miércoles, 27 de agosto de 2014

Georges Bataille fragment from Story of the Eye (My favourite)

Still from Tears of Eros by Peggy Ahwesh, 1996 

I will merely report here that Marcelle hanged herself after a dreadful incident. She recognized the huge bridal wardrobe, and her teeth started chattering: she instantly realized upon looking at me that I was the man she called the Cardinal, and when she began shrieking, there was no other way for me to stop that desperate howling than to leave the room. By the time Simone and I returned she was hanging inside the wardrobe...

I cut the rope, but she was quite dead. We laid her out on the carpet. Simone saw I was getting a hard-on and she started tossing me off. I too stretched out on the carpet. It was impossible to do otherwise; Simone was still a virgin, and I fucked her for the first time, next to the corpse. It was very painful for both of us, but we were glad precisely because it was painful. Simone stood up and gazed at the corpse. Marcelle had become a total stranger, and in fact, so had Simone at that moment. I no longer cared at all for either Simone or Marcelle. Even if someone had told me it was I who had just died, I would not even have been astonished, so alien were these events to me. I observed Simone, and, as I precisely recall, my only pleasure was in the smutty things Simone was doing, for the corpse was very irritating to her, as though she could not bear the thought that this creature, so similar to her, could not feel her anymore. The open eyes were more irritating than anything else. Even when Simone drenched the face, those eyes, extraordinarily, did not close. We were perfectly calm, all three of us, and that was the most hopeless part of it. Any boredom in the world is linked, for me, to that moment and, above all, to an obstacle as ridiculous as death. But that won't prevent me from thinking back to that time with no revulsion and even with a sense of complicity.


As for the fact that Simone dared to piss on the corpse, whether in boredom or, at worst, in irritation: it mainly goes to prove how impossible it was for us to understand what was happening, and of course, it is no more understandable today than it was then. Simone, being truly incapable of conceiving death such as one normally consideres it, was frightened and furious, but in no way awe-struck. Marcelle belonged to us so deeply in our isolation that we could not see her as just another corpse. Nothing about her death could be measured by a common standard, and the contradictory impulses overtaking us in this circumstance neutralized one another, leaving us blind and, as it were, very remote from anything we touched, in a world where gestures have no carrying power, like voices in a space that is absolutely soundless. 

-Georges Bataille

Yo también...

Hans Bellmer - Studies for Georges Bataille’s “L’Histoire de l’oeil” 1946

Yo también confundo a la luna con la sangre menstrual de las madres. 


Georges Bataille on The Open Eyes of the Dead Woman, in Story of the Eye

Histoire de l’oeil by Hans Bellmer, 1946

But since she is dead, I have nothing left but certain catastrophes that bring me to her at times when I least expect it.

- Georges Bataille

Fragment on The Open Eyes of the Dead Woman, in Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille

Aguafuerte de Hans Bellmer

I associate the moon with the vaginal blood of mothers, sisters, that is, the menstrua with their sickening stench.
loved Marcelle without mourning her.

-Georges Bataille

Georges Bataille fragment on Marcelle in the Story of the Eye

Hans Bellmer, Studies for Georges Bataille’s “L’Histoire de l’oeil”, 1946

We were lying in the moonlight by the edge of a forest. We wanted to rest a while during our trip back and we especially wanted to embrace and stare at Marcelle.
"But who is the Cardinal?" Simone asked her.
"The man who locked me in the wardrobe," said Marcelle.
"But why is he a Cardinal?" I cried.
She replied: "Because he is the priest of the guillotine."

- Georges Bataille 

Fragment Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille

I never linger over such memories, for they have long since lost any emotional significance for me. There was no way I could restore them to life except by transforming them and making them unrecognizable, at first glance, to my eyes, solely because during that deformation they acquired the lewdesr of meanings. 

