Saturday, November 27 An admirable
I am the most vain of the world. Well, we must not boast. Let's say simply that I am vain, like everyone else. Earn my sympathy is very easy: just praise what I write. "A fan"-signed and-read my contributions on Sundays and Thursdays and the first hour, without missing a day, send me your comments, I always seemed wise and intelligent. But the letters began to change in tone: "Yesterday I saw you, you did not see me, you seemed very sad," "The time you spent in the Colonial was I by your side: you read a book by Alice Munro, then a lady happened to you the newspaper before you go you got a black notebook and wrote some notes, "I feel happy when I'm by your side, invisible as a ghost."
I said that if this was a joke was not funny. For a few weeks back was devoted to praising what I wrote. I calmed down, a fan can be forgiven everything. She answered, to thank him for his words. Now I know I should have interrupted that contact. But I lose my vanity, I said. This morning, sitting in the cafeteria of the Atrium as every Saturday since I do not know how long, the waitress brought me a book he had left for me. It was a novel by Edith Wharton. He had two paragraphs underlined. The first read: "The mornings were over for her. Were linked to too many lost pleasures: the homecoming party where there was dance till you drop, those increases down the slope through the dark gray increasingly clear the garden, when assaulted the fragrance of the bushes and tangled in the thorns insidious, until you reach the top, the village perched on the rock, and then the door, in the shadow of the tree with honey scent, that unexpected kiss (it really is unexpected, because long ago it was agreed to be just friends) and the attempt to escape the arm insistently and new pressure on their lips of others young enough to preserve freshness after a night of drinking and play and live. "
In the paper noted the page was written: "To your collection of sunrises. " The second paragraph read: "He remembered his week-this week only six years ago when they were together in a lost place in Normandy where there was no railroad in fifteen miles, and had to get in the car to the farm Farmer hidden by the apple blossoms, and he and she came every morning to spend the whole day out, he spent time drawing on the banks, under the willow trees and beside the moss-covered rural churches, and every day for seven days she looked at the dawn of life on the farm at the foot of their windows, while poured cold water on her face and combed and touched up his face before he wakes up, because after thirty-dawn light is merciless. He remembered everything, and how safe he felt in that moment that she was destined to live on a farm and raise chickens, the same security that was him that was meant to be a great painter. Yes, I could still imagine that kind of life retained its light in every fiber of the body. " In the handwritten note read: "We have not yet lived our week of glory. But it's close. "
I have a nasty habit of giving a last look at e-mail before going to sleep. There was an email from the anonymous fan: "I have booked the hotel. Not in Normandy, but here in Asturias, a place lost in forests and mountains. Do not tell you the dates. I want to be a surprise. One night close your eyes and open them there, in paradise. The suitcase and I completed my return. I'll take you blindfolded, like that young man in crossing the great hall of Grand Central, without any fear, without fear of tripping over one, guided only by a friendly hand. So long, my love. "
Does the suitcase and you have prepared? A jump went to the closet where I keep the bags and one of them was indeed ready for the trip, his clothes neatly folded, much better when I do. That was crazy at my house!
Sunday, November 28
ADVICE
As we walk among the stalls of old books of the Fontan will tell the story of yesterday to my friend Catherine. "If you is not tell me a story, because Martin is that you never know if I believe you, I'd advise you to go to the police."
Although psycho fan Misery, Stephen King's novel is one of my worst nightmares, I do not go to the police. I will just change the lock.
Monday, November 29
AN ISSUE
Browse a friend
critical edition of If they say they fell , Juan Marse's novel, just published Chair. In the first volume appears the whole novel, the second-hundred pages-is devoted entirely to "critical apparatus", ie the careful annotation of the differences between the 1976 edition, the 1989 and the 2010, which been revised and corrected by the author, to tell, for example, that if in 1976 wrote "I" then put "it" and later returned to put "him."
"think I'm ignorant," says my friend, but to me it seems as though the end of every book published a list of errata that have been found in every review and any corrections made by the author. "
"Do not tell anyone, but I think the same. A critical edition does not take into account all the variants to offer to readers, but to choose between them which answers to the last will of the author. When this is ignored, as in the works of medieval manuscripts are preserved in contradictory, it is necessary to compare these alternatives and reason why they choose one of them for editing. Where the author lives, the final text is the last issue that he has given good. Doing what is done here, apart from wasting time and paper and, most likely, public money-is to take the hair and confuse the rigor of science with a boring way to waste time. "
Tuesday, November 30 A DREAM
"The history of dreams has never been written." So begins The world under the eyelids , James Siruela, while a well-documented research work and a fascinating anthology of stories, dreams that become life and life that melts in your dreams. On April 11, 1865, President Lincoln and his wife had invited a group of friends to take tea with pastries at ten o'clock at night in the Red Room of the White House. Lincoln started the story of a recent dream giving bluntly: "It is strange how many mentions in the Bible about dreams ...." He recalled the sixteen chapters in the Old Testament mention the subject. "Do you believe in dreams?" Asked his wife. "The other night I had one that has me obsessed. After the dream, the first time I opened the Bible did for Chapter 28 of Genesis, which relates the wonderful dream Jacob. Again open for other places and always found a dream or a vision. " "You frighten me," said his wife. "I'm afraid I was wrong to mention this issue," said the president, but was forced to tell his dream.
One night he was listening to Gounod's Faust and major news expected, Lincoln went to bed late. Suddenly the silence was broken by sobs. He got up, put on his robe and went downstairs. While walking through the floorboard heard the click of his steps against the old wooden planks and bottom wails, which seemed ever closer. All the rooms were lighted. After touring several empty rooms arrived and saw the East Room a coffin placed on the ground. Two soldiers were guarding. The corpse's face was covered with a white handkerchief. Asked who had died. One of the soldiers said: "The president, he was murdered."
Less than a month after that dream, after three days of referring to him in the Red Room of the White House on April 14, 1865 President attends the premiere of Our American Cousin at Ford's Theatre's Washington . Shortly before the curtain falls, one of the spectators, an actor named John Wilkes Booth, he rose from his seat and secretly goes to the presidential box. When he arrived, no one guarding the entrance. Apparently the guard had absent for a moment. He hid in the dark anteroom close access to the box. He wore a hunting knife and a small pocket pistol. He knew the work, so I waited a few minutes to a scene that would raise big laughs. President accompanied by his wife Mary and a young officer with his girlfriend. No one noticed the figure that appeared behind them, pulled the gun up to a foot of the president's head and, when they started the laughter, shot. The noise of the blast could scarcely be heard. A small cloud of blue smoke came out of the box and the President's head slumped forward. The officer pounced on the murderer. Booth struck him with the knife, then grabbed the curtain rose on the railing and jumped on stage. One of his spurs hooked up with the flag, which made him stumble, fall to the ground and breaking his left leg. However quickly joined and shouted to the public, all fascinated watching him, not understanding what had happened, as if it were a representation within the representation: Sic semper tyrannis! This always happens to tyrants! The words spoken over the body of Julius Caesar. Before anyone was able to react, out the back door, where he waited a horse, and disappeared into the darkness night.
Thursday, December 2 A HOUSE
accompany some friends who do not know, during his visit to the Museum of Fine Arts. As always, I stand mesmerized by a picture of Miguel Galano: a lonely abandoned house, where I was delayed in some other life happy and I keep coming back in dreams. Nieva
dark when I return to my home alone. At the top is a verse from me Cernuda: "The truth of his dreams was for the truth of life." And then a question of Álvaro de Campos: "When I wake from being awake?".
If I wake up, hopefully in that house childhood when the shutters had not yet closed and it was inhabited only by ghosts.
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