The Hermit Librarian

Pedro El Ampuloso- More Cynicism

2011-03-26T19:57:00.000-07:00

I had to continue with the section of Pedro El ampuloso. When I began this ridiculous parody, the letters written to my friends seemed endless and I thought I would never get to post all of them. However, since my last finding on my old computer files, I have the certainty (and the pleasure) to announce that there are only four letters that remain to be published. I wrote this letter to Pilar, my long time friend, the cultivated peruvian cosmopolitan woman who possess an encyclopedic knowledge of Europe, and whose conversation is more enlightening, instructive and witty than a whole collection of books. Pilar Saldivar Busse is not really peruvian, she is universal.

Hola Pilarcita:
Ante todo dejame agradecerte de nuevo por tu llamada de ayer. Sabes que ayer me quede pensando mucho en el tema que discutimos ...si es mejor amar o no amar. Quizas cometi una burrada al decirte que no vale la pena amar. Pero es que encuentro tantos argumentos convincentes de un lado y del otro lado, que no se cual es la respuesta. Por un lado dicen que el amor no vale la pena por que basas toda tu felicidad en el bienestar y el carino de la otra persona. Lo cual es muy dificil alcanzar. Es decir de una manera u otra sufriras mucho, por que basar tu felicidad emocional en otra persona es como buscarle tres pies al gato. Es una manera estupida, loca, e irracional de vivir. Por que una persona debe vivir para si misma, y sentirse bien consigo misma. La persona sabia es la que se siente bien sola y solo basa su felicidad en su propia persona. Logicamente que eso es algo imposible de alcanzar tambien, pero yo creo que tal reflexion vale la pena. Ademas es tan doloroso cuando el amor se acaba, que reafirmo mi conviccion que no hay pena mas terrible en este mundo que el amor no correspondido. La rupturas y las separaciones son tal calvario que no se lo deseo ni a mi peor enemigo. Se sufre mucho despues, es como una enfermedad que te va matando de a poquitos. Y es que yo soy de la opinion que las verdaderas penas de amor te matan lentamente( en el sentido medico de la palabra) pues, como decia el versito del thanks-to-God Olvidable Neruda, que es tan corto el amor y es tan largo el olvido.

Quizas los unicos amores eternos son los amores no correspondidos.

Pero permiteme ser un cinico al decirte que el amor es una enfermedad irracional, que te hace construir castillos en el aire, y que despues te los destruye sin la menor compasion.
Si mal no recuerdo (and my memory, oh fuck, is so feeble) en uno de los ensayos de the Rambler, el doctor Jhonson precisaba que los matrimonios se deben basar en el companerismo, en la fraternidad, en la comunicacion, y no tanto en el amor. Los romances que se basan unicamente en el amor, dejando de lado lo demas, son demasiado debiles. Dicen que el amor pasional con el correr del tiempo esta condenado a convertirse en amor fraternal. Y eso esta bien ...por que creo que el amor fraternal es mucho mas poderoso, mas fuerte, mas racional que el amor pasional. El amor pasional se alimenta de dificultades, trabas, dolor, mientras mas obstaculos existan en el camino el amor pasional se intensifica. Y eso es muy peligroso, por que a mitad del camino te das cuenta que has sufrido mucho y te preguntas si todo lo sufrido verdaderamente ha valido la pena.
However, los sufrimientos mas terribles valen la pena si es que al final uno consigue lo que desea.

