 |
| December 1937. A child waits for thaw frozen (Gettyimages) |
fragment article by Carlos García Gual, Utility fiction. The true reading is still an intellectual challenge, an art and a sentimental education in The Country , Saturday October 30, 2010.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Sceletium Tortuosum Tec
The incorruptible ...
"In his famous essay on The experience of reading and CS Lewis insisted that good books, which provide an extension of our consciousness, differ from the others in that "offer a good reading" and need readers and critics like. "The value of literature is checked when you good readers." Being a good reader need not be pedantic, learned, scholar, or anything . Reading well requires attention acuity and time. And that is what polite habit now, with the proliferation of publications and easy entertainment, it seems very threatened. This is the central issue of the last chapter of Manguel: the marketing literature, which is trivial and banal to the consumption of a mass society and the media. "The bookstore chains sell the space on your windows and tables to the highest bidder, so that what the audience sees is what the publisher pays for display. As a result, piles of books advertised as dealing best sellers most of the physical space of the library and all of them, such as sausages, have an expiration date implied which guarantees a constant production. "Novels surface flooding the market, are widely well-paid advertising, and easy as pie and intrigue language satisfy the craving exciting offer readers an audience thick, broad, quick and unanimous. The advertising is misleading; criticism often neglected. It is not easy, in my opinion, defining what is good literature , we have to resort to the trial of the rare good readers. There are still, even among subway passengers. Like good stories, friendly voices warning, we go against the fashions are still there, uncorrupted. "
fragment article by Carlos García Gual, Utility fiction. The true reading is still an intellectual challenge, an art and a sentimental education in The Country , Saturday October 30, 2010.
fragment article by Carlos García Gual, Utility fiction. The true reading is still an intellectual challenge, an art and a sentimental education in The Country , Saturday October 30, 2010.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Inexpensive Romantic Getaways In The Indiana
Walking slowly through the streets. VI
"When asked how was Greece, spoke of a long line of nursing homes erected on the shores of a poisoned sea whose waters reached to the acute narrow pebble beaches in slow waves as oil.
When we asked how it was France, recalled a short hallway between two public offices where mangy guards searched a woman who smiled embarrassed, while the patio wire up a splash in the water.
When asked how was Rome, he found a fresh scar in the groin that claimed to be from a wound received while trying to break the windows of an abandoned tramway on the outskirts and in which some women embalmed their dead.
When asked if he had seen the desert, explained in detail the erotic mores and timing of migration of insects that nest in the porosity of marble eaten by the salt of the ports and spent by the handling of the merchants of the coast.
When asked how was Belgium, established the relationship between the weakening of desire to a naked woman, lying on his back, smiles awkwardly and intermittent and progressive oxidation of certain firearms.
When asked about a port of the Strait, the eye was dissected from a bird of prey within the shadows that danced singing.
Asked how far he had gone, replied that a freighter had left Valparaiso to take care of a blind woman who sang in the streets and claimed to have been dazzled by the light of the Annunciation. "
Alvaro Mutis, The death of Captain Cook ( jobs lost), Summa Maqroll the Gaviero , Poetry, 1948-1997, Introduction and editing Carmen Ruiz Barrionuevo, Salamanca, Ediciones Universidad de Salamanca, National Heritage, Library of America, no. 12, 1999. ISBN84-7481-882-6
...
"At times, six in the evening when Kronz walk back to the hotel from the area where the hospital was, carefully crossing the Plaza Catalunya, thus avoiding the crowd of people swirling next to the underground and that at that time left in disarray from El Corte Ingles. beginning to feel uncomfortable among the noise. So I turned up the collar coat and entered the Zurich. She could not believe that the rather small space could meet so many people to talk all at the same time.
After taking a seat by the window, the doctor assumed that the environment would have been unbearable if not for the quality of chocolate, which was excellent. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs under the table while he unbuttoned his coat. Is the sound of voices, which increased as customers were arriving, how did the waiters shouting orders from one end to another of the premises, confirmed his initial suspicion, perhaps a little reckless. Although it was not yet familiar with the city, recalled the comment chance to do one of the colleagues at the hospital. In Spain, you must be heard to shout, otherwise nobody will take into account. He tried not to think of Prague, but inevitable and wondered if there would ever return. And then I realized that this could be awful: not only had left Prague without a purpose, but was beginning to experience the weight of betrayal. It said it would always be a stranger wherever he went. Do they have always the feeling of being on the wrong side of the river? To his right was headed, burly mustache and bodies colliding with each other to go settling. At last he had a bartender fat, solemn voice, it out of their grim thoughts. And he asked, his arm raised, if you wanted something else. He ordered another chocolate, pointing to the cup with a vague gesture. He paid with a ticket that was taken from the bottom of the pocket and, when finished, went to the door.
He was happy when he was in the street. I began to like the chaos of the city. Was intended to go to the hotel, although the idea of \u200b\u200bwalking him was curiously exciting and refreshing. Noticed the foul odor that came from the doorways. The proximity of the seafood, I recalled a dream. A dream of crabs in cahoots on a woman with breasts covered with bruises. Then walked down the Ramblas walking slowly toward Columbus, noting the activity of vendors on both sides of the street. Passed by the newsstand and was absorbed compared to the cages of monkeys, parrots and cockatoos ruffled feathers and marred by the cold, sharp cries which still retained the nostalgia of the jungle. Like the previous day at the same time, had begun to fall drizzle a little sticky. He walked: the salt air had burned his face as if it came directly from the port. "
Vasconez, Travellers Prague, Mexico, Alfaguara, 1996. ISBN 9-789681-902537 
"When asked how was Greece, spoke of a long line of nursing homes erected on the shores of a poisoned sea whose waters reached to the acute narrow pebble beaches in slow waves as oil.