 -Georges Bataille

Ch. 45


Conté siete tormentas ese día (CR)

Conté siete tormentas ese día

Mi boca entreabierta, mis ojos cerrados 
y su lengua regresando por mi espalda;
conté siete tormentas ese día.
Nuestras piernas se enredaban,
y la muerte nos miraba
 con sus pies descalzos;
la paz era su pecho,
y su pecho era una ciudad 
llena de tumbas oscuras.
Ese día los cadáveres desnudos cayeron del cielo.
Él y yo hacíamos el amor
entre sudores
y contemplábamos la miseria del mundo
entre gemidos.
Buscamos puentes para entendernos
pero debajo de ellos 
solo vivían promesas vacías.
Ese día los cadáveres desnudos cayeron del cielo
y les dejaron pudrirse bajo el sol del verano
a 34 grados centígrados.
Él y yo guindamos corazones
en rejas fronterizas
de patrias extranjeras
como quien cuelga una bandera
después de una guerra
como quien se amarra una soga al cuello
y se deja caer.

- CR

Poema Última Carta de León Gil (Poemario: Del Huerto de Van Gogh



Pues bien, por mi trabajo arriesgo
mi vida y mi razón destruida a medias.
Vincent van Gogh

Mi querido Theo

El círculo cromático en Arles
definitivamente me atrapó
y no encuentro en el azul
la puerta que da al cielo
ni logra el amarillo
proyectarme al sol
pero espero que este rojo
anémico y febril
con que mancho Auvers-Sur-Oise
me dé al fin la libertad

-León Gil

Poema Cronografía de León Gil (Poemario Del Huerto de Van Gogh)

Van Gogh, The night Cafe 1888


Hoy me desayuné con rojo
violeta azul amarillo y verde
y en lugar de café con crema
me bebí la sangre 
y alma de cada lámpara
yo era un arco iris
y una antorcha
pero me dolía terriblemente
porque has de saber 
mi querido Theo
cuesta mucho ser una estrella

-León Gil

Maldición Cromática, un poema de León Gil de su poemario Del huerto de Van Gogh

Van Gogh, detail, 1890


encontró el color de las vocales
y Van Gogh
el color de las pasiones
pero no sabemos qué ocurrió:
¿por qué el poeta quedó mudo
y fulminado el pintor?

-León Gil

Fragment Footnote to Howl Allen Ginsberg

Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
The world is holy! The soul is holy! The SKIN is holy! The nose is holy! The tongue and cock and hand and asshole holy!
Everything is holy! everybody’s holy! everywhere is holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman’s an angel!
The bum’s as holy as the seraphim! the madman is holy as you my soul are holy!


Holy Moscow Holy Istambul!
Holy time in eternity holy eternity in time holy the clocks in space holy the fourth dimension holy the fifth International holy the Angel in Moloch!
Holy the sea holy the desert holy the railroad holy the locomotive holy the visions holy the hallucinations holy the miracles holy the eyeball holy the abyss!
Holy forgiveness! mercy! charity! faith! Holy! Ours! bodies! suffering! magnanimity!
Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent kindness of the soul!

Berkeley 1955

- Allen Ginsberg

Rainer Maria Rilke The Ninth Elegy (complete)

