Mido todo el horror de la posibilidad de semejante amor.
Posted on November 14, 2011
Me dijeron: "Su hijo ha muerto". Fue una hora después del parto; yo había visto al niño. Al día siguiente pregunté: "¿Cómo era?". Me dijeron: "Es rubio, un poco pelirrojo, tiene las cejas altas como usted, se le parece". "¿Está ahí todavía?" "Sí, está ahí hasta mañana". "¿Está frío?" R. contestó: "No lo he tocado, pero debe de estarlo, está muy pálido". Después titubeó: "Está guapo, es también por causa de la muerte". He pedido verlo. R. me dijo que no. Pregunté a la superiora. Me dijo: "No merece la pena". No insistí. Me habían explicado dónde estaba, en un cuartito al lado de la sala de trabajo, a la izquierda, según se va hacia allí. Al día siguiente estaba sola con R. Hacía mucho calor. Yo estaba echada boca arriba, tenía el corazón muy fatigado, no debía moverme. No me movía. "¿Cómo tiene la boca?" "Tiene tu boca", decía R. Y a todas horas: "¿Está ahí todavía"?. "No lo sé". No podía leer. Miraba por la ventana abierta, el follaje de las acacias que crecían en los terraplenes del ferrocarril de circunvalación.
Por la tarde vino a verme la hermana Marguerite. "Ahora es un angel, debería estar contenta". "¿Qué van a hacer con él?" "No lo sé", dijo la hermana Marguerite. "Quiero saberlo". "Cuando son tan pequeños los queman". "¿Aún está ahí?". "Sí, está ahí". "¿Entonces los queman?" "Sí". "¿Se hace deprisa?" "No lo sé". "No querría que lo quemaran". "No hay nada que hacer". Al día siguiente vino la superiora: "¿Quiere usted dar sus flores a la santa Virgen?". Yo dije: "No". La monja me miró: tenía setenta años, estaba reseca por el ejercicio cotidiano como organizadora de la clínica, era terrible, tenía un vientre que yo me imaginaba negro y seco, lleno de raíces resecas. Volvió al otro día: "¿Quiere usted comulgar?". Yo dije: "No". Entonces me miró. Su rostro era horrible, era el rostro de la maldad, del diablo: "Esta no quiere comulgar y se queja porque su hijo ha muerto". Salió dando un portazo. La llamaban "madre". (Es uno de los tres o cuatro seres que he conocido a los que hubiera querido destripar. Destripar. La palabra da vértigo. Destripar. La palabra se ha hecho para ella, para su vientre lleno de tinta negra.
Hacía mucho calor. Fue entre el 15 y el 31 de mayo. Verano. Dije a R.: "No quiero más visitas. Nada más que tú". Siempre tendida frente a las acacias. La piel del vientre se me pegaba a la espalda, de tan vacía que estaba. El niño había salido. Ya no estábamos juntos. Había muerto una muerte separada. Hacía una hora, un día, ocho días, muerto aparte, muerto a una vida que habíamos vivido nueve meses juntos y que él acababa de morir separadamente. Mi vientre había caído pesadamente, plaf, sobre sí mismo, como un trapo usado, un pingajo, un paño mortuorio, una losa, una puerta, una nada, ese vientre. Había llevado gloriosamente, en un abombamiento adorable, este grano próspero, esta fruta (un hijo es una fruta verde que hace que se nos suba la saliva a la boca como una fruta verde) submarina que no había vivido más que en el calor viscoso, aterciopelado y oscuro de mi carne y que el día había matado, que había sido herido de muerte por su soledad en el espacio. Tan pequeño, y ya tanto desde que había muerto aparte. "¿Dónde está?", decía yo a R. ""¿Lo han quemado?" "No lo sé". La gente decía: "No es tan terrible cuando sucede al nacer. Es mejor así que perderlos a los seis meses". Yo no contestaba nada a la gente. ¿Era terrible? Yo creo que lo era. Precisamente esta coincidencia entre su "venida al mundo" y su muerte. No me quedaba nada. Ese vacío era terrible. Yo no había tenido hijo, ni siquiera durante una hora, obligada a imaginarlo todo. Inmóvil, imaginaba.