When we asked how it was France, recalled a short hallway between two public offices where mangy guards searched a woman who smiled embarrassed, while the patio wire up a splash in the water.
When asked how was Rome, he found a fresh scar in the groin that claimed to be from a wound received while trying to break the windows of an abandoned tramway on the outskirts and in which some women embalmed their dead.
When asked if he had seen the desert, explained in detail the erotic mores and timing of migration of insects that nest in the porosity of marble eaten by the salt of the ports and spent by the handling of the merchants of the coast.
When asked how was Belgium, established the relationship between the weakening of desire to a naked woman, lying on his back, smiles awkwardly and intermittent and progressive oxidation of certain firearms.
 |
| Portrait of George Dyer in a Mirror, 1968, Francis Bacon |
Asked how far he had gone, replied that a freighter had left Valparaiso to take care of a blind woman who sang in the streets and claimed to have been dazzled by the light of the Annunciation. "
Alvaro Mutis, The death of Captain Cook ( jobs lost), Summa Maqroll the Gaviero , Poetry, 1948-1997, Introduction and editing Carmen Ruiz Barrionuevo, Salamanca, Ediciones Universidad de Salamanca, National Heritage, Library of America, no. 12, 1999. ISBN84-7481-882-6
...
After taking a seat by the window, the doctor assumed that the environment would have been unbearable if not for the quality of chocolate, which was excellent. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs under the table while he unbuttoned his coat. Is the sound of voices, which increased as customers were arriving, how did the waiters shouting orders from one end to another of the premises, confirmed his initial suspicion, perhaps a little reckless. Although it was not yet familiar with the city, recalled the comment chance to do one of the colleagues at the hospital. In Spain, you must be heard to shout, otherwise nobody will take into account. He tried not to think of Prague, but inevitable and wondered if there would ever return. And then I realized that this could be awful: not only had left Prague without a purpose, but was beginning to experience the weight of betrayal. It said it would always be a stranger wherever he went. Do they have always the feeling of being on the wrong side of the river? To his right was headed, burly mustache and bodies colliding with each other to go settling. At last he had a bartender fat, solemn voice, it out of their grim thoughts. And he asked, his arm raised, if you wanted something else. He ordered another chocolate, pointing to the cup with a vague gesture. He paid with a ticket that was taken from the bottom of the pocket and, when finished, went to the door.
He was happy when he was in the street. I began to like the chaos of the city. Was intended to go to the hotel, although the idea of \u200b\u200bwalking him was curiously exciting and refreshing. Noticed the foul odor that came from the doorways. The proximity of the seafood, I recalled a dream. A dream of crabs in cahoots on a woman with breasts covered with bruises. Then walked down the Ramblas walking slowly toward Columbus, noting the activity of vendors on both sides of the street. Passed by the newsstand and was absorbed compared to the cages of monkeys, parrots and cockatoos ruffled feathers and marred by the cold, sharp cries which still retained the nostalgia of the jungle. Like the previous day at the same time, had begun to fall drizzle a little sticky. He walked: the salt air had burned his face as if it came directly from the port. "
 |
| Coffee House, Harry Mayerovitch, 1980-8 |
Friday, October 15, 2010
Define Army And Media
hitch
by Johanna L.
some coffee and left on the table this article was published in El Pais on Saturday September 2 . I worry the title "The refuge of the readers." I think the word Refugi o. It seems, indeed, taken from detective novels to which it alludes. To those who, in honor of the truth "hook" and engage in thousands especially when articulated in the display. And that's OK, tell me (personally there are some that I like very much) ... but one thing ... I do not know. Lo Oy Refugi coupling about the boom, boom bang of , bang reminds me the virtues of fast food: quick, basic and cheap. Although the latter should not: at least in this country, the price of a bestseller is what middle class (that they say is disappearing) pay for a beef stew.
And then there are the vampire novels on the shelves brimming with "News." Another genre beneficiary of the current economic situation. These beings are so degraded as the middle class neurotic, sad and hopelessly mortal. Where is the sensuality and the rays of the sun? Now they are so cool , instead of incinerated with the light of day, they were filled with body glitter. A species for Green Peace, I say. "And what about the issues cliché? Topics first importance that have become a consumer product in a network of enviable market: September 11, the Iraq war, the smuggling of young African Muslim immigrants in the Asturian mountains, the Russian mafia or Latin American drug machines ... "Is something that hooks a lot."
take another little coffee. It must be that there are days when one wakes up with clouds to Pessoa: "There are times when all tires, even what we would rest." One thing I wonder: do we really middle class is disappearing as an author and literary reading? From my point of view, in recent decades the economic and social consumption of this kind has been acquired by a larger sector of the population. It has improved the economic level but did it have acquired these new worlds and imaginary values \u200b\u200bthat has been defined orthodoxy in this article as "middle class"?
by Johanna L.
