Category Archives: Libros

The Fifth Impossibility

When I bought this book I was in serious depression mode. I felt I belonged so in glee I pressed ok, buy. I live in a so called ‘foreign’ land and I ache for my ‘motherland’. The attraction was mutual. Then. Time passed.

I was vulnerable. So I forked the bucks through my Kindle tablet. Do I regret it? Sort of kinda of, not really. I really liked it. It’s juicy in details which makes my mouth water for stuff such as this. I understand the longing, the constant battle of identities because of the languages, I get it. The exasperation of the Cold War stuff as well. In my younger years there was nothing to consume but intricacies of the Cold War and the ‘Liberation’ of the nations from the yoke of the USSR. I wasn’t there with them but I saw in it on the tv and read it in the Californian papers like the very lightweight San Jose Mercury News which seemed a baby compared to the San Francisco Chronicle and a few others like the NYT or WSJ. I lived it through the lenses of the many white men who spoke on those behalfs back then, Foreign Affairs whatnot. Not to say its the same.

Although seeing live on the tv news of the fall of the Romanian dictator Nicolae Ceaușescu and the drama that ensued his downfall, as we in America felt a glorious feeling of liberation that we helped the world rid itself of the commie scums, well, one can’t help but not remember their ill fate as they faced the firing squad as we felt pitty for his wife, Elena Ceausescu. It isn’t until these last years that we get a slight glimpse of those last seconds of the Socialist Republic of Romania. Paratrooper Ionel Boeru, the couple’s executioner, has come out to tell us those last seconds of that republic.

Boeru says it was the 29 bullets from his AK-47 rifle that killed the evil president and his ruthless wife Elena when they were lined up against a courtyard wall and executed by firing squad. Then an army captain, Boeru remembers how the 71-year-old tyrant was smartly dressed and smelled heavily of aftershave.

“Ceausescu’s last words were, ‘Long Live the Socialist Republic of Romania, ­independent and free’,” says Boeru. In contrast Elena Ceausescu smelled badly of body odour. And her last words were far from statesmanlike. “She yelled at a soldier, ‘You motherf****er’,” he says. Boeru, now 56, rarely talks about what happened on Christmas Day 1989.

We were told by Cold War propaganda what occurred there but not through Jewish eyes. They seem to somehow be in the wrong side of history on this side of the planet, that is, Europe. No matter where or how, place of time, it ails the Jewish lot. So to hear their voices of those persecuted by communism and the Soviet aftermath tell it, well it offers a window into the many hows which otherwise remain locked up in the silence or the few circles which roam said stories.

Where does the mesh occur indeed. Where does memory begin and where does makeup land start worst yet where does the nostalgia begin which if not careful can turn into romanticism? I do not know. But I understand their plight. Their moves. America though in its infancy is yet to suffer the lot of Europe. Not that America as a continent hasn’t suffered persecution for ideas or thinking or mass deportation, ethnic cleansing whatnot. One ought to be thankful for it not becoming a preferable habit of sorts as in much of European history would indicate it. We Americans long for Europe because it was the hell of the many.

We long to bathe in its past yet the shore is long away. Still, when we wet our feet we question the father. I, for example, wonder why does the European lot need to compare their linguistic achievements to us? We are not the same there. We are a lot that abhors the language imposed upon us. There, the European Jew has lost touch or sensibility. It, does not know, our lot. We did not ask for English, nor Spanish, nor Portuguese. We had our own languages. We still have our own languages by the miracle of persistent and rebellious attitudes towards the imposer who punishes us by infringing our rights to think and develop in those languages. And if money is poured unto said languages it is only to ‘rescue’ them from extinction though they be only left 5 old speakers whose fate and moribund souls must suffer the hell of reviving their languages through he insistence of the speech recorders. I was particularly peeved  by Ephemeridae.

