“El pueblo mexicano tiene dos obsesiones: el gusto por la muerte y el amor a las flores. Antes de que nosotros “habláramos castilla” hubo un día del mes consagrado a la muerte; había extraña guerra que llamaron florida y en sangre los altares chorreaban buena suerte.” (Carlos Pellicer ***)
El verdadero miedo que guardo es que mi vida termine en una vil frase mal acomodada en una parrafada que se caracterice más por su falta de estructura que de orden. De seguro habrá hasta errores gramaticales en la nota de mi muerte, mala ortografía y oh, un atrevido faux paus impremeditado, venganzitas de mal gusto a mal hora pues que uno vivito y coleando por ahí no dudará en jugarme. Quizá sea eso un acto poético que nadie podrá notar. Quedará en un desorden las cien o doscientas palabras que describan mi muerte a según las cuentas finales tras mi fallecimiento. Los obituarios cuestan dinero y eso medio mundo que se ocupa de ello lo sabe muy bien. Así que no es tanto el féretro lo que me preocupa sino las últimas palabras que alguien me dedique. Y eso para cuestión de 24 horas ya que si a lo mucho la noticia de que petateé dudará si a lo mucho un año a partir del momento en que entregue los tenis.
Mi vida en las manos de un buen escribano que sepa reducir mi vida en doscientos palabras y a buen precio, es todo lo que pido. Pero qué incongruencias cuando mis propios dedos me han demostrado lo frágil que una vida puede ser. Ahora describir la vida como lo notó el pastor que releyó el obituario de Frank Cornish en la trilogía del canadiense Robertson Davies del libro titulado What’s Bred in the Bone es cuestión de mero romanticismo para riquillos que al fin de cuentas caen en ese igualité del que tanto se ufanan los franceses. Aquí un pequeño ensayo del libro en cuestión que escribí en inglés.
The curious thing about dying is not that you are dying but the agony of knowing you are going to die. Even more so when one considers how random death is, for God’s sake, I could die writing, as we speak, as I write this last sentence. Off course, then it would be up to someone else to push the publish button, but either way, I just can’t see myself taking my last breath desperately trying to move the mouse over the publish button. But death does strike randomly. One can wait forever or one can just meet the darn equalizer in just about any other possible position. Not that I don’t appreciate life, for all intents and purposes I cherish every living moment but lately death has been brooding in every possible way near my vicinity. Why has the reaper decided to house itself in my neighborhood is really worrying but heck. I suppose everyone has to feel mortality somehow so old bella mort cuts the lawn giving me the creeps. Who knows what this guy wants right? Of all vicinities and it decided on mine.
Though it creeps me I believe am not scared. Yes, you read right, I believe which constitutes a feasible lie. But what is one to do when The Grim Reaper poisons the environment with his presence? Lord knows. Being more conscious of the darn doom cast its shadow everywhere. And no, am not depressed, a little bit down yes, but certainly not gloomy. I suppose everyone ought to have discussions like this with themselves though I recommend highly not to regurgitate this too much. Too much would mean extending the idea far beyond the healthy benefits of brooding over death. One benefit is that one can appreciate life more, taking life for granted doesn’t prepare no one for death. And besides you spend more time dead than alive so what the heck, get that brain ready for the kick of your life.
MENIPPUS
My dear coz—for Cerberus and Cynic are surely related through the dog—I adjure you by the Styx, tell me how Socrates behaved during the descent. A God like you can doubtless articulate instead of barking, if he chooses.CERBERUS
Well, while he was some way off, he seemed quite unshaken; and I thought he was bent on letting the people outside realize the fact too. Then he passed into the opening and saw the gloom; I at the same time gave him a touch of the hemlock, and a pull by the leg, as he was rather slow. Then he squalled like a baby, whimpered about his children, and, oh, I don’t know what he didn’t do.MENIPPUS
So he was one of the theorists, was he? His indifference was a sham?CERBERUS
Yes; it was only that he accepted the inevitable, and put a bold face on it, pretending to welcome the universal fate, by way of impressing the bystanders. All that sort are the same, I tell you—bold resolute fellows as far as the entrance; it is inside that the real test comes.MENIPPUS
What did you think of my performance?CERBERUS
Ah, Menippus, you were the exception; you are a credit to the breed, and so was Diogenes before you. You two came in without any compulsion or pushing, of your own free will, with a laugh for yourselves and a curse for the rest.
***
Carlos Pellicer: “Discurso por las flores” (Subordinaciones, 1949) y el soneto “Para El Xochipilli del pintor Correa Zapata”, fechado en 1964. Del primero son estos penetrantes versos: “El pueblo mexicano tiene dos obsesiones: / el gusto por la muerte y el amor a las flores”.