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Showing posts from November, 2014
Gombrowicz’s Diary third entry on Piñera: Supper in Crillon with Rodriguez Feo. Virgilio and Humberto were also there. Rodriguez Feo is the editor of the pretty good literary monthly El Ciclón (sic) in Havana. He came to visit. All are Cuban. A strange species! They are intelligent and well-informed, but they are not made of clay but water. Moving, gleaming, vanishing fluidity. There were reasons in Gombrowicz’s personality to be rejected; however, those very same reason are what make his literary personality so attractive. That sense of superiority had to be upset Virgilio and shed some light on Piñera’s complaint jotted down by Gombrowicz in his first entry on Piñera. But, still, there are some reflections that can be drawn out of this entry. To a person that had been in Argentina for quite a few years to find Cubans strange, intelligent, and well-informed is a compliment at very least. Another reflection that is worthy to be made. In his characterization of the Cubans he used two e…
The Gombrowicz’s Diary arrived in today. A voluminous book of 783 numbered pages with a preface by his wife. Critics and reviews affirm that it is Gombrowicz's most elaborated and completed of his works. I looked at the book and thought I have no patience to go reading page by page, so I have decided to read it here and there, in a random way.
I went through the Gombrowicz’s Diary index and looked up Piñera’s entries since I knew that the Cuban writer was the translator of Gombrowicz's novel, Ferdydurke, first published in 1938 in his natal Poland, during his years in Argentina. I found five entries.
The first entry regarding Piñera was written a Wednesday and Gombrowicz seems to write verbatim an argument Piñera made complaining on the scorn and arrogance of the European writers when it comes to consider even the possibility of an American literature. Gombrowicz wrote commenting on Piñera' complaint, “even the best minds here fall victims to attacks of American…
Me apasiona reescribir sobre la escritura de otros –un sano ejercicio de plagiarismo. Sobre todo lo hago cuando la escritura es biográfica y tiene cierto paralelismo con mi vida. Experimento un cierto deja vu literario. Aquí un ejemplo reciente de sano plagiarismo:
Escribe Lyotard en Peregrinaciones: “Quería o hacerme monje (especialmente dominico) o ser pintor o ser historiador… [Pronto] me vi obligado a mantener una familia. Resulta evidente que ya era demasiado tarde para hacer los votos monacales. En cuanto a mi carrera artística, era un deseo sin esperanza debido a una desafortunada falta de talento, mientras que una evidente debilidad de memoria desalentaba definitivamente mi inclinación hacia la historia. Así, me convertí en catedrático de filosofía en un liceo de Constantine, la capital del departamento francés de Argelia Oriental. (Con el fin de evitarle problemas, debería mencionar que yo no nací en Argelia) Fuia Constantine en 1950. ¿Marcó esto el fin de algo o el …

People’s own fantasies: Yesterday, I was visiting some friends. My son was playing with their son, or at least, they were next to each other -which doesn't mean they were playing together. Anyway, when I came in to their house, they were having dinner. The husband had had a bleeding intestine crisis and he was terrified with the possibility of cancer. The conversation was running smoothly, full of the nonsense and small talk. I was telling him things  such as, “see, that was nothing serious”, “you’ll see that it’s going to pass with no serious consequences”, and so forth. My friend's wife is a fierce vegetarian and a defender of the healthy eating habits; a beautiful feminist. On the dinner table, there was soup and pasta, very simple, very plain. I don’t really care about their domestic life in any way. I just go there to take my son to play with their son while we have some trivial conversation on sports and things like that, and that night because of the health issue …