lunes, junio 15, 2015

On boredom

(Joseph Brodsky, On Grief and Reason – Essays, pp. 104-113)

Joseph Brodsky

But should you fail to keep your kingdom
And, like your father before you come
Where thought accuses and feeling mocks,
Believe your pain…

(W. H. Auden, “Alonso to Ferdinand”)


A substantial part of what lies ahead of you is going to be claimed by boredom. The reason I’d like to talk to you about it today, on this lofty occasion, is that I believe no liberal arts college prepares you for that eventuality; Darthmouth is no exception. Neither humanities nor science offers courses in boredom. At best, they may acquaint you with the sensation by incurring it. But what is a casual contact to an incurable malaise? The worst monotonous drone coming from a lectern or the eye-splitting textbook in turgid English is nothing in comparison to the psychological Sahara that starts right in your bedroom and spurns the horizon.

Known under several aliases – anguish, ennui, tedium, doldrums, humdrum, the blahs, apathy, listlessness, stolidity, lethargy, languor, accidie, etc – boredom is a complex phenomenon and by large a product of repetition. It would seem, then, that the best remedy against ot would be constant inventiveness and originality. That is what you, young and newflanged, would hope for. Alas, life won’t supply you with that option, for life’s main medium is precisely repetition.

One may argue, of course, that repeated attempts at originality and inventiveness are the vehicle of progress and – in the same breath – civilization. As benefits of hindsight go, however, this one is not the most valuable. For should we divide history of our species by scientific discoveries, not to mention ethical concepts, the result will not be in our favor. We’ll get, technically speaking, centuries of boredom. The very notion of originality or innovation spells out of the monotony of standard reality, of life, whose main medium – nay, idiom – is tedium.

In that, it – life – differs from art, whose worst enemy, as you probably know, is cliché. Small wonder, then, that art, too, fails to instruct you as to how to handle boredom. There are few novels about this subject; paintings are still fewer; and as for music, it is largely nonsemantic. On the whole, art treats boredom in a self-defensive, satirical fashion. The only way art can become for you a solace from boredom, from the existential equivalent of cliché, is if you yourselves become artists. Given your number, though, this prospect is as unappetizing as it is unlikely.

But even should you march out of this commencement in full force to typewriters, easels, and Steinway grands, you won’t shield yourselves from boredom entirely. If repetitiveness is boredom’s mother, you, young and newfangled, will be quickly smothered by lack of recognition and low pay, both chronic in the world of art. In these respects, writing, painting, composing music are plain inferior to working for a law firm, a bank, or even a lab.

Herein, of course, lies art’s saving grace. Not being lucrative, it falls victim to demography rather reluctantly. For if, as we’ve said, repetition is boredom’s mother, demography (which is to play in your lives a far greater role than any discipline you’ve mastered here) is its other parent. This may sound misanthropic to you, but I am more than twice your age, and I have lived to see the population of our globe double. By the time you’re my age, it will have quadrupled, and not exactly in the fashion you expect. For instance, by the year 2000 there is going to be such cultural and ethnic rearrengement as to challenge your notion of your own humanity.

That alone will reduce the prospects of originality and inventiveness as antidotes to boredom. But even in a more monochromatic world, the other trouble with originality and inventiveness is precisely that they literally pay off. Provided that you are capable of either, you will become well off rather fast. Desirable as that may be, most of you know firsthand that nobody is as bored as the rich, for money buys time, and time is repetitive. Assuming that you are not heading for poverty – for otherwise you wouldn’t have entered college – one expects you to be hit by boredom as soon as the first tools of self-gratification become available to you.

Thanks to modern technology, those tools are as numerous as boredom’s synonyms. In light of their function – to render you oblivious to the redundancy of time – their abundance is revealing. Equally revealing is the function your purchasing power, toward whose increase you’ll walk out of this commencement ground through the click and whirr of some of those instruments tightly held by your parents and relatives. It is a prophetic scene, ladies and gentlemen of the class of 1989, for you are entering the world where recording and event dwarfs the event itself – the world of video, stereo, remote control, jogging suit, and exercise machine to keep you fit for reliving your own or someone else’s past: canned ecstasy claming raw flesh.

