Saturday, January 1
LUCKY MAN
It's midnight. I slept a little later than usual, I woke up a little earlier, I attended to my family responsibilities and I sat to read. Before leaving to take the first coffee of the year, now that I've come over, scribbling these lines. The book I read - Writers , Azorin, I bought the other day in The Third, a bookshop in Seville. It is a collection of articles written over forty years. Of all that talk Azorín on these pages has spoken on many others. Beginning, so, reluctantly. But then I see a familiar spot: "There is a modest house in Oviedo placed on the outskirts of the city and the countryside, on the outside, the house consists of a single floor. When we enter it we see that the land has fallen and that the house has a floor, almost underground, which is hidden from the outside. And climb stairs, walk flat coming from the street, we are in a wide gallery of glass, overlooking a Fuertecillo planted with magnolias, roses and geraniums, and from which you can see through blurred environment of the country and beyond in the distance, a gentle mountain , a friendly mountain with its slopes covered with green pastures. " In this house, June 13, had died Leopoldo Alas, when I have always felt like someone in the family. Azorín Also, sometimes bores me as a grandfather who always has the same battles, but that never stopped me from minute gifts, when I was ten or twelve years, a close friend who saw me writing always gave me a certain irony a little volume of the playlist Southern writer, the first adult book I read and I came to learn almost by heart, although he understood that only less than half. Who took me out to ten years to come, half a century later, has anything to say, much to teach. In a moment I'll go for my first ride of the year, go about the usual places, as do half a century, and the new bridge that stops in the middle of the estuary (a ritual I've added to my rites); I feel, is another of my custom in these opening hours, grateful and happy. Life is hard, I know. But I'm still a lucky man.
Sunday, January 2
WHOLE LIFE
hear in the film (usual happily recovered) one sentence: "His work was for him a lifetime." And think of those people without family or sentimental life without work. "You're one of them, I say" That's why both terrifies you retire. You hide in your work because out of it you are lost. "
Some days I like to get a bit masochistic. My favorite work is the devil's advocate and often against my own army.
But that suits me at that sentence would be turned around: "Life was his whole work. " And that job, I try to always happy, we just retire death. And although tireless hover around me, I'm still not fully convinced me that you can touch me. I know, I know: "All men are mortal." But there is no rule without exception. And why I'm not going to be the exception?
Some days I feel I've failed at everything. (But do not just believe me altogether.) And others that I am the king of the world. And I find it hard to convince myself that I'm not.
Advantages of being a spoiled child.
Monday, January 3
PRAISE OF POLICY
How wonderful, after so many parties, recover routine morning coffee at coffee forever. Even the air seems more transparent. Do I think? Suddenly I realize. Miracle has occurred. No smoke. You can no longer smoke in public places. Breathe deeply. I do not quite believe it. Oviedo seems New York.
I have not yet seen the newspapers or television news. I imagine it will be full of the protests of the alleged victims and ingenious sophistry Savater, Sanchez Drago and other strenuous liberals. But fortunately, the politicians, not intimidated by the demagoguery, they refuse to sell the health of its citizens by a handful of votes. Hats off to them. For once I feel we are in good hands.
Tuesday, January 4 PRAISE
scholarship The scholarship has a bad press, and often justified. I read it as a more or less sophisticated mix of gossip and bibliography, and it amuses me more than any novel. Scared a little thick book (nearly eight hundred pages) of the Library Newsletter Menéndez Pelayo , but took him to the cafeteria sure that between the unavoidable waste wise curricular find some amenities. And of course the meeting. My friend Francisco Trinidad, who is slothful dusting that had accumulated on Palacio Valdés, offers a chronicle of deception: the correspondence with the writer who had published a Hispanic was manipulated. I suggested the idea of \u200b\u200ba novel to Henry James: the relationship between a famous author and scholar of his work, how the admiration is turning slowly into resentment and hatred.
and then finds a letter from Valle-Inclan, then director of the Academy of Spain, addressed to the Secretary of State: "You tell me who sent the necessary orders to our ambassador in Rome authorized to purchase the necessary furniture for my rooms. I am deeply touched! But I can not accept the honor of the Ambassador I get home. The Directors of the Academy have ever bought furniture and appliances that needed it. The distinction that has me fills me with gratitude. That's nothing! The Ambassador pans and chamber pots buying my service. Where has seen greater honor? ".
Wednesday, January 5 Quietly
scholars gifts follow. Jose Manuel Gonzalez Herran sent me a reprint of eleven stories by Emilia Pardo Bazán Argentina recovered from a magazine. They speak of another world, and I love this trip back in time, but then talk about my world, as he always does great literature. "In times of expansion," says the narrator of one of them, I entrusted a kind of moral disease that I suffer, something that could be called the scorn of myself. I always believe that no good, that everything has to go wrong, I'm going to say or do something ridiculous, and this apprehension paralyzes me and embarrasses me in society. " And his partner replies,
"No matter if you have the mania if you get anybody to know. All that nature has given us to defend ourselves, and we have no claws, no horns, or horn, or sharp fangs, is a nursing home or interior stronghold in which they hold what should not be anyone to see. That or we can pursue or surprise, if we ourselves, reckless, do not open the door ... "Yes, as much as we teach our private castle, and I let go every Sunday to anyone who is curious, there is always a door as in Bluebeard's castle, not open to anyone.
Until one day someone opens it and go without asking permission. While impatiently await verdict out and come to my memory a few lines from Ben Hazm of Cordoba: "open my heart with a knife / kick you in and then sew back / chest back home is mine and yours / so that it always and never in another, / I dwell as a bird White / to the days of the resurrection and the trial. "
Thursday, January 6
DANCE "I feel like I've come to dance in the middle of a meeting of friends, and I dance and dance and a time, in the midst of happiness, closed eyes to better enjoy the company and the music and when opened, only a moment later, there were friends and were dancing and music and dancing alone in the middle of the track. "
was almost closing time and I was alone in the room, as so often happens to me. Then this woman came to me seemed very young to the observed near-and between all tables to sit chose mine. "I'm a fan of his. May I read you a poem? ". Nothing I hate more. But I read with caressing voice and I liked what I heard. More or less said what I noted at the beginning of this note. When you finish reading, I looked into his eyes: "You want to dance with me?". "I just dance in a dream," I replied. "As this is a dream. Did not you notice? ".
No, I had not noticed. Long ago that my life is a Moebius strip has only one face, and step from reality to dream and the dream to reality not in a blink of an eye, but without having to open or close them. I looked at the waiter, I have endured many nights, but I was engrossed in a book: Les rêves et les moyens de les direct, Hervey de Saint-Denys. The woman I knew, somehow, named Star, she got up and danced and danced all forgotten. I went over to Caesar, the waiter, and he pointed to a paragraph: "Any of us could find in the dream of a night that would fill that with a year of its existence, if in the morning keep the memory of what has dreamed ". Star then the waiter came over and pushed him to me. "We were looking forward," he said. I blushed, I do not know whether asleep or awake.
Friday, January 7 OTHER GIFT
often think that you're not really, you can not be true, you're just another mirage of a lonely heart. "I'm really, but I happened to me in a dream saying," do not admire them too me. "
And I, I'm in good shape, I wake up happy: "You pass, but you are." And I remember Cernuda: "So many years spent / With my loneliness alone and now you sleep with me."
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