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sábado, 6 de diciembre de 2014

Voluntary death was a part of the way she led her life... Jean Améry


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Voluntary death was a part of the way she led her life and she often spoke ironically about it herself. I never took her repeatedly new attempts seriously. Then we lost contact with one another and didn't see each other any more, until one day the news came that Else G. had poisoned herself: she was found dead in a hotel room in Amsterdam. Amsterdam, windy and foggy city of water and death, a backdrop well-chosen for dying, better than Venice. - One day I'll do it, this woman always said, with an uncertain sound to her voice and a thin, scoffing smile; now all at once it had the background of Amsterdam's reality.

-Jean Améry 


I knew a man... Jean Améry

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I knew  a man who took a good number of sleeping pills because of a marital squabble, was "rescued" by pure chance, lay in a coma for twenty-four hours, and still lives today. He was dragged to a neurologist who was a friend of his and who wisely said, "Don't you realize that things like domestic quarrels, tears, and reconciliations belong to vaudeville?" A trifle had escaped the doctor: what is to be called vaudeville and what is to be called tragedy is decided by the author. 

-Jean Améry


jueves, 4 de diciembre de 2014

Aún no se acaba, poema en Nalgas y Libros





Aún no se acaba                             

                                 Para Colin


A nuestra edad sabemos que nada es para siempre
así que saltamos arriesgando nuestro esqueleto
para sentir la furia y la rabia antes del fin;
cuando estamos a punto de tocar el suelo, nos reimos.
Luego cuento los golpes en tu espalda
y tú cuentas los míos
el dolor nunca se sintió tan bien:
una vez más – diremos
aún no se acaba.

Nadie me dijo que el destino
tenía tu rostro.

Te veré de nuevo
en el futuro
o en algún otro lugar
en un café, en la calle, en un cuarto oscuro
te reconoceré leyendo Kundera a la sombra de un árbol
veré tu sonrisa sobre un puente
Sonreirás burlonamente mientras te vas
sabiendo que te haré el amor
hasta morir juntos en una isla remota.

¿Qué puede significar la muerte después de esto?

No te conozco ni te conoceré
pero veré tu rostro en todos los rostros de todos los extranos por venir
esa es la predecible enfermedad del amor
una infinita repetición del objet petit a
seguiré intentando encontrar tu mirada
en todos lados
como un junkie sin dientes
que ha perdido esperanza en todo
salvo en su búsqueda.


Y probaré cuerpos y escupiré a sus pies
cuando descubra que el olor no es el tuyo
que sus ojos no son los tuyos
que su roce no es tu roce
y abandonaré cadáveres
buscando, buscando
Y te escribiré hasta que la ausencia
de lenguaje me hiera
hasta que me canse
de escribir tu nombre.


Debes entenderme
yo ya  he perdido contacto
con todas las que fui
antes de que llegaras
no hay lugar donde volver
y tú eres lo único que queda
entre este frío y yo.


El olvido será otra cosa:
 una colección de recuerdos.
El futuro
ah!
un grito de rebelión
en su contra.


Para poder amarnos
-como lo hemos hecho-
ocurrió toda una colección
de pequenas coincidencias
una noche tú decidiste quedarte
esa noche yo decidí ir
un texto y eso no habría pasado
una llamada y te habrías ido
un e-mail no enviado y toda esta historia
sería parte de todas las historias
que debieron suceder pero nunca lo hicieron.


Y sobrevivimos al amor
como el que sobrevive una catástrofe aérea:
pelo desordenado, zapatos rotos
y una expresión de shock en nuestros rostros
y nos disculpamos por esperar tanto tiempo
para sentir tanto.


Gelman dijo:
No es para quedarnos en casa que hacemos una casa,
no es para quedarnos en el amor que amamos
.’
Y puede que sea verdad,
pero amo al que eres ahora
y al que serás
amo al que encontré
y al que encontraré.

Una vez más – diremos -
aún no se acaba.