Why, if this interval of being can be spent serenely
in the form of a laurel, slightly darker than all
other green, with tiny waves on the edges
of every leaf (like the smile of a breeze)–: why then
have to be human–and, escaping from fate,
keep longing for fate? . . .
Oh not because happiness exists,
that too-hasty profit snatched from approaching loss.
Not out of curiosity, not as practice for the heart, which
would exist in the laurel too. . . . .
But because truly being here is so much; because everything here
apparently needs us, this fleeting world, which in some strange way
keeps calling to us. Us, the most fleeting of all.
Once for each thing. Just once; no more. And we too,
just once. And never again. But to have been
this once, completely, even if only once:
to have been one with the earth, seems beyond undoing.
And so we keep pressing on, trying to achieve it,
trying to hold it firmly in our simple hands,
in our overcrowded gaze, in our speechless heart.
Trying to become it.–Whom can we give it to? We would
hold on to it all, forever . . . Ah, but what can we take along
into that other realm? Not the art of looking,
which is learned so slowly, and nothing that happened here. Nothing.
The sufferings, then. And above all, the heaviness,
and the long experience of love,– just what is wholly
unsayable. But later, among the stars,
what good is it–they are better as they are: unsayable.
For when the traveler returns from the mountain-slopes into the valley,
he BINGS, not a handful of earth, unsayable to others, but instead
some word he has gained, some pure word, the yellow and blue
gentian. Perhaps we are here in order to say: house,
bridge, fountain, gate, pitcher, fruit-tree, window–
at most: column, tower. . . . But to say them, you must understand,
oh to say them more intensely than the Things themselves
ever dreamed of existing. Isn’t the secret intent
of this taciturn earth, when it forces lovers together,
that inside their boundless emotion all things may shudder with joy?
Threshold: what it means for two lovers
to be wearing down, imperceptibly, the ancient threshold of their door–
they too, after the many who came before them
and before those to come. . . . ., lightly.
Here is the time for the sayable, here is its homeland.
Speak and bear witness. More than ever
the Things that we might experience are vanishing, for
what crowds them out and replaces them is an imageless act.
An act under a shell, which easily cracks open as soon as
the business inside outgrows it and seeks new limits.
Between the hammers our heart
endures, just as the tongue does
between the teeth and, despite that,
still is able to praise.
Praise this world to the angel, not the unsayable one,
you can’t impress him with glorious emotion; in the universe
where he feels more powerfully, you are a novice. So show him
something simple which, formed over generations,
lives as our own, near our hand and within our gaze.
Tell him of Things. He will stand astonished; as you stood
by the ropemaker in Rome or the potter along the Nile.
Show him how happy a Thing can be, how innocent and ours,
how even lamenting grief purely decides to take form,
serves as a Thing, or dies into a Thing–, and blissfully
escapes far beyond the violin.–And these Things,
which live by perishing, know you are praising them; transient,
they look to us for deliverance: us, the most transient of all.
They want us to change them, utterly, in our invisible heart,
within–oh endlessly–within us! Whoever we may be at last.
Earth, isn’t this what you want: to arise within us,
invisible? Isn’t it your dream
to be wholly invisible someday?–O Earth: invisible!
What, if not transformation, is your urgent command?
Earth, my dearest, I will. Oh believe me, you no longer
need your springtimes to win me over–one of them,
ah, even one, is already too much for my blood.
Unspeakably I have belonged to you, from the first.
You were always right, and your holiest inspiration
is our intimate companion, Death.
Look, I am living. On what? Neither childhood nor future
grows any smaller . . . . . Superabundant being
wells up in my heart.

Translated by Stephen Mitchell

-Rainer Maria Rilke

Fragment the Ninth Elegy by Rainer Maria Rilke

But because truly being here is so much; because everything here
apparently needs us, this fleeting world, which in some strange way
keeps calling to us. Us, the most fleeting of all.
Once for each thing. Just once; no more. And we too,
just once. And never again.

- Rainer Maria Rilke

jueves, 14 de agosto de 2014

Y nos sigue instruyendo Roberto Arlt

Tod Browning’s Freaks

Me dirá usted: “¿Y si me equivoco?”. No tiene importancia. Uno se equivoca cuando tiene que equivocarse. Ni un minuto antes ni un minuto después. ¿Por qué? Porque así lo ha dispuesto la vida, que es esa fuerza misteriosa. Si usted se ha equivocado sinceramente, lo perdonarán. O no lo perdonarán. Interesa poco. Usted sigue su camino.

- Roberto Arlt

Y esto nos dice Roberto Arlt en La Terrible Sinceridad

Marcel del Pozo

Interróguese siempre, en el peor minuto de su vida, lo siguiente:
-¿Soy sincero conmigo mismo?
Y si el corazón le dice que sí, y tiene que tirarse a un pozo, tírese con confianza. Siendo sincero no se va a matar. Esté segurísimo de eso.

