Ayer, precisamente, en la mañana leía una entrevista de Carlos Fuentes en el diario español El País. Hablaba sobre su producción literaria y sobre cómo escribir mucho lo mantenía joven, sino “se lo lleva a uno la chingada” –y se lo llevó ayer, unos días después. Escritor cosmopolita, sin la gracia y la osadía intelectual de Paz, que miraba América Latina con ojos mexicanos y bifocales de la academia norteamericana; aun así, Fuentes fue uno de los más lúcidos y competentes intelectuales públicos del mundo latinoamericano, tenía una mesura envidiable. Debió haber sido un profesor excelente y lamentaré no leer más sus artículos de prensa.
Tengo deudas literarias con él –nunca fui un lector disciplinado de su obra ni novelística ni de ensayos. Últimamente, mis deudas mexicanas me agobian.
miércoles, 16 de mayo de 2012
lunes, 14 de mayo de 2012
Diario, May 14, 2012
De-función –negación, según RAE, de la capacidad de actuar propia de los seres vivos y de sus órganos.
Pintura con la sangre de Amy Winehouse y de Pete Doherty: juntos en la vida (pero no en la muerte), en la droga y el alcohol; el arte junta lo que separa la biología.
Pintura con la sangre de Amy Winehouse y de Pete Doherty: juntos en la vida (pero no en la muerte), en la droga y el alcohol; el arte junta lo que separa la biología.
viernes, 11 de mayo de 2012
Diario, May 11, 2012
Dejé de leer a Roth y me puse a mirar Full Metal Jacket de Kubrick.
Ayer, a causa de una conversación, volví a leer algunos textos de Borges que aparecen recogidos en Elogio de la sombra: el amor de los libros, la paciencia ante la vejez.
Leer a Pound:
A Virginal
No, no! Go from me. I have left her lately.
I will not spoil my sheath with lesser brightness,
For my surrounding air hath a new lightness;
Slight are her arms, yet they have bound me straitly
And left me cloaked as with a gauze of æther;
As with sweet leaves; as with subtle clearness.
Oh, I have picked up magic in her nearness
To sheathe me half in half the things that sheathe her.
No, no! Go from me. I have still the flavour,
Soft as spring wind that's come from birchen bowers.
Green come the shoots, aye April in the branches,
As winter's wound with her sleight hand she staunches,
Hath of the trees a likeness of the savour:
As white as their bark, so white this lady's hours.
viernes, 4 de mayo de 2012
Diario, May 4 2012
No es que me sienta solo -es que estoy solo. Tan solo que estoy escribiendo esto.
Diario, May 3, 2012
I was about to write an email and I could not do it.
On the Heights of Despair – Cioran dixit: “Tears do not burn except in solitude.”
Why do I mix Cioran’s and Roth’s readings? Perhaps their books were placed next to each on my night table. I could have chosen the Bible. The Bible never leaves my night table. Cioran is almost never there. I found Cioran a little bit repetitive. And Roth’s narrative is aligned with that sort of unbearable lightness that makes literature a propitious scenario for eroticism.
On the Heights of Despair – Cioran dixit: “Tears do not burn except in solitude.”
Why do I mix Cioran’s and Roth’s readings? Perhaps their books were placed next to each on my night table. I could have chosen the Bible. The Bible never leaves my night table. Cioran is almost never there. I found Cioran a little bit repetitive. And Roth’s narrative is aligned with that sort of unbearable lightness that makes literature a propitious scenario for eroticism.
jueves, 3 de mayo de 2012
Diario, May 2, 2012
Nothing. Nothing happens. I was just listening “The Grateful Dead” and this fortifying song, Touch of Grey with its chorus: I will get by, I will get by, I will get by, I will survive.
Oblivion. That’s what it seems I deserve. Mis palabras hasta el cansacio. Como un grito en el desierto: el amor que no es amado.
Oblivion. That’s what it seems I deserve. Mis palabras hasta el cansacio. Como un grito en el desierto: el amor que no es amado.
martes, 1 de mayo de 2012
Diario,, May 1, 2012
Un día estaba sentado en una barbería cubana de Miami. Entro un hombre ya viejo, flaco, macilento y un barbero le preguntó qué tal? cómo estás? El viejo, flaco y macilento respondió Ahí, entero como el picadillo.
Another on The Human Stain
Seventy-one years old Coleman Silk on his thirty-four lover:
“It’s the wisdom of somebody who expects nothing. That’s her wisdom, and that’s her dignity, but it’s negative wisdom, and that’s not the kind that keeps you on course day to day. This is a woman whose life’s been trying to grind her down almost for as long as she’s had life. Whatever she’s learned comes from that.” (The underline is mine: it is being dedicated to a devoted soul.)
It could not be the best written or the most representative, or the deepest piece of American literature displaying what I like to call the secular spirituality of the American people. It is simply the hardest and the most common way to learn from life through suffering and disenchantment how to live hopeless. While reading this passage, I was thinking on what it is said that this the most religious country, but I think it is the most faithless one. Religion as opium? Anyways, Coleman Silk’s lover has been beaten almost to death by life events and circumstances; but a driving force keeps her alive, sex. She makes love as the only possibility to redeem from the mishaps of life, but what really makes this lover the perfect one is the veil of vital pessimism that covers her body and makes her give and feel all pleasures with no restrictions.
Another on The Human Stain
Seventy-one years old Coleman Silk on his thirty-four lover:
“It’s the wisdom of somebody who expects nothing. That’s her wisdom, and that’s her dignity, but it’s negative wisdom, and that’s not the kind that keeps you on course day to day. This is a woman whose life’s been trying to grind her down almost for as long as she’s had life. Whatever she’s learned comes from that.” (The underline is mine: it is being dedicated to a devoted soul.)
It could not be the best written or the most representative, or the deepest piece of American literature displaying what I like to call the secular spirituality of the American people. It is simply the hardest and the most common way to learn from life through suffering and disenchantment how to live hopeless. While reading this passage, I was thinking on what it is said that this the most religious country, but I think it is the most faithless one. Religion as opium? Anyways, Coleman Silk’s lover has been beaten almost to death by life events and circumstances; but a driving force keeps her alive, sex. She makes love as the only possibility to redeem from the mishaps of life, but what really makes this lover the perfect one is the veil of vital pessimism that covers her body and makes her give and feel all pleasures with no restrictions.
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