CR


It's not over yet (CR) (trad.)

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No te conozco, ni te conoceré
pero veré tu rostro en todos los rostros
 de todos los extranos por venir
esa es la predecible enfermedad del amor
una infinita repetición del Objet Petit a.

CR


Mourning... Jean Améry

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Mourning decreases with time, one can't live with the dead.

Jean Améry



Sentarse sobre la herida y pedir tiempo.


CR


Jean Améry, Fragment from his essay On Suicide

Jean Amery


The Road to The Open

... Still: a requirement of life is here - and not only here- the demand to escape a life lacking in dignity, humanity, and freedom. And so death becomes life, just as from the moment of birth life is already a process of dying. And now negation all at once becomes something positive, even if good for nothing. Logic and dialectic fail in tragicomic agreement. What counts is the option of the subject. But the survivors are right: for what are dignity, humanity, and freedom in preference to smiling, breathing, and striding? What is value against right and being correct? Dignity in opposition to the provision of every form of being dignified? And humanity against a human being as a living, smiling, breathing, striding creature?

Things don't go well with potential suicides and haven't turned out the best for suicides. We ought not  to deny them respect for what they have done and left undone., we ought not to deny them concern, especially since we ourselves do not cut such a splendid figure. We look lamentable, anyone can see that. And so, subdued and in an orderly manner, with lowered heads, we want to offer a lament for those who departed from us in freedom.

- Jean Améry

martes, 2 de diciembre de 2014

A daughter's unattainable freedom (I)



It’s time for you to be responsible
to stop dreaming of utopias and poems
this is life, you hear me?
it’s not literature.

Sit down properly
obey the law
smile at those who give you compliments
smile at those who don’t.

Do not use strangers’ toilets
unless you need to puke your food
comply and please others
do not please yourself
that’s how she taught her
the meaning of the word sacrifice.

Innocence, the corrupted virtue
of the daughter
sleeps in a bed of withered flowers
she did not learn how to fake chastity.

Feel indebted to me forever
and learn that the worst neurosis
is that of a mother convinced that
 she’s given up everything for her daughter.


Genealogy creates the worst kind of slaves
the emotionally indebted descendants,
those raised in the shadow of a reactionary spasm
- sentimentalism over reason -
a crown and a whip
for the unattainable freedom of the daughter.


CR


She... CR

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She vomited on her mother’s promises and principles.

CR


A daughter's unattainable freedom

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It’s time for you to be responsible
to stop dreaming of utopias and poems
this is life, you hear me?
it’s not literature. 

CR


I Lost (CR)

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I’ll see you in the future
she said
waving her right hand and moving away
how to forget a story like that
how to confront reality for what it was.

We respect your decision
they say
but still we will impose you ours
that’s what honesty means these days.

What type of stupidity leads men to abandon their beliefs
what type of society rots its members into uniformity
you’re enslaved to conform
you’re enslaved to make them happy.

Ostracism: that’s all you will get for following your own path
be ready for exclusion
be ready for oblivion
or die complying with their rules.

She hated them
and she hated everything they loved and made her love
but still when the time came
she said goodbye.

I’ll see you in the future
she said
knowing that the future was always a step ahead
and she’ll never be able to reach it.

She’ll live her days recalling every moment she had lost
frustration, guilt and pity eating her inside
hatred wrinkling her skin
pain intoxicating her lungs.

Where has her life gone to
take me there
she would cry during the nightmarish nights
but there was no healing.

She sits on her scars and pleads for more time
while knowing it is precisely time she’s lacking
she remembers so well
and her memories are praying mantis eating their partners.

I’ve been a tool
an instrument that kills and tickles at the same time
I made everyone die and laugh
but I forgot to die and laugh myself.


I lost.