Borrowed Time: An AIDS memoir

I first read Borrowed Time, with that jacket, yes, in the late summer of 1996. My first and only term at SDSU which is to this day, I feel, my true Alma mater. Such was the impact of it that one April the 8th of a 2015 I decided to buy it again in digital form far fetched notion indeed from the days I curled up to the book in paper format in the corridors of SDSU that 96. The memories it brings, yes, they last. So I bought it again. Only to finish it again in February 2016. The math says 22 months to read. So I took my time. Loads more than what it took in 1996. Why? What happened? There is a pain so deep which transpires time as the very breath I take now, it feels here and now. Though I fail to recollect my exact emotions when I first read the book I can recollect being taken by it in a way palpable today as then. Suffice to say, Mr. Monette weaved a tale that drew on the past as well as the now and the future which entangles one to this day. So am repetitive, only because I went against the grain towards my own myself, I do not reread for the most part. Yet I did for this volume. It is not easy to describe the aforementioned. What is it that makes a person reread a book? Take good old Virgina Woolf. She suggested to read a book ‘several’ times. But for the sake of memory? To relive? So I did it. I feel like when I got off the metro Piazza del Popolo in Rome, confronted with a past only I know because I knew where I was since I had been there before and I could imagine its world anew. A past I built on bits and pieces; facts and sheer fantasy. So I walked it alone. Admiring its beauty. Although I was more critical of Monette this time. The emotional fluctuations of the passage of time as he went through the pangs of pain and love for his dear Roger.

A reading of Monette is a delight because this is a good wordsmith. Not to mention that he weaves a series of interrelated events with the emotional load which tends to obligue one to side with the narrator on the injustices suffered by those who ended up guinea pigs for the conservative agenda of the Reagen years which linger on to this very day like a bad fart. Again, the second reading made me see a different Monette though, perhaps because so much time has passed by and am more cynical than when I was younger and more prone to the references to Greek and Roman history alluded in the text, stretched out like a thin silk line to the present, ah, yes, what imagination doesn’t fall for that? Yet the emotional decrying seems so exaggerated at times, viewed from what we now know with what we knew then, it is easy to lay blame on Paul.

Over and out.

Church of Spies The Pope’s Secret War Against Hitler

I ought to add a category for books read on my Kindle Amazon owns though I pay for it almost everyday. So I read Church of Spies – The Pope’s Secret War Against Hitler. By a dude named Mark Riebling. A lad with a many credentials. He is not your neighborhood comadre so his research seems to be legit. Regardless, the e-book read on a Kindle Amazon, was done over a period of time. Purchased the 2nd of Oct. 2015 and done with it January 2017 suffice to say, no ordinary read. 15 months. It took its time which presented a sort of reading contrary and against the flow of the day or thinking which encourages to read much and fast. I loved this method. Not that I never wanted to rip off the tonsils of my nagging little voice making me feel all guilty about letting the read sink in as the days turned into weeks and week into months. That thing has a life of its own and it ain’t little for wielding such power might I add.

Suffice to say it was a good read because I had the time to think about it as I perused the digital text at leisure. There is something about getting back to an unfinished book that allows for deeper reflection and this certainly did it. AS the reviews say it better than I do it tends to offer quite an intriguing recount of how Germans wanted to rid themselves of Hitler with the sanction and approval of the Holy See. Catholic Germans off course. Am sure a lot of the stuff that is retold in told in the book with the utmost enthralling details are fairly well researched but I imagine the sources had to be carefully authenticated. I mean, The Holy See in the WWII is not free of sin. No matter how well intentioned the characters portrayed in the book are explained with their actions and deeds to do away with Hitler. Although it is interesting to read somebody tried to do something to stop the Nazi crimes despite the hinders that that society presented at the time of the horrible episode of Germany. Just as interesting was to read how average people communicated with the Holy See as well as to get a glimpse of the mechanics of power during Nazi occupation of Rome.

All in all, the book was a juicy one for its intricate details of the cat and mouse entrapment that espionage is all about though this is no ordinary espionage since it was wartime. Good work.

Two Years, Eight Months and Twenty‑Eight Nights by Salman Rushdie on Amazon Kindle Voyage device with firmware 5.8.1

Great Britain by Jonathan Cape an Imprint av Vintage Publishing (2015) Penguin Random house

Epub ISBN: 9781473523289 Version 1.0

As is customary, the sellers want to sell. Such is the case with Salman Rushdie. This author’s prominence resides in an era all to itself, he is the poster child of the Terrorism Era we currently live.  He is a pre & a post poster child of Islam and how Islam is viewed in the West. For good or worst, he is a hated object by Islamic fanatics. Have you ever read the Satanic Verses? Well, if you’re lucky, you’ve at least heard of them. A parteaguas as one would say in Spanish, the Satanic Verses rose to fame because it offended a reader who could wield power and as such layed a bounty on the offense it arose and the author of the offense as well. Thus the Rushdie saga begins. He became a western darling because a regime who diametrically positioned itself against the West found the above-mentioned book a terrible sacrilege to the religion of the aforementioned power wielder. I ran to the newsstand to see the fuzz about the book, the hoopla always gets one, but the masses got there first. But I never read said book. Tedious, one thought, yet, the powers to be delighted in the idea that said book caused an ire in an alien society in a new world. Hence Salman’s prominence, he pissed off the wrong people by writing a book. Fair enough.

