only in worldly pleasures like walking at dawn or lying on the grass, yet who have ended up devastated by life, which is always a bitch. Their mistake has been falling into the sin of cowardice or an even worse trap: preferring to do nothing, in the manner of Bartleby. But, of course, this inactivity leads to dire consequences, not because they star in great tragedies, but rather the opposite, since their existences turn out to be bland, mediocre, pathetic, empty. Their daily misadventures in somewhat sordid urban environments are described through the highly effective stream-of-consciousness technique, which Perelló masterfully employs, thus reflecting minute psychological details and confirming a focus on purely physiological facts: discomforts, pains Intruder's air It is, indeed, a volume that oozes with twilight aliens, oppressed by the feeling of an ever-approaching death. It is no wonder, then, that the work is dedicated to the dearly missed Guillem Frontera or that it engages in dialogue with the most caustic and chilling legacies of Bartomeu Fiol, Josep Maria Llompart, and Jaume Pomar, to name a few kindred voices.

As in his best verses, Joan Perelló delights in enumerations of elements, because they have the capacity to condense the world, and his best narrative pages seem like hermetic self-portraits that confirm his passions. That is why his paper creatures, deserving of compassion, enjoy listening to Bach, scrutinizing atlases, drinking coffee, smoking cinematically, or wishing they had been good butchers. However, it's important not to confuse the author with his multiple voices, which here unfold in acerbic reflections on the world, leading to pronouncements laden with dark humor in which everyday logic forces us to accept the situation: that most people live their lives with a kind of naiveté that, in the end, takes its toll.