Este que está ahí ahora durmiendo, éste se ha reído hace un rato, se ha reído de una jirafa que le acababan de dar. Se ha reído y su risa ha hecho un ruido. Hacía viento y solo una pequeña parte del ruido de esta pequeña risa me ha llegado. Entonces he levantado un poco la capota de su cochecito y le he vuelto a dar la jirafa para que se ría. Se ha reído de nuevo y he hundido la cabeza en la capota para oír el ruido del mar. De la risa de mi hijo. He aplicado el oído a esta concha para oír el ruido del mar. La idea de que esta risa se iba al viento era insoportable. La he cogido. Soy yo quien la tiene. A veces, cuando bosteza, respiro su boca, el aliento de su bostezo. No soy una madre chiflada. No vivo más que de esta risa, de este aliento. Me faltan muchas cosas, soledad, un hombre. No. Yo sé cuál es el precio de un hijo. "Si muere", pensé, "habré tenido esta risa". Es porque he perdido uno, es porque sé que éste puede morir, por lo que soy así. Mido todo el horror de la posibilidad de semejante amor. La maternidad la hace a una buena, se dice. Fruslerías. Desde que lo tengo me he vuelto mala. Por fin estoy segura de este horror, por fin lo tengo, por fin los creyentes han llegado a serme absolutamente ajenos.
(Marguerite Duras, Cuadernos de la guerra, isbn 978-84-9841-109-6)
An intelligent man
Posted on August 9, 2011
As written by Michel de Montaigne in his essay That men by various ways arrive at the same end:
Dionysius the elder, after having, by a tedious siege and through exceeding great difficulties, taken the city of Reggio, and in it the governor Phyton, a very gallant man, who had made so obstinate a defence, was resolved to make him a tragical example of his revenge: in order whereunto he first told him, "That he had the day before caused his son and all his kindred to be drowned." To which Phyton returned no other answer but this: "That they were then by one day happier than he." After which, causing him to be stripped, and delivering him into the hands of the tormentors, he was by them not only dragged through the streets of the town, and most ignominiously and cruelly whipped, but moreover vilified with most bitter and contumelious language: yet still he maintained his courage entire all the way, with a strong voice and undaunted countenance proclaiming the honourable and glorious cause of his death; namely, for that he would not deliver up his country into the hands of a tyrant; at the same time denouncing against him a speedy chastisement from the offended gods. At which Dionysius, reading in his soldiers' looks, that instead of being incensed at the haughty language of this conquered enemy, to the contempt of their captain and his triumph, they were not only struck with admiration of so rare a virtue, but moreover inclined to mutiny, and were even ready to rescue the prisoner out of the hangman's hands, he caused the torturing to cease, and afterwards privately caused him to be thrown into the sea.
Or why heroes are so dear
Posted on August 9, 2011
Hector to his comrade who suggested a prudent retreat, in The Iliad:
You will have no man with you; it shall not be; do all of you as I now say;—take your suppers in your companies throughout the host, and keep your watches and be wakeful every man of you. If any Trojan is uneasy about his possessions, let him gather them and give them out among the people. Better let these, rather than the Achaeans, have them. At daybreak we will arm and fight about the ships; granted that Achilles has again come forward to defend them, let it be as he will, but it shall go hard with him. I shall not shun him, but will fight him, to fall or conquer. The god of war deals out like measure to all, and the slayer may yet be slain."
And then face to face to Achilles:
Men say that you are son to noble Peleus, and that your mother is Thetis, fair-haired daughter of the sea. I have noble Anchises for my father, and Venus for my mother; the parents of one or other of us shall this day mourn a son, for it will be more than silly talk that shall part us when the fight is over.
It will be more than silly talk that shall part us when the fight is over.