- Roberto Arlt

Texto de María Ruiz García de su poemario Putas metamórficas

Gracias a @PamyRahn por la recomendación.
María Ruiz es una poeta venezolana, autora del poemario Putas Metamórficas, publicado por Fundarte en el ano 2012. Además fue ganadora del premio XVIII Bienal José Antonio Ramos Sucre. 

Este texto me encantó, enjoy!!



Quiero tener una casa sin zancudos, ni fantasmas.
Un cuarto ciego para la luz de las 5:45 de la tarde.
Una cama limpia de huellas y promesas.
Un lavaplatos sin cadáveres de cucarachas que se terminan comiendo las hormigas.
Una ouija para traer el arca de mis animales sepultados.
Un comedor sin motos, sin cajas de arena, sin perros muertos y, especialmente, sin humillaciones de cuchillos y tapas de ollas en los codos.
Un sofá con Alzheimer, para los yesos de colores, los pelos y las pulgas.
Unas escaleras sordas, que no guarden el eco ponzoñoso de sus muletas subiendo y bajando.
Para terminar, una almohada de agua dulce.


Buscar, escarbar los cuerpos. Agujerear las carnes, las pieles rígidas con mi andar neurótico de gusano (¿de gusana?). Recorrer los músculos y tejidos de los cadáveres y llenarme la lengua de sabor a goma. Cabeza-cola, izquierda-derecha. Túneles oscuros y húmedos, enfrente y detrás de mi cuerpo y en el otro como si todos estuviesen cifrados con los mismos códigos. Como si estuviese saltando de una pierna a un brazo del mismo muerto… Pero no: son distintos, tienen nombres distintos en las lápidas, apellidos distintos, colores de ojos distintos. Mismo olor, mismo sabor, mismo sonido del crujir de los huesos, misma digestión de carne descompuesta. Mismo ruido de bocas secas, de bocas llenas de moscas y putrefacción. Sin embargo, las biografías se difuminan cuando se encuentran entre los dientes, se amalgaman con la saliva grumosa y derivan en una mortandad homogénea, en una mortandad alimento que no alimenta, que no llena, que no sacia ni a la más minúscula y anélida de las criaturas.

-María Ruiz García

Julio Cortázar no se encuentra en casa por Ricardo Bada

...  Sólo debo precisar que mi primera llamada había sido a Julio Cortázar, en París. Pero ahí me respondió su contestador automático informándome en francés, con la voz del Gran Cronopio:

       «Julio Cortázar no se encuentra en casa por el momento. Si lo desea, puede dejar un mensaje después de oír la señal sonora». Y luego un ¡bip! escueto. De modo que le dejé un mensaje explicándole el objeto de esa llamada y diciéndole que aún quedaban un par de horas hasta la emisión del programa, que lo volvería a intentar ...

- Publicación de Ricardo Bada para la revista Fronterad.

No dejen de visitar el siguiente link de la revista Fronterad para leer el artículo completo escrito por el periodista y escritor Ricardo Bada en conmemoración - para ese entonces - del 26 aniversario de la muerte de Cortázar.


Let me scream these words with Miller: THE PRESENT IS ENOUGH FOR ME. DAY BY DAY

Miller by Michael Walker

I’ve lived out my melancholy youth. I don’t give a fuck anymore what’s behind me, or what’s ahead of me. I’m healthy. Incurably healthy. No sorrows, no regrets. No past, no future. The present is enough for me. Day by day.

- Henry Miller


There are only three things to be done with a woman. You can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature. 

- Henry Miller

Henry Miller to Anais Nin (I)

Anais, I don't know how to tell you what I feel. I live in perpetual expectancy. You come and the time slips away in a dream. It is only when you go that I realize completely your presence. And then it is too late. You numb me. [...] This is a little drunken, Anaïs. I am saying to myself "here is the first woman with whom I can be absolutely sincere." I remember your saying - "you could fool me, I wouldn't know it." When I walk along the boulevards and think of that. I can't fool you - and yet I would like to. I mean that I can never be absolutely loyal - it's not in me. I love women, or life, too much - which it is, I don't know. But laugh, Anaïs, I love to hear you laugh. You are the only woman who has a sense of gaiety, a wise tolerance - no more, you seem to urge me to betray you. I love you for that. [...]
I don't know what to expect of you, but it is something in the way of a miracle. I am going to demand everything of you - even the impossible, because you encourage it. You are really strong. I even like your deceit, your treachery. It seems aristocratic to me.