I too was swept by said charm the western darling suddenly found, albeit, one hopes, unwillingly and yet I have to this day finished but the one book due to a suggestion my girlfriend proposed. Mutual ideas what not. Lest the reader is amiss I am not a fan of SR. I find his pedestal out of place. He is yet to gain a place in my bookshelf. I’ve read some of his works and I find his books obtuse. Two Years, Eight Months and Twenty‑Eight Nights is no different.

Allow us to expound:

To begin, the reception wasn’t that hot. At the Guardian they treat him like a God, a demigod wouldn’t deserve the detail in the review. SR belongs to a literature elite whose position in the end serves only the present and its interests thereby. He is where he is because it serves a purpose in this synchronic time of ours. He is exulted beyond the pale solely because he has rep.

Having said that, the language does have merit. I for one am impressed by the heavy use of nouns which bear the brunt of the story. Nouns carry a history because they are all male. The names and the phony names whose last names redirect to Indian artists or other historical figures can pass by unnoticed to the untrained eye. The lot of Asian Minor and Persia appear and reappear in a host of vessels as well as a cameo appearance to SR father enters the frey in which the verbose magic-realism lit appears. The fact that SR allows for the proper nouns to carry the story brought upon a host of questions which lead me to Perry Link, the Sino linguistic writer of An anatomy of Chinese. Link makes the case that Western languages are heavily nominalized, that is, noun heavy as nouns direct path. As opposed to a language which relies on verbs to direct path. Such is the case in this book. Nouns are carriers. Miss one and you are lost.

As to the tale. First of all, is it any good? The lit elite jests in the newspapers they pay to push the story to entice the reader, they praise it as a chip of the ol’ block, that is, they love it! But does it cut mustard with the average joe? Its disadvantages are its verbosity. SR rambles on and on sparing no coma, period or semicolon as if colons or hyphens were munitions to use at will. For the love of God, show that man a little Hemingway. show me a short sentence please! Not here, they are the tales of some nights if I remember right.

One can’t shake the feeling that SR wants to get back to the Mullahs of Iran. After all, the book is about pre-Islamic forces loose upon our earth. An anathema to the Persian republic which rejects its past as an offense to Allah. Are there the any good bits to salvage from the reading? Plenty, but one has to dig deep for it and therein lies its fault.



Secundo interregnum: de libros a medias y otras nimiedades de lo similitudinario

moreno1De la estación llamada Copilco en el sistema del Metro de la ciudad de México, a la biblioteca Central de la UNAM, hay de por lo menos kilómetro y medio de por medio o más quizá. El primer día de mi estancia tuve que hacer el peregrinaje a la susodicha biblioteca cuya fachada me deja de a seis everytime. Carlos Martínez Moreno fue el impulso. Es la segunda vez que lo visito. O por lo menos el libro. El sistema Dewey que utilizan ahí lleva la cifra decimal de PQ8519 M36 B42 con la barra de código del 213973. (Tredje Dagen: 070627)

Así escribí sobre un libro al que visito en el DF (#CDMX these days) cada vez que paro ahí. O sea, cada dos años u algo por así. La esposa de Sergio Infante, a quién me los encontré de pura chiripada en el Zócalo defeño, le pareció “romántico” eso. No le veo nada de eso en ello, para ser francos, y una vez que me obligué a hacerlo me dio gusto que estuviesen reparando la biblioteca porque no tenía ganas de leerlo. Eso el 2014. El área donde estaba el libro estaba en renovación, no había acceso y los mexicanos, notorios por su sistema burocrático, siempre me hacen revolver el estómago con sus pinches retenes a diestra y siniestra. Salí del inmueble medio alegre y medio decepcionado; atrávese los largos pastos de La Isla de la UNAM y sus rocas volcánicas con incertidumbre de lo que estaba por pasar en las Bebidas Azules.