CR


lunes, 24 de noviembre de 2014

Todo lo que ahora somos: Poema de este mes en Nalgas y Libros





‘why there was so much fury in your soul
against a love that was so chaste.’
- Pier Paolo Pasolini


Todo lo que ahora somos


Hubo un ejército de mujeres desnudas
que en plena invasión soviética
ocuparon una habitación de espejos
para admirar sus cuerpos.
Una imagen implacable y terrible
que mezclaba tanques militares
en las ventanillas
y clítoris erectos en los reflejos.
En el 68 Praga pulverizaba su mirada con rosas,
la rebelión la escribía Alejandra en el 62.
Allí se convencieron que el amor sin violencia
no era posible
y aprendieron a amarse con rabia
y prometieron no subyugarse a ningún amor sobrio.
Se cortaron el cordón de la esperanza
sabían que la maldad se contagiaba pronto
y que poco de lo que contemplaban
sobreviviría el pasar del tiempo,
en sus pubis enredaron promesas
que estaban destinadas a no ser.
Anárquicas como el poder
se concedieron la crueldad de la pureza,
mezclaron sus salivas y sus lenguas
y en cuclillas ensuciaron sus espíritus
esperando una libertad que tardaría
anos en nacer.
Juraron no perder la memoria
pues a su colección de muertes
 no podía sumarse el olvido.
Y en la jaula creció un pájaro
al sonido de las botas y fusiles
dispuestoa  ofrecer compasión y sufrimiento
en las mismas cantidades
Anos más tarde
los fantasmas deambulan por la casa
y en sus risas rechazan todo lo que ahora somos:
no fue el olvido sino la nostalgia
lo que nos llevó a morir de nuevo.


 CR


Hay un cuerpo vacío que habita el miedo CR

          
Pasolini Teorema


 Hay un cuerpo vacío que habita el miedo

Saboreo el miedo entre mis labios
lo muerdo como se muerde una fruta:
su cáscara se tritura entre mis dientes
sus jugos corren por mis labios
mientras me tambaleo en la cornisa
de un edificio de squatters.

Hay una casa vacía que antes habitaba el miedo.

¿A dónde vas?
 Cuenta una voz que me preguntaron un día
y yo contesté que iba a otro lado
como para evitar otra pregunta
como para huir de las excusas.
Cierro los ojos y tengo miedo
y sé que es el miedo mi única sustancia
y ahora lo mastico, lo digiero
con tortuosa intimidad narcisista;
cierro las cortinas.
Puedo ver el futuro y puedo ver su final
veo sangre derramada en la arena
Pasolini vio al futuro en Canterbury
antes de ser asesinado en el 75.

Hay un cuerpo vacío que habita el miedo.

Se acaba el tiempo contenido en el ego
¿Cómo explicarlo?
son los límites del ser
los que determinan los límites del lenguaje
¿Qué es el lenguaje sino una invención?
llena de los ecos y defectos del ser que la inventó
no es suficiente,
el lenguaje no nos permite describir la verdad:
ni el lenguaje, ni el ser;
el ser no es verdad ni puede expresarla.

Este cuerpo está vacío
solo lo ocupa el miedo
¿Y a dónde huir?
Mastico el miedo que es mi sustancia
por lo tanto
me mastico con un narcisismo patológico
mato mi ego matando a mi cuerpo
es la única forma de escapar.

¿A dónde vas? Me preguntaron
respondí que iba a otro lado
¿Cómo explicarle que el miedo me habitaba
y no podía ir a ningún lugar?
Silencio.
mi enorme resistencia me causa fatiga
¿Cuándo?
pregunto todos los días.
¿Vendrá acaso el remordimiento
a romper con la paz de los muertos?



CR


Warsan Shire Fragment




You’ll have to be careful. My otherness will ruin you, spoil you. After me, all else will taste redundant.

-Warsan Shire


jueves, 13 de noviembre de 2014

Fragment by Jean Amery: On Suicide




Who am I? The body that also is already slipping away. Still more precisely: the face, which is body and perhaps more than that. It wants to see itself in the mirror when someone dies by his or her own hand (people who shoot themselves are often found in their blood in front of a mirror). If the face finds itself, it finds eyes that now strain to stare at each other in fours, a mouth distorted by fear...