- Henry Miller on a letter to Anais Nin

The Colossus of Maroussi by Henry Miller (Fragments)

The Colossus of Maroussi is a book by Henry Miller which contains his own experience while travelling through Greece. The Colossus refers to Katsimbalis a Greek writer he met during his stay.
I loved Katsimbalis; his lack of moderation, his sensual delights; the way he affected the lives of others without imposing his authority upon them. The great event he saw in every little experience of life; as when he picks up a flower, and he made me feel that the whole universe was contained in that gesture.

I loved when Miller goes to Eleusis after spending some time in Athens, the way he describes the light running through his naked body and he says ‘there is no salvation in becoming adapted to a world which is crazy’ and the world was crazy, he was experiencing life in the midst of war. 

Then he goes to Epidaurus, and I trust peace can be touched in that place, as Miller described it. It is beautiful to understand that peace means clinging onto nothing; let go of the will to possess and be possessed, walk alone. 

One of my favorite parts of the book was the visit to the soothsayer. The liberation he felt with the soothsayer’s reading. Accept art for what it is, and for what it isn’t and let it go. It was so beautiful, so intense. I feel that Miller during his stay in Greece was a real anarchist, the spiritual anarchist we all are longing to be. In the end I think he  understood that even though we need one another in order to survive, ultimately we walk alone. This is a book focused on the self and he recognized the limitations of the self and the borders of prejudice and fear we enclosed ourselves in.

I liked it a lot!!! And here is my selection of quotes:

It’s good to be just plain happy; it’s a little better to know that you’re happy; but to understand that you’re happy and to know why and how, in what way, because of what concatenation of events or circumstances, and still be happy, be happy in the being and the knowing, well that is beyond happiness, that is bliss, and if you have any sense you ought to kill yourself on the spot and be done with it.

If men cease to believe that they will one day become gods then they will surely become worms.

When you spot anything true and clear you are at Zero. Zero is Greek for pure vision. It means what Lawrence Durrell says when he writes Ionian. It means, and now for example, I can tell you more precisely because what I am trying to describe is happening right before my very eyes …

The absence of newspapers, the absence of news about what men are doing in different parts of the world to make life, more livable or unlivable is the greatest single boon. If we could just eliminate newspapers a great advance would be made, I am sure of it. Newspapers engender lies, hatred, greed, envy, suspicion, fear, malice. We don’t need the truth as it is dished up to us in the daily papers. We need peace and solitude and idleness. If we could all go on strike and honestly disavow all interest in what our neighbor is doing we might get a new lease of life. We might learn to do without telephones and radios and newspapers, without machines of any kind, without factories, without mills, without mines, without explosives, without battleships, without politicians, without lawyers, without canned goods, without gadgets, without razor blades even or cellophane or cigarettes or money. This is a pipe dream, I know. People only go on strike for better working conditions, better wages, better opportunities to become something other than they are.

During all the years that I have been writing I have steeled myself to the idea that I would not really be accepted, at least to my own countrymen, until after my death. many times, in writing, I have looked over my own shoulder from beyond the grave, more alive to the reactions of those to come than to those of my contemporaries. A good part of my life has, in a way, been lived in the future. With regard to all that vitally concerns me I am really a dead man, alive only to a very few who, like myself, could not wait for the world to catch up with them. I do not say this out of pride or vanity, but with humility not untouched by sadness. Sadness is perhaps hardly the right word either, since I neither regret the course I have followed nor desire things to be any different than they are. I know now what the world is like and knowing I accept it, both the good and the evil. To live creatively, I have discovered, means to live more and more unselfishly, to live more and more into the world, identifying oneself with it and thus influencing it at the core, so to speak. Art, like religion, it now seems to me, is only a preparation, an initiation into the way of life. The goal is liberation, freedom, which means assuming greater responsibility.