Todo esto me viene a mente porque he notado que tengo muchos libros a medias. En el mundo del lector, esto aparte de ser un sacrilegio, constituye una buena oportunidad de obtener la posición de tornarse el octavo pecado mortal. Para ser francos y sinceros con el uno y el otro, he de confesarte, estimado lector, que mis sentimientos de culpabilidad, por lo menos así conjuran demonios y demás infiernos dantescos  por la susodicha osadía de no acabar lo que uno empieza.

The WSJ on its June 5th 2013 edition had this to say : In the age of the e-reader, dropping a book has never been easier: It doesn’t even require getting up to grab another off the shelf. But choosing to terminate a relationship with a book prematurely remains strangely agonizing, a decision fraught with guilt.

En el ámbito hispano dejar libros a medias conlleva ir al psicólogo, veamos:

Y es que, según algunos, todo depende de la personalidad. Es el caso del Doctor Wilhelm, un psicólogo clínico que aseguró (para un reportaje de The Wall Street Journal). que las personas tipo A, competitivas e impacientes, son más dadas a abandonar los libros si no hay un mecanismo de castigo o recompensa (¿si no hay consecuencias negativas por qué continuar?), mientras que las de tipo B, más tranquilas, tratarían directamente de no comenzar ningún libro que no sepan que van a acabar. En ambos casos, el factor motivador más potente sería la presión social.

Creo que eso de dejar libros medias es más bien un hábito que mal, ya sea por miles de razones que en este espacio ni habría esfuerzo ni ganas para entrar en detalle en ello. Así que me puse a pensar en todos los libros que he dejado a medias y de los cuales el remordimiento me persigue el alma hasta el cansancio y que no me deja olvidarlos por ningún motivo. No debí hacerlo, porque a pesar de que estoy seguro de que he olvidado alguno son bastantitos los que son y están a medias. Uno cabría bien en preguntarse porqué dejo libros a medias y podría dar miles de explicaciones pero soy un simple y vil Castor de Castores. así que solo hablaré de los que trabajo al hoy por hoy y esos son los que tengo a medias regados por bibliotecas y los que actualmente estoy haciendo el esfuerzo de leer ya sea físicamente o en mi kindle.

Were to start? I suppose I would like to start with a book entitled The Book-Lovers Anthology ed. by R.M. Leonard 1911 Henry Frowde Oxford University Press. I read it first during a sojourn in Rome in late December 2013. I fell in love with it at first sight and perused the sucker to no end. I got hooked and by my next sojourn a year later AD 2014 I was drawn to it again. By the bye’s, it’s a volume I would love to own. Y de seguro retornaré a él de nuevo si es que se me concede por la gracias de todas las deidades terrestres retornar a Roma. No es que lo haya dejado a medias, pero vale decir que entre Roman Osipovitj Jacobson y ese, eso es decir demasiado ya; el anterior me robó el corazón que no el cerebro.

En Estocolmo igual y dejé a Benedetti a medias a pesar de que su libro El ejercicio del criterio : [obra crítica 1950-1994] / Mario Benedetti me impacto tantó que no he podido olvidarme de él hasta en fecha. Ahora, ese libro no marcó espectacularmente más allá de introducirme a la crítica en español y dejarme la frase en particular de dejar la comarca, sería quizá lo indeleble de ese libro que algún día, revisitaré de nuevo.

Del pueblo de aquí (Nässjö) y su biblioteca tengo dos libros en español de los cuales frecuento porque así es el negocio del lector a medias que como abejita de flor en flor va repsando; el uno es El Sonido de la Noche de Xavier B. Fernández (2010) cuyo personaje principal no se me va de la mente porque es un afroamericano en una Barcelona en 1959 que huye de la mafia y nunca he podido dejar de pensar cómo estará y pues darle su repasada al susodicho libro. El otro no me lo he podido tragar agusto pero el escritor italiano, Alessandro Baricco, tiene una buena prosa y las imágenes de los primeros carros en Italia nunca han desaparecido de mi alma gracias a él y retorno más por la importancia de Alessandro que la lectura misma del libro cuyo nombre en castellano es Esta Historia (Questa Storia 2005). Leer a Alessandro también me produjo ansias cuando lo leí en al inglés pero la traducción fue buena y ese libro si lo acabé, City.