"So that's what I am. But why am I that?" The ego's experience of horror in front of the mirror is not reserved for the suicidal. It also turns up as an everyday phenomenon and, by the way, can hardly ever be produced by a willful decision. As soon as it happens, it has the character of a sudden fall.



-Jean Améry, On Suicide


martes, 11 de noviembre de 2014

My notes from Kundera Part VII of Immortality







1.       ‘There is nothing more useless,’ Avenarius said, ‘than trying to prove something to idiots.’

2.       … but that enormous perfection overwhelms us, it surpasses the capacity of our memory…

3.       It was necessary at last to end the terror of the immortals.

4.       ‘I don’t deny those symphonies their perfection,’ continued Paul. ‘I only deny the importance of that perfection. Those super-sublime symphonies are nothing but cathedrals of the useless. They are inaccessible to man. They are inhuman. We exaggerated their significance. They made us feel inferior. Europe reduced Europe to fifty works of genius which it never understood. Just think of this outrageous inequality: millions of Europeans signifying nothing, against fifty names signifying everything! Class inequality is but an insignificant shortcoming compared to this insulting metaphysical inequality, which turns some into grains of sand while endowing others with the meaning of being!’

5.       … she blushed, it is a beautiful thing when a woman blushes; at that instant her body no longer belongs to her; she doesn’t control it; she is at its mercy; oh, can there be anything more beautiful than the sight of a woman violated by her own body!

6.       ‘Literature will die out, and stupid poetic phrases will remain to drift over the world,’ I remarked.


7.       And at that moment I understood him at last: if we cannot accept the importance of the world, which considers itself important, if in the midst of that world our laughter finds no echo, we have but one choice: to take the world as a whole and make it the object of our game; to turn it into a toy.


-Milan Kundera


My notes from Kundera Part II Immortality





1.       They used to say about the mayor of a certain Moravian village, which I often visited on boyhood outings, that he had an open coffin at home and that in happy moments when he felt well satisfied with himself, he would lie down in it and visualize his funeral. These reveries in the coffin: he dwelt on his immortality.

2.       … he wanted to resemble the dead, which was much wiser, for death and immortality are an indissoluble pair of lovers, and the person whose face merges in our mind with the faces of the dead is already immortal while still alive.

3.       A man longs to be immortal, and one day the camera will show us a mouth contorted into a pathetic grimace – the only thing we will remember about him, the only thing which will remain as a parabola of his entire life.

4.       Even when no lens was aimed at them, people already behaved as if they were being photographed.

5.       Napoleon was a true Frenchman in that he was not satisfied with sending hundreds of thousands to their death but wanted in addition to be admired by writers.

6.       To carry the shield of childhood in front of her: that was her life-long ruse.

7.       Strength is ebbing, and a person is seized by disarming fatigue. Fatigue: a silent bridge leading from the shore of life to the shore of death. At that stage death is so close that looking at it has already become boring.

8.       Man reckons with immortality, and forgets to reckon with death.

9.       Does love for art really exist and has it ever existed? Is it not a delusion? When Lenin proclaimed that he loved Beethoven’s Appasionata above all else, what was it that he really loved? What did he hear? Music? Or a majestic noise which reminded him of the solemn stirrings in his soul, a longing for blood, brotherhood, executions, justice and the absolute?

10.   Did [Bettina] love [Beethoven’s] music with the quiet love that draws us to a magical metaphor or to the harmony of two colours in a painting? Or was it rather the kind of aggressive passion that makes us join political parties?

11.   … even though it is possible to design, manipulate and orchestrate one’s immortality in advance, it never comes to pass the way it has been intended. Beethoven’s hat became immortal. The plan succeeded. But what the significance of the immortal hat turn out to be, that could not be determined in advance.