letters and numbers have always maintained a close relationship throughout history, sometimes complex, impossible in others, but always very aware of each other. (...) This translates into a literary market which has begun to transform the landscape in search of safety. "Great authors sell more than ever and harder to throw the newcomers," says Anik Lapointe, editor of RBA (...) "Classical literature is sold very little, a lot less than before," says Eva Cuenca Mondadori. (...) One thing all editors surveyed agree precisely on what they call "the disappearing middle class." This nebula populated by writers who were key to qualify the catalogs and a solid base of readers is now being undermined as the market turns and leans toward one or the other end. (...) To Anik Lapointe, RBA, the aforementioned black genre is the great beneficiary of the current economic situation. (...) The point is that the detective sagas had never been as popular as now, RBA (...) The editor also points to other such factors do not drink in the economic drought and connecting with other recent boom "The books belonging to a series in which the protagonist is repeated from one volume to another, it also generates excellent performance and in some ways reminiscent of the episodic format of television, which is something that hooks a lot.
 |
| © Johanna Lozoya |
And then there are the vampire novels on the shelves brimming with "News." Another genre beneficiary of the current economic situation. These beings are so degraded as the middle class neurotic, sad and hopelessly mortal. Where is the sensuality and the rays of the sun? Now they are so cool , instead of incinerated with the light of day, they were filled with body glitter. A species for Green Peace, I say. "And what about the issues cliché? Topics first importance that have become a consumer product in a network of enviable market: September 11, the Iraq war, the smuggling of young African Muslim immigrants in the Asturian mountains, the Russian mafia or Latin American drug machines ... "Is something that hooks a lot."
take another little coffee. It must be that there are days when one wakes up with clouds to Pessoa: "There are times when all tires, even what we would rest." One thing I wonder: do we really middle class is disappearing as an author and literary reading? From my point of view, in recent decades the economic and social consumption of this kind has been acquired by a larger sector of the population. It has improved the economic level but did it have acquired these new worlds and imaginary values \u200b\u200bthat has been defined orthodoxy in this article as "middle class"?
Friday, October 8, 2010
Cousin Vinnie Ordinance
sirens Walking slowly through the streets. V
"Wadi al-Uyun: a piece of greenery in the middle of a desert sullen and obstinate, as emerged from the bowels of the earth or dropped from the sky. It was different from everything around him or rather, no link seemed to connect you with your environment, so much so that one wondered how much water perplexed and vegetation had been born in a place like that. But the surprise was fading gradually giving way to a mysterious respect followed by a rapt contemplation. Was one of the few cases in which nature expresses his genius and his stubborn changeability, thus resisting any explanation.
Wadi al-Uyun could appear to those who inhabited a conventional. In fact, they are not used to raise big questions. They were too used to seeing palm trees fill the valley, sources sprouting here and there in winter and early spring. Nevertheless, they felt a supernatural power to protect them and they made life easier. When the caravan arrived, wrapped in a cloud of dust and torn down by fatigue and thirst, redoubling efforts in the last leg of journey to reach the valley as soon as possible, the newcomers were overwhelmed a drunk and a weakness. In view of the water, however, repressed all their enthusiasm and said that he who created the earth and men also created Wadi al-Uyun at that place to save them from certain death in the midst of that treacherous and ungrateful desert. Once the convoy stopped, unloaded their packs and quenched the thirst of men and animals, that warm slumber transformed an overwhelming feeling of satisfaction that everything was seized, no one could understand if that welfare was the result of climate, fresh water or known safe. This was extended also to the beasts, which were less vigorous and less prone to heavy workloads. (...)
Behind Wadi al-Uyun and also stood around a few sandy hills, but once they could slide slightly, they would stand still, mainly due to wind direction and type of land, that stood in the midst of a broad plain. These hills were used as reference points, and the baptized to distinguish. To the east, was Dahra, and north, Watfa and Umm al-azl. The hills to the south and west were of minor importance for the villagers and passengers, but even these were put a name, because in the desert to give a nickname to things beyond the mere whim. The name, created by nature itself, reveals the degree of importance of a place or traits that define and identify you.
(...) The people of Wadi al-Uyun were like water: when they are overflowing, were bursting. This excess (as happened with the migration, with travel) was to them almost a necessity. Emigration, the journey ... always the same cycle. One day he realized that there were too many and that Wadi al-Uyun could not feed them all. So they sent the young age of travel to find new places to live and earn a living. This decision may seem a bit misleading by not depend, as was the case in other areas, seasons, the rain (which could reach down every so many years), pasture surrounding the valley or sources, even when they sprouted everywhere. It was rather a sickly sort of stubbornness secret and slowly growing in the hearts of people. This blindness, which was manifested mainly in adults, although try to hide it or resist it, lived also in youth and women: the first in a more pronounced and irrepressible, and in the second, with a look of sadness and despair. But the desire to discover the world, the dream of wealth and an indescribable nostalgia besieged younger so that the wait will be unbearable. Unable to listen to the advice of elders, often ended up taking the decision by themselves, however hard it was.