There was a terrific synchronization of dream and reality, the two worlds merging in a bowl of pure light, and we the voyagers suspended, as it were, over the earthly life.

It was an extraordinary dream of death and transfiguration in which he had risen up out of his own body and gone out of the world.

there are a thousand ways of talking and words don’t help if the spirit is absent…we understood one another even with the wrong words.

The task of genius, and man is nothing if not genius, is to keep miracle alive, to live always in the miracle, to make the miracle more and more miraculous, to swear allegiance to nothing, but live only miraculously, think only miraculously, die miraculously. It matters little how much is destroyed, if only the germ of the miraculous be preserved and nurtured.

The enemy of man is not germs but man himself, his pride, his prejudices, his stupidity, his arrogance. No class is immune, no system holds a panacea. Each one individually must revolt against a way of life which is not his own…It is not enough to overthrow governments, masters, tyrants: one must overthrow his own preconceived ideas of right and wrong, good and bad, just and unjust.

The best stories I have heard were pointless, the best books those whose plot I can never remember, the best individuals those whom I never get anywhere with. Though it has been practiced on me time and again I never cease to marvel how it happens that with certain individuals whom I know, within a few minutes after greeting them we are embarked on an endless voyage comparable in feeling and trajectory only to the deep middle dream which the practiced dreamer slips into like a bone slips into its sockets.

At that moment I rejoiced that I was free of possessions, free of all•ties, free of fear and envy and malice. I could have passed quietly from one dream to another, owning nothing, regretting nothing, wishing nothing. I was never more certain that life and death are one and that neither can be enjoyed or embraced if the other be absent.

The man who was talking had ceased to be of human size or proportions but had become a Colossus whose silhouette swooned backwards and forwards with the deep droning rhythm of his drug-laden phrases. He went on and on and on, unhurried, unruffled, inexhaustible, inextinguishable, a voice that had taken form and shape and substance, a figure that had outgrown its human frame, a silhouette whose reverberations rumbled in the depths of the distant mountain sides.

To be free, as I then knew myself to be, is to realize that all conquest is vain, even the conquest of self, which is the last act of egotism.

To be joyous is to carry the ego to its last summit and to deliver it triumphantly. To know peace is total: it is the moment after, when the surrender is complete, when there is no longer even the consciousness of surrender. Peace is at the center and when it is attained the voice issues forth in praise and benediction. Then the voice carries far and wide, to the outermost limits of the universe. Then it heals, because it brings light and the warmth of compassion. 

- Henry Miller

sábado, 9 de agosto de 2014

Adelanto del poemario 'El Hijo Único' de Juan Luis Landaeta

Hermoso poema del poeta venezolano Juan Luis Landaeta.

 Juan Luis nació el 29 de Diciembre de 1988, compartimos entre otras cosas, el mismo día de nacimiento. En 2009 ganó el I Concurso de Poesía y Cuento de la Escuela de Derecho de la Universidad Católica Andrés Bello por su poemario "Comercio Carnal". También recibió una Mención de Honor en el III Premio Nacional Universitario de Literatura por el libro "Destino del Viento". En 2011 con el libro "La conocida herencia de las formas" recibió una mención especial y se acordó la publicación del libro. Es abogado egresado de la Universidad Católica Andrés Bello. Cursa actualmente la Maestría de Escritura Creativa en Español ofrecida por New York University.

Este es un poema precioso y crudo, uno de mis favoritos de los muchos que ha escrito. Disfrútenlo!