En mi Kindle tengo varios libros a medias, aunque la mayoría ya los he leído anteriormente, se puede decir que los tengo a medias porque decidí leerlos de nuevo por mera nostalgia, no sé, hay libros que se releen solo porque le recuerda a uno mucho los pasajes o las memorias que ahí existen. Aunque por igual tengo nuevas lecturas a medias

A continuación, los libros que estoy leyendo en formato Kindle:

  • 2 years, 8 months & 28 nights by Salman Rushdie though it deserves a mention only because that is where am at: 50%
  • Borrowed Time: An Aids Memoir by Paul Monette ( reread)
  • Church of Spies: The Pope’s secret War Against Hitler by Mark Riebling
  • The Fifth Impossibility: Essays on Exile & Language  by Norman Manea
  • Sidetracks by Richard Holmes (reread)
  • The Lunatic: Poems by Charles Simic

So called hardbooks are the following:

  • Sua Santità: Le Carte Segrete Di Benedetto XVI by Gianluigi Nuzzi
  • Space Between Words: The Origins of Silent Reading by Paul Saenger
  • Min kamp Første bok by Karl Ove Knausgård
  • Limónov by Emmanuel Carrère
  • Diccionario jázaro: Novela léxico de Milorad Pavic

16 in total but surely there is more than meet the eye






Questa mattina

I’d decided to do something I set out to do right about forever ago.

I wanted to rummage in a room where some of my fellow tenants have dumped their unwanted books. These fellows where old Norwegian souls. One dead of a heart attack and the other decided to move back to Norway. Gray and old with book jackets and blurbs of the 1960’s, they appeal my curiosity as they exude and oldness and an era rapidly turning into faded memories of old new tech and marketing props no longer in use and if so only to wake nostalgia in a time that can only allow manipulation for personal gain. The unwanted books with their technicolor drawings of drama gather dust this morning of late May 2015 as one more day finds them in a room seldom visited. Amongst Agatha Christie‘s detective penguin books, Arthur Conan Doyle and other hits of long ago, I went over some strange Norwegian titles, even more dusty cook books and a whole bunch of Danielle Steel books. Not surprising Giovanni Boccaccio’s Decamaron was to be found. Books about impending issues of what to do with time and other assorted books of whatnots. A whole lifespan flashed before me. Because I remember these people, in their old age, one alone, gray, wrinkled, reading Danielle Steel, knowing not what to do with the incessant call of the flesh and how to satisfy it; the other I imagined, most probably decided to fill the bookshelves with books just to spite the wife in an attempt to reclaim some sort of space for himself. So it crossed my mind, is this what life boils down to? When everything begins to unravel, do we resort to pleasure the brain with texts about pleasures we no longer are going to experience; the testament of what was read or was meant to be read or what interested the subjects, left in  a room waiting to let go of their visual content to a chance someone like me might come and see what someone can rummage and rescue?

I found a Bukowski and a Nietzche.

I came back to my place and washed my hands. I saw the dust run with the water and the soap to make a greyish muck of sorts run down the drain of my sink. Two more books in my house of the many of which I don’t know I will ever read. But they make an interesting lot. One has already landed in my bathroom. Bukowski, where I understand, ought to be.


Never would Kazuo forget the flash of piercing light, which might of have been reflected from the flat of some enormous, polished, naked sword, nor the dull reverberation far away, Dodoo … which as it drew close was transformed into a sharp, painful, and finally screeching Juinn that seemed to pierce through his eardrums, and which culminiated in a sound like a thousand thunderclaps, Gwann!, that hurled him into a bottomless abyss. From this derives the Japanese word Pikadon, for pika means lightning  and don thunder.” Robert Jungk, Strahlen aus der Asche, (Children of the Ashes: The People of Hiroshima)) 1959. (p.16)

There are several reasons why I chose to read this book which I found down in the basement of my condominium. The basement serves as a dumping ground for unwanted items that the members of the condominium “donate” to the condo and this book fell there after the sudden death of a dear member who had served the condo board rather well. I was surprised to find English written books in a Swedish dominated rack of unwanted books. I picked several but the topic drew my attention. The idea of reading about Hiroshima close to the period time when Little Boy was unleashed certainly proved to also add to pique my curiosity and when I read that the author, Robert Jungk, was Jewish and one imprisoned by the Nazis well, that was just the cherry on top. I suppose the idea of a former nazi war prisoner of Jewish descent writing a book about Hiroshima victims was the final incitement which totally grasped my curiosity. The reading proved to be most delightful, intriguing, full of gold nuggets of important information and a few eye openers regarding the Japanese culture.