There was a man in Wadi al-Uyun, especially of a certain age, who had not ever seduced a desire to travel. Rare were also the elders who had not ever undertaken in a life journey. It is true that these demonstrations could have a duration and consequences of various kinds, from those that extended many years, even to last a lifetime, until it ended after a few months. In both cases, the traveler could return disappointed or triumphant, but always invaded by a great nostalgia permeated with memories, images and desires to resume their march. Neither the causes that drove the men of Wadi al-Uyun from left are summarized in a nutshell. Each had their own motivations and aspirations, and mostly did not coincide with those of others. Success and failure, wealth and poverty, were concepts that meaning diverged from one person to another. While very often on his return, travelers brought with them countless anecdotes and stories, and long nights full of dreams, the truth is that they always remained poor, or almost always, which did not prevent endless stories to tell about his adventures, talk about how much money accumulated and how we lost. And the good things of life, they said, are never timeless. "
Abdurrahman Munif, salt Cities, translated from Arabic Bardají Anna Gil, Bogotá, Editorial Norma. Collection The Other Shore, 2007. ISBN9- 789580-499800
... " Second day: We camped beside a creek at a place called Sheiban Mahomedi. To the north, are patches of black smoke from bitumen wells Kubaysah. This morning I had to dress in aba e ismak because, as I said Jassem Saleh on behalf of my English hat could lead to some distrust of our caravan.
- Cursed hat English is not good. Cap Arabic good.
So, dressed in all the pomp of a brand new aba Baghdad, I'm lying on a rug in front of my tent under a mottled sky as bright turquoise. Distinguish a short distance carrying large bundles of camel Jassem Rawwaf er stacked in a semicircle to protect the fire, around the fire are squatting more serious members of the caravan drinking coffee. Opposite the shop I have English Mohamed Sayyid where, apparently, meets the golden youth. The bullets of the other seven or eight groups in the caravan are placed in a half moon, such as Jassem, to protect the fires from the wind. Apart from sayyid and I and the dancers on their way to Aleppo, there is only a dealer in Damascus refined enough to have your own tent. All others are off on rugs around the campfire, under the blue sky. Have led the camels to graze in the dry scrub of the hills near the pond and dark silhouetted against the skyline in unusual attitudes. Occasionally there is a guard with a rifle placed obliquely on the back, still watching from the top of a hill in shades of ocher, violet and steel, which extend in all directions like a vast surface waves sea.
Down in the pool where I had just given a bath I had a long conversation, based solely on seven words and a considerable pantomime, with one of the servants of Mohamed Sayyid, a tall of slender limbs named Suleiman. I asked an Englishman known as "Hilleby" with which he had been the camel caravan in the Najd and, upon learning that he knew, exteriorized considerable euphoria. He also dressed like an Arab and appreciated the sweet desert air.
- Desert Aire sweet as honey. Baghdad air, dirty. When finished talking
cut a branch of an aromatic plant and made me smell. I remembered a little rosemary.
- The desert like this - he said again and, then, a face of disgust he contracted the face -. Ingliz Baghdad like this. "Hilleby" Arab friend, do not be afraid of the desert. Well.
then grabbed my hand to take me to the store sayyid where, after having made me sit in the place of honor, I served coffee and dates. When I had a good time sitting there trying to catch a single word of a speech that seemed to be about the Najd, the smoking ban throughout its territory and the extraordinary kindness of Ibn Saud, whom even the English called Sultan, Fahad appeared, my camel, to communicate that dinner was ready. Both he and Saleh sent me the idea that men Jassem, seeing me stay so long in the stores Mohamed Sayyid, judged over my love of disreputable companies. At least that Saleh suggested to me after he returned with the camels to camp at sunset.
- Sayyid no damn good - I said.
social relations are so complicated in the desert as anywhere else. "
John Dos Passos, Orient Express, La Coruña, Ediciones del Viento, 2005. ISBN 9788493406042 
"Wadi al-Uyun: a piece of greenery in the middle of a desert sullen and obstinate, as emerged from the bowels of the earth or dropped from the sky. It was different from everything around him or rather, no link seemed to connect you with your environment, so much so that one wondered how much water perplexed and vegetation had been born in a place like that. But the surprise was fading gradually giving way to a mysterious respect followed by a rapt contemplation. Was one of the few cases in which nature expresses his genius and his stubborn changeability, thus resisting any explanation.
Wadi al-Uyun could appear to those who inhabited a conventional. In fact, they are not used to raise big questions. They were too used to seeing palm trees fill the valley, sources sprouting here and there in winter and early spring. Nevertheless, they felt a supernatural power to protect them and they made life easier. When the caravan arrived, wrapped in a cloud of dust and torn down by fatigue and thirst, redoubling efforts in the last leg of journey to reach the valley as soon as possible, the newcomers were overwhelmed a drunk and a weakness. In view of the water, however, repressed all their enthusiasm and said that he who created the earth and men also created Wadi al-Uyun at that place to save them from certain death in the midst of that treacherous and ungrateful desert. Once the convoy stopped, unloaded their packs and quenched the thirst of men and animals, that warm slumber transformed an overwhelming feeling of satisfaction that everything was seized, no one could understand if that welfare was the result of climate, fresh water or known safe. This was extended also to the beasts, which were less vigorous and less prone to heavy workloads. (...) Behind Wadi al-Uyun and also stood around a few sandy hills, but once they could slide slightly, they would stand still, mainly due to wind direction and type of land, that stood in the midst of a broad plain. These hills were used as reference points, and the baptized to distinguish. To the east, was Dahra, and north, Watfa and Umm al-azl. The hills to the south and west were of minor importance for the villagers and passengers, but even these were put a name, because in the desert to give a nickname to things beyond the mere whim. The name, created by nature itself, reveals the degree of importance of a place or traits that define and identify you.