Samuel vs Butler
Posted on July 12, 2011
The problem with this, by Samuel Butler,
I think, then, that the style of our authors of a couple of hundred years ago was more terse and masculine than that of those of the present day, possessing both more of the graphic element, and more vigour, straightforwardness, and conciseness. Most readers will have anticipated me in admitting that a man should be clear of his meaning before he endeavours to give to it any kind of utterance, and that having made up his mind what to say, the less thought he takes how to say it, more than briefly, pointedly, and plainly, the better; for instance, Bacon tells us, "Men fear death as children fear to go in the dark"; he does not say, what I can imagine a last century writer to have said, "A feeling somewhat analogous to the dread with which children are affected upon entering a dark room, is that which most men entertain at the contemplation of death." Jeremy Taylor says, "Tell them it is as much intemperance to weep too much as to laugh too much"; he does not say, "All men will acknowledge that laughing admits of intemperance, but some men may at first sight hesitate to allow that a similar imputation may be at times attached to weeping."
is that he writes the non-concise, non-vigour, and non-straightforwardness version with such a charming verbosity, softness and vagueness that he happens to undermine his own point...
On English Composition and Other Matters, by Samuel Butler
http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3278
Guilty we are (from the marrow bone)
Posted on July 11, 2011
Ja sabeu que estic llegint el Nou testament, en la traducció no-dogmàtica d'en Joan Francesc Mira (que, dit siga de pas, no ha respost a les expectatives creades pel mateix autor en el pròleg pel que fa a la qualitat de la prosa).
Jesucrist, amb la seva mort, liquida el judaisme; i amb la seva resurrecció, funda el cristianisme. El problema per als apòstols de la nova fe és com passar d'una religió poderosament patrimonial, genètica, a una altra de vocació universal. Pau troba la solució en la seva Carta al romans:
Doncs, què: som superiors, els jueus? De cap manera, perquè ja hem comprovat que tots, jueus o grecs, són igualment culpables, tal com està escrit: "No n'hi ha cap, de just, ni un de sol: no n'hi ha cap d'assenyat, ni cap que busque Déu. S'han desviat tots junts, no valen res: no hi ha ningú que faça res de bo, ni un de sol. La seua gola és un sepulcre obert, la llengua els serveix per enganyar i porten verí d'escurçó sota els llavis: tenen la boca plena d'amargor i de malediccions. Els seus peus son ràpids per anar a vessar sang, per on ells passen hi ha ruïna i misèria i no coneixen el camí de la pau. No tenen present el temor de Déu."
[...]
Per tant, no hi ha diferència, ja que tots han pecat i s'han privat de l'esplendor de Déu, i si ara ell els declara justos és només per un acte de gràcia, pel rescat que ha pagat el Crist Jesús, a qui Déu va exposar com a seu i instrument del perdó: per la seua fidelitat i amb la seua pròpia sang.
Per a bé o per a mal, som fills de Pau i de l'essència cristiana --tenim el sentiment de culpa que ens brolla del moll dels ossos.
Addendum
Però falta cosa, aquí. El segon bastió del cristianisme: el vasallatge, o fe absoluta. Déu perdonarà fins els més terribles crims excepte que no es cregui en ell. I és la fe la que en Pau fa servir per poder fer pròpies dels cristians les promeses que el Déu pare va fer al llinatge d'Abraham:
Per tant, la promesa que es va fer a Abraham i a la seua descendència ---que rebrien el món com a herència--- no té com a base la llei, sinó la justícia que ve de la fe; ja que, si són hereus en virtut de la llei, la fe queda buida i la promesa anul·lada. On no hi ha llei tampoc no hi ha transgressió, i, per tant, és la mateixa llei la que desencadena la còlera de Déu. La promesa, doncs, la va rebre per la seua fidelitat, de manera que és una concessió assegurada a tota la seua descendència: no solament als qui estan sota la llei, sinó als qui tenen la fe d'Abraham.
M'estan semblant molt més interessants els fets i les cartes dels apòstols que els mateixos evangelis..