I also enjoyed the reading because as the blurb on the Penguin Book example I have says, Robert Jungk is a jounalist historian. He writes with a certain amount of academese format that I enjoy since the eye is moved about between footnotes, asterisks signaling separate explanations in minute subscript and language explanations in italics that just add a delicious tang to it all. There’s an epilogue, a little map of Hiroshima detailing the impact of the bomb, journals read, I mean, the list goes on.

Well into the reading I also discovered a few interesting facts of Japanese immigration to Perú. I had always been intrigued about Japanese immigration to Latin  America since I read in the New York Times, that Japanese of Brazilian descent were considered raucous by real Japanese people. But certainly the subject matter at hand was also very enlightening since the very reason the book appeard in my life was the ever thin veil of threat of eminent destruction by superpowers ready to use the button to get people to do as they will. So I read with interest the lives affected by the Pikadon. I was mostly intrigued by professor Shogo Nagaoka. The geologist’s behavior intent on documenting the effects of the pikadon on the ground and rocks was most interesting to read. Other stories of supreme interest of course, how war creates despair and how war despite its cruelty barely scathed the morals and norms of the people nearly sent to the stoneage by the atomic bomb The Enola Grey dropped on them. Institutions and orders were scrambled yet merely dispersed so that order was delegated to the lower forms of organization in society.

There are many ways to read Children of the Ashes: The People of Hiroshima. One from an institutional perspective as well. There is how the US government went about its control of information of the pikadon in Japan after they dropped the bomb on them as well as how japanese institutions began rising from the aftermath and the surrender to US forces.

I suppose that reading books as old as Robert Jungk’s is nowadays rare, so it would seem. This document whether it has readers this day or not is a powerful document that should withstand the test of time and should be required reading.


Children of the Ashes: The People of Hiroshima by Robert Jungk. Original title: Strahlen aus der Asche 1959. Translated by Constantine Fitzgibbon. Published in Pelican Books 1963.

August Strindberg: Från Fjärdingen och Svartbäcken

August Strindberg: Från Fjärdingen och Svartbäcken- Studier vid Akademien. 1ra publicación: 1877. Ubicación geográfica de las novelas: Uppsala.
Libro que leí. Vårt Hems Förlag Stockholm 1930 Åhlén & Holms Boktryckeri.

Habrá que notar que Fjärdingen y Svartbäcken som dos partes urbanas de Uppsala.

Este es el segundo libro de August Strinberg que leo en sueco. Hay personas que aprenden un idioma solo para poder leer a los autores en su idioma original, tal como Miguel de Unamuno quien se dice que aprendió danés para poder leer bien a Sören Kierkegaard o bien Sigmund Freud quien aprendió español solo para poder leer a Don Quixote en el original. Yo no, solo aprendí sueco por necesidad y pues así, el trabajo y los años me han hecho un poco más mejor en su manejo pero igual sigo cometiendo atrocidades en le lenguaje que deberían de mandarme a la Haag por crimenes contra el lenguaje sueco. Aunque como todo idioma, se logra comprender más con un poquitín de esfuerzo aunque la verdad sea dicha esto de vivir en Suecia le deja uno suficientes llagas como para poder comprender las matices que el sueco tiene para poder comprender a Strindberg ya que mucho de lo que escribe tiene relación con el angst y la pena ajena. Y es justo eso en el lenguaje lo que más me encanta de Strindberg. Su idioma es uno que no se usa ya en Suecia ya que Suecia, aparte de haber reformado la ortografía su idioma también alteró la fonética de ella lo que hace de ello una interesante lectura.