Valeria Dalmon. Flickr.com

Entra mi madre en un lago del que nadie sabe nada 

ni cristalino ni plateado no devuelve reflejo alguno 

consume su piel 
y siente secas 
las palabras debajo de la lengua 

es interno este lago en el que se convierte mi madre 

todavía como una niña tensa su dedo último 
su dedo entero que es su pie 
su pie definitivamente seguro 
de que aquello es un lago 

no una capa un manto una sábana gris 

comulga mi madre segura de que aquello no es su propia ceniza 

tiene fe mi madre mucha fe 
lleva toda la semana de rodillas 
segura de que habrá algo después del retrete 
algo posterior a la primera semana 
de su tratamiento 

una mano una cobija una sábana blanca como ella 

que la envuelva la sumerja 

a la orilla de un lago que ella no conoce  
maquillada restaurada peinada mi madre 

baja al sepulcro de los cielos 

muere un lunes después 

de la santa semana santa

-Juan Luis Landaeta

La vida se vuelve casi interesante... Sándor Marai

Eartha Kitt. Photographed by Gordon Parks. (1952)

La vida se vuelve casi interesante cuando ya has aprendido las mentiras de los demás, y empiezas a disfrutar observándolos, viendo que siempre dicen otra cosa de lo que piensan, de lo que quieren de verdad…

-Sándor Marai

Cada persona tiene... Sándor Marai


Cada persona tiene a alguien, en el proceso misterioso y terrible de la vida, que es su abogado defensor, su acusador, su vigilante, su juez y al mismo tiempo su cómplice. Esa persona es su testigo.

-Sándor Marai

Sabes que la música la conmueve... Sándor Marai


Sabes que la música la conmueve. Es la única fuerza terrenal que le afecta en realidad. Por eso fui capaz de darle algo a esa infeliz: le di la música. Algunos hombres aman con el cuerpo, otros con el dinero o con el intelecto. Yo la amo con la música." La voz no supo qué contestar; calló como si aceptara mi explicación a regañadientes. "En nuestra relación, la música ha constituido un vínculo más estrecho que cualquier vínculo erótico y carnal. Tú que entiendes de todo, y me hablas desde la otra orilla, seguramente sabes qué fuerza tan inmensa posee la música. Tiene más fuerza que el beso, que la palabra, que el tacto. Lo que uno ya es incapaz de contar con el cuerpo y el espíritu, termina contándolo con la música. Yo he sido la única persona que ha sabido hablarle a ese cuerpo precioso y enfermo… ¿Acaso no lo sabías? Le hablaba con la ayuda de la música.

- Sándor Marai

No he conocido a nadie que fuera capaz de alegrarse como ella... Sándor Marai


No he conocido a nadie que fuera capaz de alegrarse como ella de las cosas sencillas de la vida: personas y animales, estrellas y libros, todo le interesaba, y su interés no se basaba en la altivez, en la pretensión de convertirse en experta, sino que se aproximaba a todo lo que la vida le daba con la alegría incondicional de una criatura que ha nacido al mundo para disfrutarlo…

-Sándor Marai

Mi mayor deseo fue... Sándor Marai

Edie Sedgwick by Jerry Schatzberg, 1966

Mi mayor deseo fue que mi amor tuviera una fuerza arrolladora.Y me aferré a él con tanta fuerza que terminé agotándolo.

- Sándor Marai, La mujer justa

Me di cuenta... Sándor Marai

Diarios de Motocicleta

Me di cuenta de que las personas no aguantan para siempre las situaciones en que las pone la vida, ni los individuos ni las naciones. Llega un momento en que alguien empieza a gritar que ya basta, que hace falta un cambio. Y es cuando la gente se echa a la calle y empieza a destrozarlo todo. Pero eso ya solo es un circo. La revolución, la verdadera, ya ha ocurrido antes, en silencio, en el interior de las personas.

-Sándor Marai, La mujer justa

las preguntas son éstas... Sándor Marai

A y C :) 

Las preguntas son éstas: ¿Quién eres? ¿Qué has querido de verdad? ¿Qué has sabido de verdad? ¿A qué has sido fiel o infiel? ¿Con qué y con quién te has comportado con valentía o con cobardía? Estas son las preguntas. Uno responde como puede, diciendo la verdad o mintiendo: eso no importa. Lo que sí importa es que uno al final responde con su vida entera.

-Sándor Marai

miércoles, 6 de agosto de 2014

lunes, 4 de agosto de 2014