July 6, 2011
De l'enveja:
He fet i us he mostrat moltes coses bones, de part del meu pare: per quina de totes em voleu apredegar?
Evangeli de Joan, en la traducció narrativa, no-dogmàtica, feta per Joan Francesc Mira a Evangelis.
July 6, 2011
Does the man who slay himself hates life?
The man who slays himself is not the man who hates life; he only hates the sorrow and the shame which make unbearable that life which he loves only too well. He is trying to migrate to other conditions; he desires to live, but he cannot live so. It is the imagination of man that makes him seek death; only the animal endures, but man hurries away in the hope of finding something better.
Is the Nirvana unsubstantial?
It is, however, strange to reflect how weak man's imagination is when it comes to deal with what is beyond him, how little able he is to devise anything that he desires to do when he has escaped from life. The unsubstantial heaven of a Buddhist, with its unthinkable Nirvana, is merely the depriving life of all its attributes; the dull sensuality of the Mohammedan paradise, with its ugly multiplication of gross delights; the tedious outcries of the saints in light which make the medieval scheme of heaven into one protracted canticle—these are all deeply unattractive, and have no power at all over the vigorous spirit. Even the vision of Socrates, the hope of unrestricted converse with great minds, is a very unsatisfying thought, because it yields so little material to work upon.
Is change a thing to fear?
The fact, of course, is that it is just the variety of experience which makes life interesting,—toil and rest, pain and relief, hope and satisfaction, danger and security,—and if we once remove the idea of vicissitude from life, it all becomes an indolent and uninspiring affair. It is the process of change which is delightful, the finding out what we can do and what we cannot, going from ignorance to knowledge, from clumsiness to skill; even our relations with those whom we love are all bound up with the discoveries we make about them and the degree in which we can help them and affect them. What the mind instinctively dislikes is stationariness; and an existence in which there was nothing to escape from, nothing more to hope for, to learn, to desire, would be frankly unendurable.
Is the recollection in sorrow of happy things torture (of the worst kind)?
The reason why we dread death is because it seems to be a suspension of all our familiar activities. It would be terrible to have nothing but memory to depend upon. The only use of memory is that it distracts us a little from present conditions if they are dull, and it is only too true that the recollection in sorrow of happy things is torture of the worst kind.
Excerpts from Escape, by Arthur Christopher Benson. My epigraphs.
July 5, 2011
De l'agraïment
També va passar que, quan anava cap a Jerusalem, travessant entre Samària i Galilea, en el moment d'entrar en un poble li van eixir a l'encontre deu leprosos, que es van quedar a una certa distància i van alçar la veu per dir-li: Jesús, mestre, tingues compassió de nosaltres." "Aneu, i mostreu-vos als sacerdots", els va dir ell quan els va veure. Mentre s'hi dirigien, van quedar nets, i un d'ells, en veure que s'havia curat, se'n va tornar, cantant en veu alta la glòria de Déu, i es llançà als peus de Jesús amb la cara per terra per donar-li gràcies. Era samarità. "No eren deu els que han quedat nets?", va dir Jesús. "On són els altres nou? No se n'ha trobat cap, fora d'aquest estranger, per tornar i donar glòria a Déu?"
Evangeli de Lluc, en la traducció narrativa, no-dogmàtica, feta per Joan Francesc Mira a Evangelis.
June 30, 2011
Gerona, de Benito Pérez Galdós. Extraordinària, aquesta entrega dels Episodis, llòbrega com a poques obres literàries, punyent, terrible.
June 16, 2011
Reality is in general what truths have to take account of.
So simple and yet.
From Pragmatism, by William James.
June 7, 2011
This citation from the essays of Robert Louis Stevenson I put elsewhere seemed to rise some interest:
All through my boyhood and youth, I was known and pointed out for the pattern of an idler; and yet I was always busy on my own private end, which was to learn to write. I kept always two books in my pocket, one to read, one to write in.
