Basically all the work, and we could actually say the entire life, of Manuel Vicent is based in his extraordinary powers of observation and in his not any less extraordinary capacity to narrate his observations. Add to that a culture born out of a young admiration for Baroja and "La Codorniz", as well as for Thomas Bernhard and the Presocratics, a culture that has not ceased becoming richer as years have gone by; also add the stylistic knowledge that the practice of journalism produces, in newspapers where synthesis rules as he proves sunday after sunday through his scarce 300 words on the last page of El País; finally, add a blast of irony and a crust of anti-myth estrangement, and the result will be an irrepetible cocktail that I would not hesitate to qualify as the most delicious of the contemporary Spanish literature.
Vicent knows how to masterfully unite literature with memories, fiction with memory. And if just a sample is enough for you, I sincerely recommend you to read his book León de ojos verdes, where he recreates the summer of 1953 in Benicàssim allowing the reader to assist to a parade of characters and stories, each of them more slick and exciting than the other.
Along his novel, and in all of his novels, life goes by with a simplicity that only sages can obtain, with a formidable equilibrium between the most constant feelings, sublime or petty, of the human being as seen from the everyday life. His prose describes a concept of life very similar to a roller coaster: when the reader believes that the narration is reaching the climate of a twilight by Friedrich, the following sentence by Vicent puts him in a poker game with swindlers and marchionesses in wheel chairs.