En Vene-ecia, Vene-ecia

lunes, 30 de junio de 2014

En Vene, ecia. Vene, ecia.

No sé si avisé mucho, no es que haya que avisar a nadie tampoco, que no tengo lectores.... pero esto del blog ha ido a trompicones porque he estado el fin de mes en Venecia. Más exactamente en una isla de la laguna veneciana, el antiguo manicomio de San Servolo, donde tenía lugar el congreso sobre Hemingway.  Allí fuimos con la Dra. Penas, cruzando el pirineo y pasando por París, ruta no sé si razonable pero así salió. Las fotos aparecerán aquí en un futuro, que he hecho miles.... pero llevo miles de fotos de retraso, tantas como hojitas en esta imagen. Así que con calma.





También he visitado medio Véneto, desde Fossalta di Piave a las ruinas de la mansión de Iliana Ivancich, donde nos dieron una degustación de su vino local a mi manera. Y hemos cruzado San Marco inundada, andando como Cristo sobre las aguas, y hemos comprado máscaras venecianas, de Arlequín y de Médico de la Peste. 

Ayer tocó la vuelta, saliendo en vaporetto de San Servolo, y pasando por el aeropuerto Marco Polo a pie de góndola. Y luego también hemos estado entre las nubes y turbulencias, fuera de nuestro lugar natural. Y en aeropuertos franceses como cárceri de Piranesi; demasiados aviones hemos cogido, eso sí, con el firme propósito de no volver a cogerlos y no pasearnos más entre las nubes. 

Y también hemos echado una siesta en Arudy, hemos pasado por Louvie-Juzon en una tarde de ensueño, con el valle de Ossau vacío para nosotros, hemos visto parte del mundial en Laruns, de domingo por la tarde... y hemos visto el balneario abandonado de Les Eaux-Chaudes, y la frontera con una luz espectacular. Después de cenar en Biescas con mamá y recoger a los niños, culminamos el viaje con éxito en la clínica, de urgencias, y buscando farmacia por la calle Arzobispo Morcillo. Tienen una historia, esa calle y ese arzobispo, pero por hoy lo dejo, que hay que acostarse a las tres, agotados. Si entrase en detalles.... pero hay más cosas en un día de las que caben en un mundo, ya lo dijo James Joyce, y Borges también, en su soneto a Joyce:

En un día del hombre están los días
del tiempo, desde aquel inconcebible
día inicial del tiempo, en que un terrible
Dios prefijó los días y agonías
hasta aquel otro en que el ubicuo río
del tiempo terrenal torne a su fuente,
que es lo Eterno, y se apague en el presente,
el futuro, el ayer, lo que ahora es mío.
entre el alba y la noche está la historia
universal. Desde la noche veo
a mis pies los caminos del hebreo,
Cartago aniquilada, Infierno y Gloria.
Dame, Señor, coraje y alegría
para escalar la cumbre de este día.

—oOo—

The woman and the Lesbian

viernes, 27 de junio de 2014

The woman and the Lesbian

A self-exemplifying explanation from Berger & Luckmann's The Social Construction of Reality:

"The relevance structure that is shared by the man and the woman (A-B) does not have to be integrated with the one shared by the woman and the Lesbian (B-C) or with the one shared by the Lesbian and the man (C-A)."

Will the Player

domingo, 22 de junio de 2014

Will the Player

Habla aquí Shakespeare el actor, en el teatro del mundo, también hombre de teatro cuando se bajaba de las tablas. Este párrafo sobre la teatralidad de nuestro yo y de la vida cotidiana viene de la magnífica novela Will, de Christopher Rush (2007). Es este libro una especie de testamento vital de Shakespeare—escrito un poco a modo de concordance novel, redistribuyendo las palabras de las obras de Shakespeare para recontar su vida. Aquí habla desde el trasmundo, después de contar su muerte en primera persona. Pero lo que dice sobre su drama personal ni siquiera Shakespeare lo dijo tan bien, aunque todo ya lo dijo Shakespeare antes.

Those who knew me often called me gentle — affable, amusing, urbane, a perfectly charming man. And such was my London self. It was a costume, which on this occasion I have chosen not to wear, though many have dressed me up in their own ignorance. You, my masters, are among the chosen few. You have seen something of Will, without the daily beauty wear. You’ve seen something of my feet of clay. I could tell you more. I was fastidious, over sensitive for my age — and Age — to many things. I loathed smoky lamps, greasy dishes, sickly foods, untidiness, sweaty armpits, bad breath, unwiped arses, dribbling dicks, lickspittles, lackeys, hypocrites, Hooray-Henrys, King Henrys, beadles and bullies, dogs obeyed in office, Puritans. I abhorred the abuser of power, the perverter of justice, the mob, instability. What else? A hatred of hunting, of violence, especially committed against all those who are weak and vulnerable — animals, children, the poor. Also a suspicion of change, a respect for the social order. Love may be an illusion, sex a cesspit, politis a bear-pit, religion a fairy-tale and chivalry a shadow and a dream. I had little time for such abstractions. But I never lost faith in the social nuts and bolts, in the lives of ordinary people, just living, just living.