Everything that displays a pattern is pregnant with boredom. That apllies to money in more ways than one, both to the banknotes as such and to possessing them. That is not to bill poverty, of course, as an escape from boredom – although St. Francis, it would seem, has managed exactly that. Yet for all the deprivation surrounding us, the idea of new monastic orders doesn’t appear particularly catchy in this era of video-Christianity. Besides, young and newfangled, you are more eager to do good in some South Africa or other than next door, keener on giving up your favorite brand of soda than on venturing to the wrong side of the tracks. So nobody advises poverty for you. All one can suggest is to be a bit more apprehensive of money, for the zeros in your accounts may usher in their mental equivalents.

As for poverty, boredom is the most brutal part of its misery, and the departure from it takes more radical forms: of violent rebellion or drug addiction. Both are temporary, for the misery of poverty is infinite; both, because of that infinity, are costly. In general, a man shooting heroin into his vein does so largely for the same reason you buy a video: to dodge the redundancy of time. The difference, though, is that he spends more than he’s got, and that his means of escape become as redundant as what he is escaping from faster than yours. On the whole, the difference in tactility between a syringe’s needle and a stereo’s push buttom roughly corresponds to that between the acuteness and dullness of time’s impact upon the have-nots and the haves. In short, whether rich or poor, sooner or later you will be afflicted by this redundancy of time.Potential haves, you’ll be bored with your work, your friends, your spouses, your lovers, the view from your window, the furniture or wallpaper in your room, your thoughts, yourselves. Accordingly, you’ll try to devise ways of escape. Apart from the self-gratifying gadgets mentioned before, you may take up changing jobs, residence, company, country, climate; you may take up  prosmicuity, alcohol, travel, cooking lessons, drugs, psychoanalysis.

In fact, you may lump  all these together; and for a while that may work. Until the day, of course, when you wake up in your bedroom amid a new family and a different wallpaper, in a different state and climate, with a heap of bills from your travel agent and your shrink, yet with the same stale  feeling toward the light of day pouring through your window. You’ll put on your loafers  only to discover they’re lacking bootstraps  to lift yourself out of what you recognize. Depending on your temperament or the age you are at, you will either panic or resign yourself to the familiarity of the sensation; or else you’ll go through the rigmarole  of change once more.

Neurosis and depression will enter your lexicon ; pills, your medical cabinet . Basically, there is nothing wrong about turning life into the constant quest for alternatives, into leap-frogging  jobs, spouses, sorroundings, etc., provided you can afford the alimony  and jumbled  memories. This predicament, after all, has been sufficiently glamorized on screen and in Romantic poetry. The rub, however, is that before long  this quest turns into a full-time occupation, with your need for an alternative coming to match a drug addict’s daily fix.

There is yet another way out of it, however. Not a better one, perhaps, from your point of view, and not necessarily secure, but straight and inexpensive. Those of you who have read Robert Frost’s “Servant to Servants” may remember a line of hos: “The best way out is always through.” So what I am about to suggest is a variation on the theme.

When hit by boredom, go for it. Let yourself be crushed by it; submerge, hit bottom. In general, with things unpleasant, the rule is, the sooner you hit bottom, the faster you surface. The idea here, to paraphrase another great poet of the English language, is to exact full look at the worst. The reason boredom deserves such scrutiny is that it represents pure, undiluted time in all its repetitive, redundant, monotonous splendor.

In a manner of speaking, boredom is your window on time, on those properties of it one tends to ignore to the likely peril of one’s mental equilibrium. In short, it is your window on time’s infinity, which is to say, on your insignificance in it. That’s what accounts, perhaps, for one’s dread of lonely, torpid evenings, for the fascination with which one watches sometimes a fleck  of dust aswirl  in a sunbeam, and somewhere a clock tick-tocks, the day is hot, and your willpower is at zero.

Once this window opens, don’t try to shut it; on the contrary, throw it wide open. For boredom speakes the language of time, and it is to teach you the most valuable lesson in your life – the one you didn’t get here, on these green lawns – the lesson of your utter insignificance. It is valuable to you, as well as to those you are to rub shoulders with. “You are finite”, time tells you in a voice of boredom, “and whatever you do is, from my point of view, futile.” As music to your ears, this, of course, may not count; yet the sense of futility, of limited significance even of your best, most ardent actions is better than the illusion of their consequences and the attendant  self-aggrandizement .

