100 Años de Julio Cortázar

Image via Club Cultura.

From the French version on El Perseguidor, allegedly Cortázar's favorite short story. Found in Paris.

Yesterday was the 100th anniversary of the birth of Julio Cortázar, one of my favorite authors and I think one of my favorite people too. All social networks were flooded by images of his life and his universe, of links to articles, quotes and photos. Not very often being bombarded by an ton of copy/pasted words feels this good. In this case it did. I love to think about all this people all over the world thinking of him, remembering his words and looking for the right quote to share. Thousands of people, silly like esperanzas, with the technique of a fama (or a librarian, which I'm sure more often than not, people mistake one for the other), and of course the determined enthusiasm of a cronopio that wants to pay a little homage to the biggest cronopio of all.

I visited Cortázar in the Montparnasse cemetery a couple of days ago. This is something I like to do when I go to Paris. Is not about looking at his tomb and the little rocks that people put on top, along with letters, metro tickets and dry flowers. It's about the ritual. It's about walking around his neighborhood trying to recognize what is left of the Paris that he showed to me, the first Paris I ever met.

If is not at the Cemetery, I take a minute to go to Saint Germain Des Pres and visit the Old Navy, an easy-to-overlook café he used to write in, or wander around the Quartier Latin, thinking of the Serpent Club or Charlie Parker, or walk along the Rue Cambronne, close to where he shared an apartment with the eternal Maga. Cortázar is still very present in my mental map of Paris. Probably because in Paris I'm a tourist and all the streets and the metro and the little corner cafes are not poluted with too much reality. Paris is still a dream for me and Cortazar his wonderful narrator.

I am currently reading Rayuela in English. The book was a birthday present from my beloved friend Marie which waited quietly until it was meant to be read. I think now is the perfect time for reason that I am not even going to try to explain, because as Julio said, somewhere there is a rubbish bin where all the explanations rest.

Here is an extract of chapter 21:

"The same thing happens to everybody, the statue of Janus is a useful waste, the truth is that after forty years of age we have our real face on the back of our heads, looking desperately backwards. It is what in all truth is called a commonplace. You can't do anything about it, that's about the strenght of it, with the words that come twisting out from between the bored lips of one-faced adolescents. Surrounded by boys in baggy sweaters and delightfully funky girls in the smoke of the cafés-crème of Saint-Germain-des-Prés who read Durrell, Beauvoir, Duras, Douassot, Queneau, Sarraute, here I am a Frenchified Argentinian (horror of horrors), already beyond the adolescent vogue, the cool, with an Etes-vous fous? of René Crevel anachronistically in my hands, with the whole body of surrealism in my memory, with the mark of Antonin Artaud in my pelvis, with the Ionisations of Edgard Varèse in my ears, with Picasso in my eyes (but I seem to be a Mondrian, at least that's what I've been told).

  "Tu sèmes des syllabes pour récolter des étoiles," Crevel kids me.
  "One does what he can," I answer.
  "And that female, n'arrêtera-t-elle donc pas de socouer l'arbre à sanglots?"
  "You're unfair," I tell him. "She's just crying a little bit, it's little more than a complaint."

It is sad to reach the point in life where it's easier to open a book to page 96 and converse with the author, from café to grave, from boredom to suicide, while at the tables around people are talking about Algeria, Adenauer, Mijanou, Bardot, Guy Trébert, Sidney Bechet, Michel Butor, Nabokov, Zao-Wu-Ki, Luison Bobet, and in my country the boys do talk, what do the boys talk about in my country? I don't know any more, I'm so far away..."

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A couple of articles, one in El Mundo (España): 100 años del cronopio mayor and another one in El País: Cortázar forastero.

De Gabo

 Gabriel García Márquez Frente al espejo, 1982, photo by Vasco Szinetar

 Gabriel García Márquez Frente al espejo, 2010, photo by Vasco Szinetar

When I found out about that Gabo passed out, I remember the first time I re-discover the ice with him and Aureliano Buendía; I remembered Florentino Ariza's valses; my mother's One Hundred Years of Solitude books collection, that it must be already 1000 years or close; and this wonderful phrase: "the heart has more rooms than a whore house." Dear Gabo, you will be deeply missed.