Just for the sake of completion, and hoping it'll go on interesting someone, let me excerpt some more quotes:
As I walked, my mind was busy fitting what I saw with appropriate words; when I sat by the roadside, I would either read, or a pencil and a penny version-book would be in my hand, to note down the features of the scene or commemorate some halting stanzas. Thus I lived with words. And what I thus wrote was for no ulterior use, it was written consciously for practice. It was not so much that I wished to be an author (though I wished that too) as that I had vowed that I would learn to write. That was a proficiency that tempted me; and I practised to acquire it, as men learn to whittle, in a wager with myself. Description was the principal field of my exercise; for to any one with senses there is always something worth describing, and town and country are but one continuous subject. But I worked in other ways also; often accompanied my walks with dramatic dialogues, in which I played many parts; and often exercised myself in writing down conversations from memory.
This was all excellent, no doubt; so were the diaries I sometimes tried to keep, but always and very speedily discarded, finding them a school of posturing and melancholy self-deception. And yet this was not the most efficient part of my training. Good though it was, it only taught me (so far as I have learned them at all) the lower and less intellectual elements of the art, the choice of the essential note and the right word: things that to a happier constitution had perhaps come by nature. And regarded as training, it had one grave defect; for it set me no standard of achievement.
Why, many of us would be more than happy with the lower and less intellectual elements of the art, if we had any. So what did the young Stevenson do to try to get further?:
There was perhaps more profit, as there was certainly more effort, in my secret labours at home. Whenever I read a book or a passage that particularly pleased me, in which a thing was said or an effect rendered with propriety, in which there was either some conspicuous force or some happy distinction in the style, I must sit down at once and set myself to ape that quality. I was unsuccessful, and I knew it; and tried again, and was again unsuccessful and always unsuccessful; but at least in these vain bouts, I got some practice in rhythm, in harmony, in construction and the co-ordination of parts. I have thus played the sedulous ape to Hazlitt, to Lamb, to Wordsworth, to Sir Thomas Browne, to Defoe, to Hawthorne, to Montaigne, to Baudelaire and to Obermann.
Because that,
like it or not, is the way to learn to write; whether I have profited or not, that is the way. It was so Keats learned, and there was never a finer temperament for literature than Keats's; it was so, if we could trace it out, that all men have learned; and that is why a revival of letters is always accompanied or heralded by a cast back to earlier and fresher models. Perhaps I hear someone cry out: But this is not the way to be original! It is not; nor is there any way but to be born so. Nor yet, if you are born original, is there anything in this training that shall clip the wings of your originality.
Furthermore,
It is only from a school that we can expect to have good writers; it is almost invariably from a school that great writers, these lawless exceptions, issue. Nor is there anything here that should astonish the considerate. Before he can tell what cadences he truly prefers, the student should have tried all that are possible; before he can choose and preserve a fitting key of words, he should long have practised the literary scales; and it is only after years of such gymnastic that he can sit down at last, legions of words swarming to his call, dozens of turns of phrase simultaneously bidding for his choice, and he himself knowing what he wants to do and (within the narrow limit of a man's ability) able to do it.
Don't worry though, because in the end
It is the great point of these imitations that there still shines beyond the student's reach his inimitable model. Let him try as he please, he is still sure of failure; and it is a very old and a very true saying that failure is the only highroad to success. I must have had some disposition to learn; for I clear-sightedly condemned my own performances. I liked doing them indeed; but when they were done, I could see they were rubbish. In consequence, I very rarely showed them even to my friends; and such friends as I chose to be my confidants I must have chosen well, for they had the friendliness to be quite plain with me. "Padding," said one. Another wrote: "I cannot understand why you do lyrics so badly." No more could I! Thrice I put myself in the way of a more authoritative rebuff, by sending a paper to a magazine. These were returned; and I was not surprised nor even pained. If they had not been looked at, as (like all amateurs) I suspected was the case, there was no good in repeating the experiment; if they had been looked at—well, then I had not yet learned to write, and I must keep on learning and living.