Lo que más resalta del libro en cuanto a las historias son los personajes que al parecer siempre andan down in their luck como se dice en inglés. Y como yo soy uno de esos que siempre echan porras al underdog pues eso me gana en la lectura. Y claro, aparte del répertoire de su vocabulario. Es bueno para describir miserias urbanas y según las múltiples wikipedias por ahí se debe mucho al pasado del mismo Strindberg. Y es algo que se nota mucho en las lecturas de él ya que de repente los personajes que andan rosando los campos fértiles de la miseria humana de repente tienen acceso a las cómodas áreas de las élites de la sociedad sueca del siglo XIX describiendo esto como si fuese dado acontecer por cuestiones del azar. Y otra vez, Strindberg asombra con el uso del lenguaje al usar el lenguaje de las sociedad alta para describir ese ambiente y sus órbitas inalcanzables para la mayoría de nosotros.

Me tomó todo el 2014 para poder acabar de leerlo pero venga, ni quién se fije cuanto tiempo me tomó en leerlo. Tengo una entrada en el blog del diciembre del 2013 en que menciono el libro así que más de año.

Тарас Бульба Tarás Bulba

bulbaBibliografisk information
Titel    Taras Bulba
Volym 5742 av El libro de bolsillo: Literatura
Författare    Nikolaï Vasil’evich Gogol’,
Traductora: Isabel Vicente
Utgivare    Alianza Editorial, 2009
ISBN    1450500188, 9781450500180
Längd    120 sidor

Ilustración de cubierta: Ilya Repin: Cosacos de Zaporozhie escribiendo una carta en torno al Sultán turco

A ser franca verdad Tarás Bulba me recordó a Pancho Villa. Digo. He ahí mi referencia máxima. Y es que ambos fueron caudillos y perseguidos por poner en jaque a las autoridades regionales.

Al parecer algunos consideran esta obra Homérica y asegún lecturas rápidas aquí y por allá en la red es una obra bastante controversial ya que Gogol re-escribió la obra porque a las autoridades del imperio Ruso le pareció bastante antirusa. Recordemos que la obra fue escrita en 1842 la cual es la II versión de la obra ya que la I fue escrita en 1835. La versión que leí es una versión traducida por mi traductor favorito del ruso al español, o sea, Isabel Vicente. «Junto a Lydia Kúper, Arnaldo Azzati, , José Laín Entralgo, Luis Abollado y Augusto Vidal formaron parte del Grupo de Moscú, un extraordinario conjunto humano al que debemos buena parte de las traducciones de los grandes clásicos rusos que se editarán en nuestro país [España] a partir de la década de los años cincuenta del siglo XX.»

Tarás Bulba es una novela típica machista en todo el sentido de la palabra y más a la vieja usanza en que los principios de hombría era demostrar valor y paciencia ante el dolor. Mientras que la novela está basada en el siglo XVI y siendo escrita en el sigo XIX se notan varias afinidades que vistas desde un siglo XXI no pueden pasar desapercibidas por un lector del hoy. El hecho de la propaganda como instrumento para unificar a una nación y como incitar a los hombres a salir a luchar bajo pretexto de defender ideales culturales o religiosos son un aspecto de la novela rimbombantemente llamada epopeya por algunos que bien así puede ser a no ser que también se le llama como genero romántico porque eso es justo lo que entusiasma de la novela, esos pasajes narrativos en que podemos ver como hombres en pos de guerra sin más que la bravura de antaño se libran a muerte por defender su identidad. Aquí las mujeres tienen poca representación y cuando bien la tienen son todas mal narradas injustamente. Al igual que las etnías, la narrativa de Tarás Bulba se centra en el odio al Otro y como es que el enemigo es un ente que amenaza la cohesión de la fraternidad entre los Cosacos del Dniéper. La peor ponzoña verbal de la narrativa se la llevan los judíos que antes no me ha sorprendido encontrar acusaciones por la red de antisemitismo en la novela como ocurre con mucha frecuencia por estos días con muchos otros autores del siglo XIX por reseñistas del siglo XXI.

Lo que más me gustó de la novela fueron las descripciones de las vidas nómadas de los bárbaros de ayer y como estos se últimos se las hacían para hacer valer la vida. Les pesaba que no hubiere redadas al enemigo y que los jóvenes se la pasaran ociosos sin poder experimentar guerra o apañar experiencia en los campos de batallas. Quizá la identificación más palpable y apetecedora de la novela es esa idea de luchar con enemigos comunes y la fraternidad eterna que logra una cohesión tras el re-conteó de la hazañas de otros iguales o del mismo grupo, ese clásico “sí se puede” tan común hoy en día en los labios de nuestros políticos. Como la novela es histórica hay ciertos detalles de los cuales uno no depara, como aquel que el reino polaco alguna vez fuese un imperio con el cual contender o como es que la iglesia ruso ortodoxa creció con objetos donados por cosacos durante sus emboscadas a otros pueblos.