For boredom is an invasion of time into your set of values. It puts your existance into its perspective, the net result of which is precision and humility. The former, it must be noted, breeds the latter. The more you learn about your own size, the more humble and the more compassionate you become to your likes , to that dust aswirl in a sunbean or already immobile atop your table. Ah, how much life went into those fleck! Not from your point of view but from theirs. You are to them what time is to you; that’s why they look so small. And do you know what the dust says when it’s being wiped off the table?

“Remember me”,  whispers the dust.

Nothing could be farther away from the mental agenda of any of you, young and newfangled, than the sentiment expressed in this two-liner of the German poet Peter Huchel, now dead.

I’ve quoted it not because I’d like to instill in you affinity for things small – seeds and plants, grains of sand or mosquitoes – small but numerous. I’ve quoted these lines because I like them, because I recognize in them myself, and, for that matter, any living organism to be wiped off from the available surface. “Remember me”, whispers the dust”. And one hears in this that if we learn about ourselves from time, perhaps time, in turn, may learn something from us. What would that be? That inferior in significance, we best it in sensitivity.

This is what it means – to be insignificant. If it takes will-paralyzing boredom to bring this home, then hail the boredom. You are insignificant because you are finite. Yet the more finite a thing is, the more it is charged with life, emotions, joy, fears, compassion. For infinity is not terribly lively, not terribly emotional. Your boredom, at least, tells you that much. Because your boredom is the boredom of infinity.

Respect it, then, for its origins – as much perhaps as for your own. Because it is the anticipation of that inanimate infinity that accounts for the intensity of human sentiments, often resulting in a conception of a new life. This is not to say that you have been conceived out of boredom, or that the finite breeds the finite (though both may ring true ). It is to suggest, rather, that passion is the privilege of the insignificant.

So try to stay passionate, leave your cool to constellations. Passion, above all, is a remedy against boredom. Another one, of course, is pain – physical more than psychological, passion’s frequent aftermath ; although I wish you neither. Still, when you hurt you know that at least you haven’t been deceived (by your body or by your psyche). By the same token , what’s good about boredom, about anguish and the sense of the meaninglessness of your own, of everything else’s existence, is that it is not a deception.

You also might try detective novels or action movies – something that leaves you where you haven’t been verbally/visually/mentally before – something sustained, if only for a couple of hours. Avoid TV, especially flipping the channels: that’s redundancy incarnate. Yet should those remedies fail, let it on, “fling your soul upon the growing gloom .” Try to embrace, or let yourself be embraced by, boredom and anguish, which anyhow are larger than you. No doubt you’ll find that bosom  smothering , yet try to endure it as long as you can, and then some more. Above all, don’t think you’ve goofed somewhere along the line, don’t try to retrace your steps to correct the error. No, as the poet said, “Believe your pain”. This awful bearhug is no mistake. Nothing that disturbs you is. Remember all along that there is no embrace in this world that won’t finally unclasp.

If you find all this gloomy , you don’t know what gloom is. If you find this irrelevant, I hope time will prove you right. Should you find this inappropriate for such a lofty occasion, I will disagree.

I would agree with you had this occasion been celebrating your staying here; but it marks your departure. By tomorrow you’ll be out of here, since your parents paid only for four yearsm not a day longer. So you must go elsewhere, to make your careers, money, families, to meet your unique fates. And as for that elsewhere, neither among stars and in the tropics nor across the border in Vermont is there much awareness of this ceremony on the Dartmouth Green. One wouldn’t even bet that the sound of your band reaches White River Junction .

You are exiting this place, members of the class of 1989. You are entering the world, which is going to be far more thickly settled than this neck of the woods and where you’ll be paid far less attention than you have been used to for the last four years. You are on your own in a big way. Speaking of your significance, you can quickly estimate it by pitting your 1,100 against the world’s 4.9 billion. Prudence, then, is as appropriate on this occasion as is fanfare.

I wish you nothing but happiness. Still, there is going to be plenty of dark and, what’s worse, dull hours, caused as much by the world ourside as by your own minds. You ought to be fortified against that is some fashion; and that’s what I’ve tried to do here in my feeble way, although that’s obviously not enough.