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The photos from this post are from part of the series "Frente al espejo" (In Front of the Mirror) of the genius Venezuelan photographer Vasco Szinetar.

You can have a look at the post in The Procrastinator (some) Times about Gabo, and to an old post in this blog where I posted a text where García Marquez wrote about Caracas, the unhappy city (La infeliz Caracas).

Demencia dosificada

"En tren de recomendar, recomiéndese también una Psiquiatría Constructiva que procure a cada uno el grado y tipo de locura que ayude a vivir ilusionado; un 10 % de demencialidad, euforia y analgesia por mitades, que nos deshorrorice algo el vivir, que nos desperfile la fiereza del encaramiento que nos propone la Vida; en lugar de perder el tiempo en inútiles clasificaciones forzadas y ya que nada curan de la perfecta salud mental, lucidez que es una condena, súplannos una dosificación útil de demencia."

Poema al astro de luz memorial (fragmento).

Macedonio Fernández.


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Note: It is really hard to translate poetry. I only dare to translate this phrase so you have an idea: "It should be recommended a Constructive Psychiatry that supplies each and every one of the degree and type of madness that help us live with illusions". If you want to know a bit more about Macedonio Fernández, Jorge Luis Borges's inspiration, you can have a look at this article in The Quartely Conversation.

This Year

"This year, I will
stop saying yes
when I really mean no,
and stop saying no
when I'm too afraid to say yes.
I will stop caring what perfect strangers think,
and hold close the opinions
of those who care for me."

Hila, a nice writer based in Perth, Australia, whose blog le project d'amour I've been following for quite a time now, wrote a poem and posted it in her blog. Lynn from Satsuma Press, who makes delicate stationary, cards and invitations in Oregon, US, liked it and -after asking Hila, of course- printed it. Now if you like it too you can buy it online.

Words made a tangible piece of art. This is the kind of cool collaborations are happening more often thanks to the Internet and make us feel closer together even if we are in opposite sides of the world. It is inspiring, don't you think?

Congrats girls for making it happen!

Waking Up

 

Waking up is a parachute jump from dreams.
Free of the suffocating turbulence the traveler 
sinks toward the green zone of morning. 

Prelude (fragment). 1954

Tomas Tranströmer.
Winner of the Literature Nobel Prize 2011.
 
Full article in the NYTimes.

About books

Today I found two interesting things related to books. The first one is the work of illustrator Claudia Varosio, you should definitely check her Etsy Shop to see nice illustrations, like this one here, of several classic books and films. Even though there's kind of a boom about doing alternative posters for movies, she manage to not follow the same path that others, and her style stands out. I specially like the posters for E.T. and A Single Man.

My second discovery of the day was this site called The Browser, Writing Worth Reading, as they say. They have a section called Five Books, where people recommend their favorite five books in relation to an specific topic, can be Shakespeare, can be War, can be Poetry, or as it is in their latest post can be Inspiration, and the books were picked by Woody Allen. One of his picks was Catcher on the Rye, that reminded me of Claudia's poster and that's why I ended up writing this post.

Have a nice weekend everyone!

De Tomás Eloy Martínez

Hace un año murió Tomás Eloy Martínez.

Estaba en un taxi atravesando Juan B. Justo cuando leí la noticia en Twitter. Recuerdo haber explicado quién era Tomás Eloy, recuerdo el taxista se unió espontáneamente a la conversación (como cosa rara en Buenos Aires) pero no logro recordar quién venía conmigo en el taxi. Mi memoria a veces es buena, otras veces no tanto... muchas veces no tanto... cada vez más seguido. De tanto acostumbrarme a olvidar hago la del hombre que tropieza con la misma piedra dos, tres y cien veces.

El último artículo de Tomás Eloy a raíz del Bicentenario argentino habla de Historia. De la que se cuenta y de la que se calla, de cómo se van divorciando la idea de país y la realidad, y aunque habla de Argentina, no puedo evitar leer Venezuela una y otra vez.

"Mucha de la infelicidad argentina nace de una lección que la realidad siempre contradice. A los niños se les enseña en las escuelas que son hijos de un país grande acechado por desgracias de las que no es responsable."