Como siempre, leí el libro de Gogol, el segundo de él, porque fue traducido por Isabel Vicente y no por alguna otra razón y como siempre, la traducción no decepcionó ya que Isabel Vicente utiliza un lenguaje en su español tan rico y delicioso que me hace sentir vergüenza al descubrir que no sé del todo mi propia lengua.



María Tena: La fragilidad de las panteras

  • Tapa dura: 28 páginas                                 Idioma: Español
  • Editor: Espasa (6 de abril de 2010)           ISBN-10: 846703324X
  • Colección: ESPASA NARRATIVA             ISBN-13: 978-8467033243

mariatenaDesde que leí el libro por primera vez me enfrascó intensamente. No sé cuántas veces tuve que devolverlo a la biblioteca porque el tiempo que tenía para leerlo simplemente no  me alcanzaba para acabar de leerlo completamente. La verdad es que el libro me tenía, como he dicho, enfrascado. Mas bien lo saboreaba a cuentagotas como no queriendo que se acabase. El libro me llamaba y como dos veces que tuve que devolver el libro me encontraba con la situación de que el libro tenía reservación. Me causó cierta curiosidad porque en el pueblo donde habito no hay muchos hispanoparlantes. Me preguntaba quién sería esa persona misteriosa que también leía el mismo libro que yo al mismo tiempo. Quería dejar notitas o pistas en el libro pero desde hace mucho que no escribo dentro de los libros. Todo tiene su fin y ahora en un tren rumbo a Malmö y en Escania ya me lo he terminado con una prisa sin igual aunque esa era la meta. Acabar con el libro, porque me pesa tener libros a medio empezar aunque así sea que tenga muchos de ellos a medio empezar. No por eso dejé de disfrutar las historias de María Tena. Sabe de mujeres. ¿Y que tal si María no es mujer? Y es que por estos días uno nunca sabe de esas cosas. Pero María Tena sí lo es, o sea mujer. Una mujer que al leer su minibiografía en Amazon evoca la impresión de ser de esas personas de media clasa alta de una sociedad de cuyos vestigios hoy en día solo quedan recuerdos de lo que fue y solo el tufo y el dejo de las memorias nos hacen remontar a ese mundo que hoy ya no lo es. Highbrow society indeed. Cosa que se deja ver en la obra que leí y cosa a la que le tengo una flaqueza enorme.

Si bien habremos de enfocarnos un poco en esa sociedad haría bien en empezar otro párrafo para descansar la vista y dejar un pormenor de lo que quiero decir con eso de sociedad inexistente. Son quizá mi flaqueza leer historias de familias que están a punto de culminar una vida aquellas en que participan familias de clase media que alguna vez fueron personajes medio ilustres en una sociedad fuera del alcance del proletariado y que viven el diario devenir de lo que fueron o sus remembranzas. Los personajes de María Tena respiran aires de antaño a base de un oxigeno que les da un sentido de vida demacrado ya que luchan por salir adelante de un pasado rancio cuyo papel lo viene jugando la madre en la novela y cómo el pasado de la madre afecta a las 3 hijas de ella. Todas luchan con recuerdos del ayer y los restos materiales que quedan de ello y las consecuencias de las reglas y normas de ayeres sin vigencia en un hoy igual de cruel en sus exigencias de convivencia social.

Como toda buena novela hispana, La fragilidad de las panteras tiene un buen sazón sexual a lo latino. Como diría mi tía Juana, que 50 Shades of Grey ni que 8 cuartos. La novela deja para la imaginación y he ahí mucho de su encanto. Y claro que hay descripciones de lujuria pero el encanto yace en la seducción y el cortejeo que se da a lugar cuando dos seres se encuentran atraídos el uno al otro amén de ese delirio mental que causan los intercambios viscosos entre el hombre y la mujer y las convulsiones emocionales que desenlazan en un caos vertiginoso sin rumbo más que la felicidad o el desastre personal.