For what lies ahead is a remarkable but wearisome  journey; you are boarding today, as it were, a runaway train. No one can tell you what lies ahead, least of all those who remain behind. One thing, however, they can assure you of is that it’s not a round trip. Try, therefore, to derive some comfort from the notion that no matter how unpalatable  this or that station may turn out ot be, the train doesn’t stop there for good. Therefore, you are never stuck – not even when you feel you are; for this place today becomes your past. From now on, it will only be receding  for you, for that train is in constant motion. It will be receding for you even when you feel that you are stuck… So take one last look at it, while it is still its normal size, while it is not yet a photograph. Look at it with all the tenderness you can muster , for you are looking at your past. Exact, as it were , the full look at the best.  For I doubt you’ll have it better than here.

Copyright ©1995 by Joseph Brodsky – All rights reserved. Published in 1995 by Farrar, Strauss and Giroux. First paperback edition, 1997.

sábado, septiembre 27, 2014

Comiat del Max

Li vam posar Max per MacGyver, el de la sèrie dels vuitanta. Al primer trimestre, la cosa estava ben fotuda per a que sobrevisqués. Ens van arribar a dir al principi de tot que l’havíem perdut. Com va sobreviure tot i seguint havent-hi risc, la por que ens havia acompanyat els primers mesos ens va fer sortir l’humor i vam recordar l’acudit (macabra en aquest context) de : “Si sale de ésta se llamará  MacGyver”.  El vam escurçar a Max. Ja no li podíem d’altra manera. Ja no li volíem dir d’una altra manera.

Al principi de tot, ho vam passar malament. Tanmateix, no volíem amagar-nos de l’alegria de tenir un fill i dèiem que estàvem embarassats. Crèiem i creiem que tot i que hi havia risc de perdre’l, s’havia de compartir aquella alegria encara que fos tenyida d’incertesa i de por. Mesos més tard, no ens penedim. Seguim creient en un món on la gent expressa els seus sentiments i celebra els esdeveniments alegres i tristos i els comparteix amb la gent que s’estimen.

Quan al final del primer trimestre ens van confirmar que tot anava bé, l’optimisme es va apoderar de nosaltres. El síndrome niu ens va fer canviar de domicili i buscar crear un ambient adient per criar a en Max. El futur era de llum. Les nostres biografies tenien sentit i aquest era tenir-lo a ell. Tot encaixava.

I saltem a dissabte passat on ens diuen que el cor del Max s’ha parat als gairebé vuit mesos de gestació i que l’hem de parir igualment. Passem els tres pitjors dies de les nostres vides. I en aquests tres dies, el Max encara ens regala quelcom. Ens regala veure de primera mà com ens estimen els que ens estimen i com d’importants són per nosaltres.

Aquests dies de dolor quan havíem de decidir que fèiem, l’únic que desitjàvem era tancar-nos a casa i no sortir-ne. Però hi ha alguna cosa de dins que ens feia voler compartir-ho. De la mateixa manera, que vam celebrar l’alegria de l’embaràs, volíem compartir la nostra pena.

Com veieu, el Max ens ha regalat moltes lliçons:
que la determinació i l’humor ens fan sobreviure situacions difícils.
que expressar el que sents; tant agradable com desagradable és el camí per una vida ben viscuda
que hem de tenir una mirada amorosa sobre el que hem estat, som i serem.
i que tenim unes famílies i amics que no ens els mereixem.

Us volem agrair la vostra presència aquí i les paraules de suport que ens heu fet arribar aquests dies. Ens han ajudat molt a plorar-lo.

En especial, a la família, que heu estat al nostre costat en els pitjors moments. Us estimem molt.

Ara ens toca deixar-lo marxar i acomiadar-nos dient-li:
Gràcies, Max, pel temps que hem compartit.
Sempre formaràs part de nosaltres.

MORIR (de Joan Teixidor)

I morir pot ser bell,
quan tot es trenca i una veu et crida
cap a un destí més alt.
Llavors la sang com l’aigua
damunt la terra cau,
la saba creix fins a la flor i el fruit
en els teus camps pairals.
Però simplement, sense cap gest
estrany, com si tot fos senzill
i pur en el camí dels dies.
Així s’aixeca el sol o ve la nit
i estimem.

DESPRÉS (Martí I Pol)

No serà falaguer, l'estiu, i la tardor
-saps prou com l'estimàvem-
serà potser en excés melangiosa.
Quan s'escurcin els dies te'm faràs més
perquè el silenci fa més densos
els records, i més íntim el temps
que ens és donat per viure'ls.
A ulls clucs et veuré: tot serà tu
per la cambra, pels llibres, en la fosca.
Després passaran anys i esdevindràs
i a través teu estimaré el futur
potser sense pensar-te ni sentir-te.
Arribaràs a ser una part tan íntima
de mi mateix, que al capdavall la mort
se t'endurà de nou quan se m'endugui.