(...) The people of Wadi al-Uyun were like water: when they are overflowing, were bursting. This excess (as happened with the migration, with travel) was to them almost a necessity. Emigration, the journey ... always the same cycle. One day he realized that there were too many and that Wadi al-Uyun could not feed them all. So they sent the young age of travel to find new places to live and earn a living. This decision may seem a bit misleading by not depend, as was the case in other areas, seasons, the rain (which could reach down every so many years), pasture surrounding the valley or sources, even when they sprouted everywhere. It was rather a sickly sort of stubbornness secret and slowly growing in the hearts of people. This blindness, which was manifested mainly in adults, although try to hide it or resist it, lived also in youth and women: the first in a more pronounced and irrepressible, and in the second, with a look of sadness and despair. But the desire to discover the world, the dream of wealth and an indescribable nostalgia besieged younger so that the wait will be unbearable. Unable to listen to the advice of elders, often ended up taking the decision by themselves, however hard it was.
There was a man in Wadi al-Uyun, especially of a certain age, who had not ever seduced a desire to travel. Rare were also the elders who had not ever undertaken in a life journey. It is true that these demonstrations could have a duration and consequences of various kinds, from those that extended many years, even to last a lifetime, until it ended after a few months. In both cases, the traveler could return disappointed or triumphant, but always invaded by a great nostalgia permeated with memories, images and desires to resume their march. Neither the causes that drove the men of Wadi al-Uyun from left are summarized in a nutshell. Each had their own motivations and aspirations, and mostly did not coincide with those of others. Success and failure, wealth and poverty, were concepts that meaning diverged from one person to another. While very often on his return, travelers brought with them countless anecdotes and stories, and long nights full of dreams, the truth is that they always remained poor, or almost always, which did not prevent endless stories to tell about his adventures, talk about how much money accumulated and how we lost. And the good things of life, they said, are never timeless. "
Abdurrahman Munif, salt Cities, translated from Arabic Bardají Anna Gil, Bogotá, Editorial Norma. Collection The Other Shore, 2007. ISBN9- 789580-499800
... " Second day: We camped beside a creek at a place called Sheiban Mahomedi. To the north, are patches of black smoke from bitumen wells Kubaysah. This morning I had to dress in aba e ismak because, as I said Jassem Saleh on behalf of my English hat could lead to some distrust of our caravan.
- Cursed hat English is not good. Cap Arabic good.
 |
| A convoy through the desert of Syria, 1925 © Bettman / CORBIS |
Down in the pool where I had just given a bath I had a long conversation, based solely on seven words and a considerable pantomime, with one of the servants of Mohamed Sayyid, a tall of slender limbs named Suleiman. I asked an Englishman known as "Hilleby" with which he had been the camel caravan in the Najd and, upon learning that he knew, exteriorized considerable euphoria. He also dressed like an Arab and appreciated the sweet desert air.
- Desert Aire sweet as honey. Baghdad air, dirty. When finished talking
cut a branch of an aromatic plant and made me smell. I remembered a little rosemary.
- The desert like this - he said again and, then, a face of disgust he contracted the face -. Ingliz Baghdad like this. "Hilleby" Arab friend, do not be afraid of the desert. Well.
then grabbed my hand to take me to the store sayyid where, after having made me sit in the place of honor, I served coffee and dates. When I had a good time sitting there trying to catch a single word of a speech that seemed to be about the Najd, the smoking ban throughout its territory and the extraordinary kindness of Ibn Saud, whom even the English called Sultan, Fahad appeared, my camel, to communicate that dinner was ready. Both he and Saleh sent me the idea that men Jassem, seeing me stay so long in the stores Mohamed Sayyid, judged over my love of disreputable companies. At least that Saleh suggested to me after he returned with the camels to camp at sunset.
- Sayyid no damn good - I said.
social relations are so complicated in the desert as anywhere else. "
John Dos Passos, Orient Express, La Coruña, Ediciones del Viento, 2005. ISBN 9788493406042
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Oreos Make My Poop Black
Walking slowly through the streets. IV
" Only once in my life I have experienced before processing. For me before it had been just a word, and when it started, not in a calm but suddenly, at first I thought it was my final. He handed me a death sentence. Suddenly as I was there was no one, instead of me, a waste, for which, unlike what happens with the familiar grotesque forms of the old Prague, even had the opportunity to flee to the images, however they were terrible. The transformation came over me without a single image, as a single bottleneck. On the one hand I was petrified. On the other went about my daily life as if nothing had happened. So, once I saw a passer-released into the air by a car, sat on the floor with both feet on the other side of the radiator, and I, as usual, I walked at least a few steps. (...)
Transformation "Who? What kind of transformation? To start, just know this: at that time lived the transformation. I paid off as nothing else had given me. For years now, am taking that time period, with an appetite always fresh. There is nothing that I can take the world that fruiting. For her I know what is there.
But while I'm waiting for further processing. I'm not dissatisfied with the way my days pass, and even I'm happy to have passed as well. The way I do, so like I will not do, is, in general, which I belong, and is equally my surroundings: home, garden, village, paragraph and also so close to the great city, forests, valleys overlooked, railway lines, the proximity of the great Paris - a closeness that feels, by the very fact of being invisible - down in the Seine basin, east, behind the forest the hills. Here, in this delicate silence, I want to stay as long as possible.
