It is impossible for someone to delve into the twelve stories that make up The Animal Condition and not come out of them, at the very least, shaken, disturbed and, why not notice it, also shocked by the intensity of these stories. What makes us different as a species, what does the human condition consist of? Knowing ourselves fragile, exposed, mortal? What would we be like if we didn't fear the evil of others? That seems to be asked by each of the stories that Valeria Correa Fiz has written with visceral, physical prose full of turbidities, to lead us to our own fears, our insecurities, our tremors. The darkest angle of the human being - madness and death, love and illness, obsession and inevitable violence and tenderness. A brutal book. A book that hurts, as good literature always hurts.



Rarely can we find a debut as dazzling as this first book by Valeria Correa Fiz, a resounding, serious and exciting commitment, brimming with quality and, above all, future.

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CREATURES

You found yourself with your son in your hands. It was a light package, about nine hundred grams, maybe less.

Not knowing what to do, like in those inexplicable transitions in dreams, you dragged your feet and your restlessness down the hospital hallway. The smell of disinfectant clung to your tongue. You thought about the routine that awaited you before going out to the parking lot: diving suit, suit, gloves, and then a sadness like a dark seabed, of seaweed that tangled around your neck and squeezed your throat.

For months your country had been populated by frogs and other creatures with amphibian skin.

The air tasted like rain, the food tasted like mold, and there was no crunchy bread or pizza. Airlines had canceled flights. The sky was still, like in a painting. There were passengers who lived in transit, in quarantines that were extended and extended again indefinitely. Trains and long-distance buses were also not running.

Nothing prevented the spread of the amphibian pest and, to make matters worse, the gelatinous moss. First it peeked out between the fingers; then, under the armpits, in the groin, in the folds of the flesh every night. No one was surprised this time: horror can also be a habit.