12.   I realized one day that this was the point of it all, I panicked. From that time on I must have told people a thousand times to leave my life alone. [Hemingway]

13.   A man can take his own life. But he cannot take his own immortality.


14.   But the word ‘dearest’ only means that he was dearer to him than all others, who frankly speaking were not so very dear to him at all.


-Milan Kundera


My notes from Kundera part I of Immortality

Estas son mis notas de la parte I de immortality, finalmente me he podido sentar a pasarlas. Son muchísimas pero las iré compartiendo poco a poco.
Kusjes!

C.

Francis Bacon


1.       There is a certain part of all of us that lives outside of time. Perhaps we become aware of our age only at exceptional moments and most of the time ewe are ageless.

2.       And I  understand him: is the one deep yearning of our lives: to let everybody consider us great sinners! Let our vices be compared to thunderstorms, tornadoes, hurricanes!

3.       Why all this passion? Agnes asked herself, and she thought: When we are thrust out into the world just as we are, we first have to identify with that particular throw of the dice, with that accident organized by the divine computer: to get over our surprise that precisely this (what we see facing us in the mirror) is our self. Without the faith that our face expresses our self, without that basic illusion, that arch-illusion, we cannot live or at least we cannot take life seriously.

4.       Eternity as the sound of endless babble: one could of course imagine worse things, but the idea of hearing women’s voices forever, continuously, without end, gave her sufficient incentive to cling furiously to life and to do everything in her power to keep death as far as possible.
5.       ….and a person can die with a vague yet justified hope.

6.       It was as if through his will he had wanted to tell them to kindly forget him.

7.       Agnes recalled the young woman who had entered the sauna a few hours earlier and, in order to introduce herself, and to force it upon others, had announced the moment she walked through the door that she hated hot showers and modesty. Agnes was certain that it was exactly the same impulse that led the black-haired girl to remove the silencer from her motorcycle. It wasn’t the machine that made the noise, it was the self of the black-haired girl; in order to be heard, in order to penetrate the consciousness of others, she attached the noisy exhaust of the engine to her soul.

8.       The world is at some sort of border; if it is crossed everything will turn to madness…

9.       Someone on a top floor had evidently opened a window and turned up the volume all the way, so that Bach’s severe beauty sounded a warning to a world that had gone awry.

10.   Hate traps us by binding us too tightly to our adversary. This is the obscenity of war: the intimacy of mutually shed blood, the lascivious proximity of two soldiers who, eye to eye, bayonet each other. Agnes was sure: it was precisely this kind of intimacy that her father found repugnant. The melée on the ship filled him with such disgust that he preferred to drown. The physical contact with people who struck and trampled and killed one another seemed far worse to him than a solitary death in the purity of the waters.

11.   I cannot hate them because nothing binds me to them; I have nothing in common with them.


12.   For the first time in history, the defeated were not allowed a scrap of glory: not even the painful glory of the shipwrecked.


13.       The purpose of the poetry is not to dazzle us with an astonishing thought, but to make one moment of existence unforgettable and worthy of unbearable nostalgia.

14.       Yes, the most important thing was that nobody looked at her. Solitude: a sweet absence of looks.

15.       Since then she knew that looks were like weights that pressed her down to the ground, or like kisses that sucked her strength; that looks were needles which etched the wrinkles in her face.

16.       But they were wrong: even though she had no lover there, Switzerland was the one deep and systematic act of betrayal she committed against them.

17.       … and even drafted a letter in her mind in which she announced to her daughter and husband that although she still loved them she had decided to live alone, without them.

18.       This was the most difficult thing to express and to explain: that she needed to know how they were, even though at the same time she had no desire whatever to see them or to be with them.

19.       That was perhaps the first time that she experienced the pleasure, the strange delight that people feel when they are being watched, watched against their will, watched in intimate moments, violated by the looks to which they are exposed.