(...) Rather, what could happen would be blind to fail to do what I'm doing, living, writing, walking. Since I am always tempted to suddenly stop doing what I do, to stop the game and let me down, or to take me to a head against the wall, or hit in the face of the first one found, or not move a finger anymore and not never say a word. (...) The new transformation
want it to be without torment. One bottleneck that lasted for years, interrupted by moments of great lucidity, two decades ago, should not be repeated. (...) I liked to go alone and yet needed to go with the others, and when that filled me with joy, I was burning with desire to be with the missing: the fullness, that would force had to share it with them immediately and larger. Joy in me could only go in the company of others, but how in the company from whom?
myself staying, threatened with atrophy. The new change was urgent. And unlike what happened with that first, I was attacked from behind, this time would be I who would go. The second transformation was in my hands. I was not going to start with a withdrawal but making my more and more, something I would carry out with determination and prudent and careful. (...) And that dream to escape to the port city farthest from the world, the other air dissolved in the blast near the temples. (...) This new transformation I am determined to carry out here in this landscape, as someone who lives here. I do not know in detail what I need for my job, but certainly not a trip at least a great trip. Now such a trip would be nothing but a loophole. Do not want to forget how close beauty, at least here. This time the game has to be produced by something other than a change of venue. Has already occurred with the first sentence of this story. (...)
But this story should only deal with me and many others things. I feel compelled to intervene in time through it. And as a traveler, unlike what happened to me before, now might not intervene in anything anywhere. Just as one can exhaust you peoples, regions and even entire countries have been exhausted for me to be on the road, traveling. Even the idea pilgrimage, anywhere, without an agreed target in a period of time was something solid and tangible, over the years is a possibility that I have been closed. Staying in this region is presented to me as long as an opening.
This does not mean that in my notes also appear on a journey. To a large extent this has to be the story of a journey. This will even travel, future, present and yet, I hope, always full of discovery. Anyway, the hero of these trips is not me. Will be a few friends of mine, who, in one way or another, carried. Since early this year are underway, each in a region different world, often even from each other separated by continents, like me, I'm here in this region. Each knows nothing of his companion, who is touring the world at the same time as him. Only I know them all, and me, I'm down in the small room overlooking the garden, with grass almost at eye level - a moment ago, the warm air in January passed a bee triggered by above it - is the point of meeting and news gathering. That
(...) where I live is shaped like a bay, did not see it until one day I had before my eyes from the line of mountains surround it, and stop so I had to be above all, (...) Displaying the bay calmed me all anxious to see the world. And nostalgia for my country for some time that no longer had what was not true that now, almost over the century, all sorts of nostalgia for the homeland had disappeared from the world, like a conquered disease? And to live there in that place, I do not need any distractions, and no special concentration or cinemas or football, or stroll along the boulevards, sit on the terrace of a bar, perhaps not even read now. Compared with the activity of seeing, recording and transmitting what was there, everything else was losing time. "
Peter Handke, The year I spent in the Bay of anyone , Madrid, Alianza Editorial, 1999. ISBN 84-206-5444-2
...
"In a witty essay on the stay at home -" a place to indulge "- Patricia de Martelaera ( Verrassingen [Surprises] 1997) stain with the humor that characterizes the idyllic images that people project almost always home and stay at home: a place where you should physically able to trace their identity, that's what they expect, or fear, as appropriate. But being at home is almost always something very different, often stranger than they are abroad, is where things become invisible, where we use our senses to explore the world. At home we put our powers of observation at ground zero. Our home is where the world be rendered invisible, which brings us to the rest we need to think about things further away. At home things are hidden under their reputation, everything disappears and is neutralized, objects and perspectives seem to sleep, no wonder you can wake them up, things go through smoothly and we are alone.
We call this home. It is the place where we can be alone with ourselves without interference, not because we are somewhere, but because we are not anywhere. (...) The home is still paradoxical place where we travel around the world. (...) Who really travels, check again and again that the new things around continually to remind him things he thought he had left behind. We can also say that anyone who really travels, always left a little at home. (...) Do not be home, so perhaps it is not nothing but a mindset, an attitude, a way of ascent to the world, or should we say, against the small world of their own. Not being at home means may stay in your little room amazed by things that had long warned not. Who found again, after years, a memory hidden in the dust, no answer when the doorbell rings. "
Hertmans
Stefan," Clouds. Home "on Cities, translated by Julio Grande, Valencia, Editorial Pre-Textos, 2003. ISBN 84-8191-569-6 
" Only once in my life I have experienced before processing. For me before it had been just a word, and when it started, not in a calm but suddenly, at first I thought it was my final. He handed me a death sentence. Suddenly as I was there was no one, instead of me, a waste, for which, unlike what happens with the familiar grotesque forms of the old Prague, even had the opportunity to flee to the images, however they were terrible. The transformation came over me without a single image, as a single bottleneck. On the one hand I was petrified. On the other went about my daily life as if nothing had happened. So, once I saw a passer-released into the air by a car, sat on the floor with both feet on the other side of the radiator, and I, as usual, I walked at least a few steps. (...)
Transformation "Who? What kind of transformation? To start, just know this: at that time lived the transformation. I paid off as nothing else had given me. For years now, am taking that time period, with an appetite always fresh. There is nothing that I can take the world that fruiting. For her I know what is there.
But while I'm waiting for further processing. I'm not dissatisfied with the way my days pass, and even I'm happy to have passed as well. The way I do, so like I will not do, is, in general, which I belong, and is equally my surroundings: home, garden, village, paragraph and also so close to the great city, forests, valleys overlooked, railway lines, the proximity of the great Paris - a closeness that feels, by the very fact of being invisible - down in the Seine basin, east, behind the forest the hills. Here, in this delicate silence, I want to stay as long as possible.