As for the extraordinary ones, the movers and shakers, history for me was a rogues’ gallery. The angel of history is the angel of death. Idealists sooon become tyrants and cheats, as power corrupts. Listen to them whine and bark. Their convictions divide the world and only an honest doubt can unite it again. But their minds are closed and moulded, they have none — no honest doubt — and that’s what makes them dangerous. Certainty is lethal. Conviction kills. That’s my credo. All I know is that I know nothing, and that truth is like January, Janus-faced, looking to a lost year and one to come. My father wore a Protestat face and my mother kept on her own face at home while her husband made his a vizor to his heart, so they were split, as man and wife often are, and he was fractured too, public and private, outward and real. And that split is the best keys to the plays his son came to write. I saw that it was possible to be two people at once, to lead a double life, and out of this came Hamlet, Iago, Hal, and many others, good and bad, including me, who mocked authority, aristocrats, land-grabbers, players, but strove for substance, standing, armorial bearings and theatrical assets, while regretting every inch that staged me to the public view and turned my art to profit.

And so the exterior me — discretion, moderation, and reserve. How careful was I when I took my way, each trifle under truest bars to trust. I hid my beliefs in history, buried my voice in time and place, like the Bay of Portugal had an unknown bottom. I was ever unquarrelsome — even abject, some would say, still begging each treacherous friend to spare me some crumb of love. Not one whose help you could clearly count on, because much of the time the man you thought you saw was never there. A playmaker who avoided the first person and in so doing became no person. A man who in writing about other men reprieved himself from the man he was. A man wanting a litle self-confidence perhaps, except in plays. And outside the making of plays, a man even wanting in imagination, a compulsive acquirer, a land man, an Osric, burying his personal flaws in property, the safe palpabilities of earth and income, bricks and mortar, stocks and stones. A reversion, if you like, and a regression, back to the sucking dung that had clung to me and from which I’d longed to escape. The simple life. Yes, I could always smell the countryside through the squalor and the stench of London and the suffocating falsities of the court.

Yet, I longed for play, like any actor, and I longed for land, like any peasant. I loved beauty, especially woman’s, and I paid for the pleasure, loved children and birds and plants for their simplicity and innocence, and all who kept boredom at bay and conquered the empire fo dullness. Life itself I found far more interesting than anyone’s opinions about it. I loved the surface of the earth and the whole process of human existence, which never ceased to fascinate me. I was enchanted by the maltworms and by the tapsters who served them. The human story was meat and drink to me. Osmotic, omnivorous, endlessly curious, that was me, that was your Will.
 
(...)
 
Of what manner of man is he, then, your Will? Why, of mankind. If your really want an image of myself as I was, look in the mirror and there you’ll seem me, rather sadder and wiser than I’d have elected to be at my age, or you at yours. One of yourselves, that’s all, one of the race of human beings, good enough for neither animals in their innocence nor gods in their wisdom. I was marked out not in appearance but in fortune—which buckled a talent on my back, a talent for words. I died in words and rose again like the phoenix, transformed.

 

La mejor página sobre Shakespeare

La situation politique

domingo, 22 de junio de 2014

La situation politique

Et que pensez-vous de la situation politique?
- Ma foi, pas grand chose de bon. Á mon avis, la crise ministerielle est inévitable.
- Peut-être que vous avez raison.



 

Pío Moa, España contra España

sábado, 7 de junio de 2014

Pío Moa, España contra España. 12-12-2012

Un día "Mas" sin respuestas

domingo, 22 de junio de 2014

Un día "Mas" sin respuestas

Juliette Gréco à l'Olympia 2004

domingo, 22 de junio de 2014

Juliette Gréco à l'Olympia 2004

Enciclopedia y Metodología de las Disciplinas Filológicas

domingo, 22 de junio de 2014

Enciclopedia y metodología de las disciplinas filológicas

Un clásico del filólogo alemán August Böck (1785-1867), 

Encyklopädie und Methodologie der philologischen Wissenschaften. Ed. Ernst Bratuscheck. Leipzig: B.G. Teubner, 1877.

En red en Open Library:
    http://www.archive.org/stream/encyklopdieund00bcuoft#page/n3/mode/2up