20.       Life has changed into one vas partouze in which everyone takes part.

21.       Even though she wasn’t in any real danger, she could not rid herself of anxiety because one second of her life, instead of dissolving into nothingness like all other seconds of life, would remain torn out of the course of time and some stupid coincidence would make it come back to haunt her like the badly buried dead.

22.   And she once again had the strong, peculiar feeling that was coming over her more and more often: the feeling that she had nothing in common with those two-legged creatures with a head on their shoulders and a mouth in their face. There was a time when she was interested in their politics, their science, their inventions, when she considered herself a small part of their great adventure, until one day the feeling was born in her that she did not belong among them.

23.   She was no longer able to torment herself with thoughts of their wars nor to enjoy their celebrations, because she was filled with the conviction that none of it was her concern.

24.   Non-solidarity with mankind: that was her attitude. Only one thing could wrench her out of it: concrete love towards a concrete person.

25.   That’s well known all over, that the Earth is horrible.


Milan Kundera


lunes, 10 de noviembre de 2014

Secuencias (de Efectos Automáticos)










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Milan Kundera, fragment from immortality

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He said good-bye to her and as she disappeared round the corner of the street he was seized by a strong, tormenting nostalgia for the women of his past. It was as brutal and unexpected as a disease that breaks out, in one second, without warning.
He slowly began to realize what it was about. The hand on the dial had touched a new number. He heard the clock strike, saw the little window open and, thanks to the mysterious medieval mechanism, a woman in huge tennis shoes came out. Her appearance meant that his longing made a volte-face; he would no longer yearn for new women; he would only yearn for women he had already had; from now on, his longing would be an obsession with the past.

He saw beautiful women walking down the street and was startled that he paid no attention to them. I even believe that they noticed him, and he didn’t know it. Before he had yearned only for new women. He had yearned for them to such a degree that with some of them he had made love only once and no more. As if he were now destined to atone for his obsession with the new, his indifference to everything lasting and stable, his foolish impatience that drove him forward, he now wished to turn himself round, to find the women of his past, to repeat their love-making, to carry it further, to make it yield all that had been left unexploited. He realized that from now on great excitements were to be found only behind him, and if he wanted to find new excitements he would have to turn to his past.

-Milan Kundera

From ILMB

I love my bitch 

From I love my Bitch



I Love my Bitch

Niveles de distorsión (I)




Niveles de distorsión:

 En un salón de clases de una película argentina que vi en el festival de cine de Ámsterdam en el 2012,  estudia el hijo de un hombre de izquierda, la maestra pregunta "¿Qué le trajeron los espanoles a América?", pasa un tiempo y nadie responde, una nina se aventura a decir tímidamente: ¿espejos?; la maestra visiblemente irritada se voltea y escribe en la pizarra la palabra 'CIVILIZACIÓN' y afirma en voz alta:  "civilización ninos, los espanoles le entregaron a América la civilización."


CR 


Baudelaire, Intoxication




Baudelaire The Artist's Confiteor




sábado, 8 de noviembre de 2014

Milan Kundera sobre el exilio como liberación

Este ensayo pertenece a su libro más reciente de ensayos "Encounter" es del ano 2010; esta es una traducción no oficial. Kundera no necesita publicidad pero cómprenlo es fascinante.

Kusjes!
C.







Kundera on Exile as Liberation








And a child will be born





And a child will be born



The winds will blow their faces
cries and history will unite them
they’ll meet death early one day.

The steps will create constellations of blood
a car will break down in the middle of the path
in a city on fire
a couple will make love among the ruins.

The immortals will raise their swords
against defeat
when they learn that love dies too
and they are to survive it.

An era of revolutions will surpass their disappointment.

I’ll be nothing 
and salvation will come
 through self-denial
when the age of tragedy comes to an end.

And a child will be born in 1989
she’ll survive the buffeting from life
and she’ll quickly learn to fear people.


 She’ll die young
mocking tragedy and frivolity
humans won’t find a hint of peace
on her pale face.



CR