(...) Rather, what could happen would be blind to fail to do what I'm doing, living, writing, walking. Since I am always tempted to suddenly stop doing what I do, to stop the game and let me down, or to take me to a head against the wall, or hit in the face of the first one found, or not move a finger anymore and not never say a word. (...) The new transformation
want it to be without torment. One bottleneck that lasted for years, interrupted by moments of great lucidity, two decades ago, should not be repeated. (...) I liked to go alone and yet needed to go with the others, and when that filled me with joy, I was burning with desire to be with the missing: the fullness, that would force had to share it with them immediately and larger. Joy in me could only go in the company of others, but how in the company from whom?
myself staying, threatened with atrophy. The new change was urgent. And unlike what happened with that first, I was attacked from behind, this time would be I who would go. The second transformation was in my hands. I was not going to start with a withdrawal but making my more and more, something I would carry out with determination and prudent and careful. (...) And that dream to escape to the port city farthest from the world, the other air dissolved in the blast near the temples. (...) This new transformation I am determined to carry out here in this landscape, as someone who lives here. I do not know in detail what I need for my job, but certainly not a trip at least a great trip. Now such a trip would be nothing but a loophole. Do not want to forget how close beauty, at least here. This time the game has to be produced by something other than a change of venue. Has already occurred with the first sentence of this story. (...)
© Johanna Lozoya Liébana
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This does not mean that in my notes also appear on a journey. To a large extent this has to be the story of a journey. This will even travel, future, present and yet, I hope, always full of discovery. Anyway, the hero of these trips is not me. Will be a few friends of mine, who, in one way or another, carried. Since early this year are underway, each in a region different world, often even from each other separated by continents, like me, I'm here in this region. Each knows nothing of his companion, who is touring the world at the same time as him. Only I know them all, and me, I'm down in the small room overlooking the garden, with grass almost at eye level - a moment ago, the warm air in January passed a bee triggered by above it - is the point of meeting and news gathering. That
(...) where I live is shaped like a bay, did not see it until one day I had before my eyes from the line of mountains surround it, and stop so I had to be above all, (...) Displaying the bay calmed me all anxious to see the world. And nostalgia for my country for some time that no longer had what was not true that now, almost over the century, all sorts of nostalgia for the homeland had disappeared from the world, like a conquered disease? And to live there in that place, I do not need any distractions, and no special concentration or cinemas or football, or stroll along the boulevards, sit on the terrace of a bar, perhaps not even read now. Compared with the activity of seeing, recording and transmitting what was there, everything else was losing time. "
Peter Handke, The year I spent in the Bay of anyone , Madrid, Alianza Editorial, 1999. ISBN 84-206-5444-2
 |
| Real de Catorce © Johanna Lozoya |
We call this home. It is the place where we can be alone with ourselves without interference, not because we are somewhere, but because we are not anywhere. (...) The home is still paradoxical place where we travel around the world. (...) Who really travels, check again and again that the new things around continually to remind him things he thought he had left behind. We can also say that anyone who really travels, always left a little at home. (...) Do not be home, so perhaps it is not nothing but a mindset, an attitude, a way of ascent to the world, or should we say, against the small world of their own. Not being at home means may stay in your little room amazed by things that had long warned not. Who found again, after years, a memory hidden in the dust, no answer when the doorbell rings. "
Hertmans
Stefan," Clouds. Home "on Cities, translated by Julio Grande, Valencia, Editorial Pre-Textos, 2003. ISBN 84-8191-569-6
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Taylor Yogurtmachine For Sale
Sunflowers blind ... Online now
" Reverend Father, I am clueless as sunflowers blind. Although today I have seen the death of a communist, everything else, father, I have been defeated and that is why I am sicut clouds ..., quasi flucturs ... veluto umbra, a fleeting shadow .
Read my letter as a confession, after which, God willing, absuélvame, but if, as I fear, my sin is unforgivable, pray for me, because I have doubts myself contrition - that is the Devil my body - although my attrition this letter is intended to give a thorough account.
all started when, following his advice, Father, I joined the Glorious Army. Fought three years in the front part in the Crusade, living beings glorious and grim, with soldiers full of ideals and petty instincts, but prone to God when they have to choose between the doom and glory. (...)
Probably the events occurred as others have, but I recognize them only as a landscape where they live my memories. I keep wondering how the trees were planted when or how my mother was young or what he looked like when I was a child.
All that has survived has gradually altered his memory because his real presence is incompatible with the memory, but what we lost on the road is still frozen in the moment of his death to take their place in the past.
So I know what it was like what has disappeared, which left or left me in a moment of my life and never returned to which reality is altered little by little, where his now leaves no room for their past.
Maybe that's why I remember my father's young, tall, skinny and strong arm around my elderly mother tired and sweet. I remember Brother Salvador with his cassock military harassing my elderly mother, tired and sweet and scurrilous policemen insulting my mother alone, tired and sweet. But mostly I remember a child full of complicity with his elderly mother, tired and sweet, which can not remember how I said was: young, strong and sweet.
Ah! They tried to alter the order of things, modify the designs of the Lord knowing that non est potestas nisi a Deo and we had to teach a new order to the lawless. We had to glorify our victory.
When I returned, Father, mash misfortunes and sins, seeking forgiveness to the seminar, maybe your forgiveness would have been better than long test that you, my teachers, decides. My training was superior to nearly all my comrades, but I gladly accepted as a teacher join Infants and Preparatory College of the Holy Family. (...) I joined a minor order in which to forget my follies and regain the light. (...) It all started with a stranger among kindergarten students. (...)