Gemma i Oscar
Barcelona 27 de Setembre de 2014

jueves, febrero 27, 2014



Soy vecino de este mundo por un rato
y hoy coincide que también tú estas aquí
coincidencias tan extrañas de la vida
tantos siglos, tantos mundos, tanto espacio? y coincidir
Si navego con la mente en los espacios
o si quiero a mis ancestros retornar
agobiado me detengo y no imagino
tantos siglos, tantos mundos, tanto espacio? y coincidir
Si en la noche me entretengo en las estrellas
y capturo la que empieza a florecer
la sostengo entre las manos más me alarma
tantos siglos, tantos mundos, tanto espacio? y coincidir
Si la vida se sostiene por instantes
y un instante es el momentos de existir
si tu vida es otro instante.. no comprendo
tantos siglos, tantos mundos, tanto espacio? y coincidir

Silvio Rodríguez

Per la Gemma.

miércoles, septiembre 01, 2010

Benjamin Franklin, Advice to a Young Man on the Choice of a Mistress (1745).

June 25, 1745

My dear Friend,

I know of no Medicine fit to diminish the violent natural Inclinations you mention; and if I did, I think I should not communicate it to you. Marriage is the proper Remedy. It is the most natural State of Man, and therefore the State in which you are most likely to find solid Happiness. Your Reasons against entering into it at present, appear to me not well-founded. The circumstantial Advantages you have in View by postponing it, are not only uncertain, but they are small in comparison with that of the Thing itself, the being married and settled. It is the Man and Woman united that make the compleat human Being. Separate, she wants his Force of Body and Strength of Reason; he, her Softness, Sensibility and acute Discernment. Together they are more likely to succeed in the World. A single Man has not nearly the Value he would have in that State of Union. He is an incomplete Animal. He resembles the odd Half of a Pair of Scissars. If you get a prudent healthy Wife, your Industry in your Profession, with her good Economy, will be a Fortune sufficient.

But if you will not take this Counsel, and persist in thinking a Commerce with the Sex inevitable, then I repeat my former Advice, that in all your Amours you should prefer old Women to young ones. You call this a Paradox, and demand my Reasons. They are these:

i. Because as they have more Knowledge of the World and their Minds are better stor'd with Observations, their Conversation is more improving and more lastingly agreable.

2. Because when Women cease to be handsome, they study to be good. To maintain their Influence over Men, they supply the Diminution of Beauty by an Augmentation of Utility. They learn to do a 1000 Services small and great, and are the most tender and useful of all Friends when you are sick. Thus they continue amiable. And hence there is hardly such a thing to be found as an old Woman who is not a good Woman.

3. Because there is no hazard of Children, which irregularly produc'd may be attended with much Inconvenience.

4. Because thro' more Experience, they are more prudent and discreet in conducting an Intrigue to prevent Suspicion. The Commerce with them is therefore safer with regard to your Reputation. And with regard to theirs, if the Affair should happen to be known, considerate People might be rather inclin'd to excuse an old Woman who would kindly take care of a young Man, form his Manners by her good Counsels, and prevent his ruining his Health and Fortune among mercenary Prostitutes.

5. Because in every Animal that walks upright, the Deficiency of the Fluids that fill the Muscles appears first in the highest Part: The Face first grows lank and wrinkled; then the Neck; then the Breast and Arms; the lower Parts continuing to the last as plump as ever: So that covering all above with a Basket, and regarding2 only what is below the Girdle, it is impossible of two Women to know an old from a young one. And as in the dark all Cats are grey, the Pleasure of corporal Enjoyment with an old Woman is at least equal, and frequently superior, every Knack being by Practice capable of Improvement.

6. Because the Sin is less. The debauching a Virgin may be her Ruin, and make her for Life unhappy.

7. Because the Compunction is less. The having made a young Girl miserable may give you frequent bitter Reflections; none of which can attend the making an old Woman happy.

8thly and Lastly They are so grateful!!