Mismo mal, distinto síntomas. A veces nos parecemos tanto que creo que por eso se me hace difícil vivir el duplicado, el déjà vu de la cacerola o el del piquete, rituales forzados que ya carecen de impacto y que perdieron su significado. Einstein decía de que los locos son los que haciendo lo mismo esperan resultados diferentes... ¿existirá la locura continental?

"El peronismo domina la política argentina aun desde antes de que Perón regresara de su exilio en Madrid en 1973. Con el paréntesis de las dictaduras militares -que trataron, en vano, de aniquilarlo- se ha mantenido en el poder de una manera u otra hasta hoy y es posible que siga prevaleciendo durante otras dos o tres generaciones. Nadie, sin embargo, sabe con certeza qué es el peronismo. Y porque nadie sabe qué es, el peronismo expresa el país a la perfección. Cuando un peronismo cae, por corrupción, por fracaso o por mero desgaste, otro peronismo se levanta y dice: "Aquello era una impostura. Este que llega ahora es el peronismo verdadero". La esperanza del peronismo verdadero que vendrá está viva en Argentina desde hace décadas, como si se tratara de un imposible Mesías que iluminará el fin de los tiempos, cuando el país recuperará la grandeza de una vez para siempre."

Si tienen chance lean completo el artículo de El País y ejerciten su memoria recordando a este hombre que contando historias luchó en contra de la cómoda amnesia colectiva, que me ayudó -junto a Quino, otro genio- a entender muchas cosas de Latinoamérica en general y de Argentina en particular, y que en el Malba hace 6 años me miró con cara de bravo mientras le tomaba la foto que ilustra esta nota.

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Kafka, colourful Kafka

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Interesting story about Kafkas book's rights, colourful jackets illustrations and Kafka love in Peter Mendelsund's Blog Jacket Mechanical.

"Maybe loving Kafka means no more than admiring his downright peculiarity...he is just so anomalous and extraordinary a writer, so particular in his assets, so without precursor."

Please read the whole thing here.

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And if you want to look at my Kafka T-Shirt design here. Because I love Kafka too.

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Una interesante historia acerca de los derechos de los libros de Kafka, diseños de portada coloridos y amor por Kafka en Jacket Mechanical, el blog de Peter Mendelsund.

"Tal vez amar a Kafka significa simplemente admirar su legítima peculiaridad... él es un escritor tan

fuera de lo normal, tan extraordinario, tan particular en sus logros y (tan) sin precursor."

Lean toda la historia aqui.

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Y si quieren vean la franela/remera/camiseta de Kafka que diseñé aqui. Porque yo también lo amo.

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Lies

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"He who cannot lie does not know what the truth is".

Friedrich Nietzsche.

Amazing photos by neon.tambourine

please do yourself a favor and check his Flickr.

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Del 2010: Saramago

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"Siempre llega un día en el que la verdad se vuelve mentira y la mentira verdad".

El Evangelio según Jesucristo (1991).

José Saramago

1922 - 2010.

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Hoy pensé en Kundera

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Y en uno de los libros de él que más me ha gustado: El libro de la risa y el olvido. Pensé en cómo la historia sucede primero como tragedia y después como comedia, una comedia tristísima cabe decir. Pensé en acertada frase que dice que la lucha del hombre contra el poder, es la lucha de la memoria contra el olvido. Pensé en la anécdota de Clementis en el balcón del que fue borrado y en este fragmento del libro.

"La borró de la fotografía de su vida no porque no la hubiese amado, sino, precisamente, porque la quiso. La borró junto con el amor que sintió por ella. La gente grita que quiere crear un futuro mejor, pero eso no es verdad, el futuro es un vacío indiferente que no le interesa a nadie, mientras que el pasado está lleno de vida y su rostro nos excita, nos irrita, nos ofende y por eso queremos destruirlo o retocarlo. Los hombres quieren ser dueños del futuro sólo para poder cambiar el pasado. Luchan por entrar al laboratorio en el que se retocan las fotografías y se rescriben las biografías y la historia. "


El libro de la risa y el olvido.
Milan Kundera.

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