Now I can talk about everything, but I have trouble remember, because memory is diluted, but the nausea that gives me my childhood. I remember those years as a vast living in a mirror, something that I had the misfortune to experience and observe at the same time. On this side of the mirror was the pretense, make-believe. The other, what really happened. (...) There was a world
named Alcalá 177 and the third floor, point C, it was my land. (...) But of all the memories, which prevails over that I had a father hiding in a closet.
Today I think, Father, that I noticed something that distinguishes them from others: it was a sad child but with a strange serenity for their age. In games without discord, without submission obedience in their interest in learning and pride to know, in their silence ... (...) We were asking love for their country and we returned his silence! (...)
My home was distributed to both sides of an aisle. (...) Of all noises, including all voices, including all expressions of life around us, my father, my mother and I were perfectly cataloged foreshadowing the danger and reflecting routine. No one ever alluded to these silences that the lift caused, as nobody made any comment when my father, if someone called at our door, hid in a cupboard behind a toilet two tables on either side of a mirror. "
Alberto Mendez, Fourth loss: 1942 or The Blind Sunflowers
Alberto Mendez, The Blind Sunflowers, Barcelona, \u200b\u200bEditorial Anagram, 2004. ISBN9-788433-968555
.. .
"We had the freedom to torture, to kill, to murder, and we had the freedom to fight, to go forward to try to maintain dignity. It's frightening that you can use to make a word. The important thing is that there is presence of a sense of responsibility cívica, de dignidad personal, de respeto colectivo; si se mantiene, si se construye, si no se acepta caer en la resignación, en la apatía, en la indiferencia, eso puede ser una simple semilla para que algo cambie. Pero yo soy consciente de que esto a su vez no significa mucho."
José Saramago, fragmento de texto en Revista Número , Bogotá, núm. 44, marzo-mayo de 2005, publicado en El País , sábado 2 de octubre de 2010. 
" Reverend Father, I am clueless as sunflowers blind. Although today I have seen the death of a communist, everything else, father, I have been defeated and that is why I am sicut clouds ..., quasi flucturs ... veluto umbra, a fleeting shadow .
Read my letter as a confession, after which, God willing, absuélvame, but if, as I fear, my sin is unforgivable, pray for me, because I have doubts myself contrition - that is the Devil my body - although my attrition this letter is intended to give a thorough account.
all started when, following his advice, Father, I joined the Glorious Army. Fought three years in the front part in the Crusade, living beings glorious and grim, with soldiers full of ideals and petty instincts, but prone to God when they have to choose between the doom and glory. (...)
Probably the events occurred as others have, but I recognize them only as a landscape where they live my memories. I keep wondering how the trees were planted when or how my mother was young or what he looked like when I was a child.
All that has survived has gradually altered his memory because his real presence is incompatible with the memory, but what we lost on the road is still frozen in the moment of his death to take their place in the past.
So I know what it was like what has disappeared, which left or left me in a moment of my life and never returned to which reality is altered little by little, where his now leaves no room for their past.
Maybe that's why I remember my father's young, tall, skinny and strong arm around my elderly mother tired and sweet. I remember Brother Salvador with his cassock military harassing my elderly mother, tired and sweet and scurrilous policemen insulting my mother alone, tired and sweet. But mostly I remember a child full of complicity with his elderly mother, tired and sweet, which can not remember how I said was: young, strong and sweet. Ah! They tried to alter the order of things, modify the designs of the Lord knowing that non est potestas nisi a Deo and we had to teach a new order to the lawless. We had to glorify our victory.
When I returned, Father, mash misfortunes and sins, seeking forgiveness to the seminar, maybe your forgiveness would have been better than long test that you, my teachers, decides. My training was superior to nearly all my comrades, but I gladly accepted as a teacher join Infants and Preparatory College of the Holy Family. (...) I joined a minor order in which to forget my follies and regain the light. (...) It all started with a stranger among kindergarten students. (...)
Now I can talk about everything, but I have trouble remember, because memory is diluted, but the nausea that gives me my childhood. I remember those years as a vast living in a mirror, something that I had the misfortune to experience and observe at the same time. On this side of the mirror was the pretense, make-believe. The other, what really happened. (...) There was a world
named Alcalá 177 and the third floor, point C, it was my land. (...) But of all the memories, which prevails over that I had a father hiding in a closet.
Today I think, Father, that I noticed something that distinguishes them from others: it was a sad child but with a strange serenity for their age. In games without discord, without submission obedience in their interest in learning and pride to know, in their silence ... (...) We were asking love for their country and we returned his silence! (...)
My home was distributed to both sides of an aisle. (...) Of all noises, including all voices, including all expressions of life around us, my father, my mother and I were perfectly cataloged foreshadowing the danger and reflecting routine. No one ever alluded to these silences that the lift caused, as nobody made any comment when my father, if someone called at our door, hid in a cupboard behind a toilet two tables on either side of a mirror. "
Alberto Mendez, Fourth loss: 1942 or The Blind Sunflowers
Alberto Mendez, The Blind Sunflowers, Barcelona, \u200b\u200bEditorial Anagram, 2004. ISBN9-788433-968555
.. .
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| Warlords © Johanna Lozoya |
José Saramago, fragmento de texto en Revista Número , Bogotá, núm. 44, marzo-mayo de 2005, publicado en El País , sábado 2 de octubre de 2010.
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