Thus much for my Paradox. But still I advise you to marry directly; being sincerely Your affectionate Friend.


miércoles, agosto 04, 2010


IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

Rudyard Kipling

Via kipling

viernes, marzo 12, 2010

“Hemos hecho juntos todos los pasos de baile que se puedan imaginar: pasión, ternura, amor, chifladura, traición, ira, comicidad, hastío, enamoramiento, mentiras, alegría, descargas de tormenta, claros de luna, muebles, utensilios domésticos, celos, camas anchas, camas estrechas, adulterios, violación de fronteras, buena fe –y aquí siguen más– lágrimas, erotismo, sólo erotismo, catástrofes, triunfos, disgustos, improperios, riñas, angustia, deseo, óvulos, espermatozoides, menstruaciones, fugas, bragas –y todavía hay más, mejor llegar hasta el final ahora que estamos lanzados– impotencia, libertinaje, horror, proximidad de la muerte, la muerte, noches negras, noches desveladas, noches blancas, música, desayunos, Bach, pechos, labios, imágenes, vuélvete hacia la cámara, piel, perro, los rituales, trampas, trajes bonitos, joyas, ciudades, seducción, pelos en el peine, cartas largas, explicaciones, todas las risas, envejecimiento, los achaques, las gafas, las manos, las manos, las manos –ya termina la letanía– las sombras, la suavidad, yo te ayudo, la línea de la playa, el mar –ahora, silencio.”

Ingmar Bergman, Linterna Mágica (Memorias)

Gràcies N.

jueves, marzo 11, 2010

"What, if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: "This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything unutterably small or great in your life will have to return to you, all in the same succession and sequence - even this spider and this moonlight between the trees, and even this moment and I myself. The eternal hourglass of existence is turned upside down again and again, and you with it, speck of dust!" Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus?... Or how well disposed would you have to become to yourself and to life to crave nothing more fervently than this ultimate eternal confirmation and seal?"

Thus Spoke Zarathustra , Friedrich Nietzsche (1885)

miércoles, junio 17, 2009

"Ah! si je l'avais rencontrée plus tôt, Molly, quand il était encore temps de prendre une route ou une autre! Mais il était trop tard pour me refaire une jeunesse. J'y croyais plus! On devient rapidement vieux et de façon irrémédiable encore. On s'en aperçoit à la manière qu'on a prise d'aimer son malheur malgré soi. C'est la nature qui est plus forte que vous voilà tout. Elle nous essaye dans un genre et on ne peut plus en sortir de ce genre-là. Moi j'étais parti dans une direction d'inquiétude. On prend doucement son rôle et son destin au sérieux sans s'en rendre bien compte et puis quand on se retourne il est bien trop tard pour en changer. On est devenu tout inquiet et c'est entendu comme ça pour toujours.
Le train est entré en gare. Je n'étais plus très sûr de mon aventure quand j'ai vu la machine. Je l'ai embrassée Molly avec tout ce que j'avais encore de courage dans la carcasse. J'avais de la peine, de la vraie, pour une fois, pour tout le monde, pour moi, pour elle, pour tous les hommes.
C'est peut-être ça qu'on cherche à travers la vie, rien que cela, le plus gran chagrin possible pour devenir soi-même avant de mourir."

(Voyage au bout de la nuit. Céline)

miércoles, mayo 27, 2009

Hoy sí
del libro Premoniciones
Hoy campeamos sencillo
como quien come un mendrugo
sin saber que en realidad
se está comiendo el mundo
a bocados, a codazos, a patadas,
a escupitajos, si hace falta,
a dentellada limpia.

Ya no se oyen los:
"Hoy se hizo historia",
"ganó el deporte",
"el futbol es así", o
"unas veces se gana,
otras se pierde",
seguramente por pudor,
porque hoy en realidad sí
se hizo historia.

Mauricio Chutnick
Rosario, Argentina

Ya no

Estar atentos a lo desconocido, a lo imprevisto,
cuando golpee a la puerta (F. Nietzsche)

Ya no pregunto a qué hora
Hilos de agua los días
no necesito armar un montaje
sobre un croquis difuso
para ejercer el acecho.
Ya no tomo la delantera:
con menos delirio
asimilo cada otoño.
Lo más cercano es esa lejanía
robada al ocaso.
punto por punto dibujo
la curva descendente.
No me busco en el índice
ni en el prólogo.
Ya no pregunto casi nada.
Vivo apenas.

Elsa Fenoglio
Haedo, Argentina