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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