Pero creo que esa idea no se aplica al amor particularmente. Por eso insisto en decirte que el amor es una enfermedad mental, que se debe manejar con cautela, por que puede traer consecuencias catastroficas a largo plazo. Mi abuela siempre decia que hay que enamorarse con la cabeza y jamas con el corazon, y creo que tenia mucha razon.
Por otro lado creo que el amor es tambien beneficioso, por que le da un sentido a nuestras vidas. Te da mucha esperanza, y sin la esperanza nuestras vidas no tendrian sentido alguno. Y dicen que el amor es intenso, que es una experiencia sublime, como tocar el cielo, y debo admitir que eso es muy cierto. El amor tambien es como un combustible ideal que te hace luchar contra las adversidades, ya que el amor se basa en la esperanza, y la esperanza, como toda ficcion humana, es la unica energia de vida. Por ultimo, no se donde lei que in the broad field of all human affairs, tanto las victorias como las derrotas son detestables, por que ambas ponen fin a toda la excitacion y la aventura. Y creo que esta idea tambien es aplicable al amor, pues el amor, con todas sus desventuras, lagrimas, dolores, es una experiencia que vale la pena, las victorias y derrotas que el amor trae al final no son tan importantes, lo importante es que luchaste por ese amor, que diste lo mejor de ti, y que todo ese tiempo viviste en un estado de excitacion, aventura, esperanza, y eso es lo que vale la pena al final, lo mucho que lo disfrutaste en el transcurso. Esta idea me recuerda a un maravilloso aforismo de Woody Allen , quien dijo que la vida es como estar en un casino, en donde muy raras veces ganas, la mayoria de las veces pierdes, pero al final de la jornada no puedes negar que te divertiste, que gozaste....y eso es lo mas importante. Quizas el muy sabido new yorkino se robo esta idea de su venerado Freud, quien, en "civilization and its discontents," propuso que la felicidad no residia en la realizacion de nuestros deseos, sino en la misma "efimera transicion", y que una vez cristalizados, esos "maravillosos suenos" son examinados en su verdadera luz como lo que siempre fueron en realidad, unas vanidades absurdas, que luego nos provocan hastio, desgano, y hasta el extremo de llegar a cuestionarnos "por que caray lo deseamos con tanta intensidad", si en realidad no produjeron un cambio substancial en nuestra existencia, sino que por el contrario, esos suenos realizados empobrecieron mas nuestra realidad, por que nos despojaron de "nuestras ilusiones".
Un espejismo, como el oasis en un desierto, es parte esencial de nuestras vidas.
Bueno amiga, como ya te lo dije, encuentro tantas razones convincentes por un lado y por el otro lado, que la verdad que no si realmente vale la pena amar. No puedo responderte esa pregunta con seguridad ni certeza. Tomando un camino o tomando el otro ....siempre existira el sufrimiento. No importa cuan generosos, sabios, inteligentes, o humanos seamos, la vida siempre se encargara de hacernos llorar eventualmente.

Washington, Julio 2007

Pedro El Ampuloso (Hidden File)

2011-01-16T09:11:00.000-08:00

Life is so strange. Last night I found an old portable usb that I had kept in storage for over two years. In this device I recovered some extremely old pictures, and 6 more letters that I wrote to some dear friends, now lost due to my laziness and also to the inconveniences of time. I decided to post them to remind myself how stupid I was, how stupid I still am, and how in my shameful past I claimed to know some things when, now, at my current age, I maintain the honest conviction that I know nothing and it is much better to remain silent.
Esta carta es demasiado estupida por que abunda en irrelevancias y demas excesos. Al final de cuentas, por entonces tenia solo 24 anos y durante esa etapa las consideraba relevantes. En fin, el tiempo acaba por aniquilar todo.

Recordada Mxxx:
Recuerdo claramente que apenas llegué a este pais decidí no escribirte por que no quería ocasionarte problemas con Robert. Lo hice por respeto a él. Se que Robert era muy celoso, e imaginé que quizas a él le molestaría que yo te escriba tan seguido. Robert es un buen chico, y si siempre tuvo celos fue por la unica razón que el siempre te amo mucho. Es algo normal. Y yo nunca tuve problemas con eso. Es decir, yo siempre he deseado desde lo profundo de mi alma que ustedes se amen y sean felices por siempre. Y si mis cartas te iban a ocasionar problemas, pues lo mejor era no escribirte.
Aquella noche de Año Nuevo cuando te llame, yo imaginaba que estabas feliz y tranquila. Para mi fue un verdadero shock enterarme que estabas enfermita, y que para colmo, habías terminado con Robert. Es decir, yo daba por confirmado que el siempre estaría a tu lado para protegerte, cuidarte y hacerte feliz. La certeza que Robert siempre estaría contigo me daba tranquilidad, paz, y seguridad. Pero esa noticia que me diste fue un baldazo de agua fría. En aquella fiesta de Año Nuevo no dejé de pensar en tí. A la mañana siguiente me agobie de culpa por que sentí que siendo yo tu mejor amigo, no estuve ahi para consolarte. Querida amiga, tus penas y sufrimientos tambien me pertenecen. Estoy un poco decepcionado de Robert. Pero somos humanos, y todos estamos muy propensos a cometer errores. Tienes que perdonarlo. Ademas tengo el absoluto convencimiento que Robert te ama locamente. No doubts about it. Y el amor es capaz de solucionar cualquier problema, capaz de transformar el comportamiento de las personas, capaz de perdonar cualquier ofensa. Con esto quiero decirte que sospecho que Robert recapacitará en un futuro, y tengo fe que Dios me concederá la gracia de poder verlos felizmente casados. Solo así podre estar tranquilo.
Mxxx, lastimosamente el tiempo pasa demasiado rapido. Ya no somos unos jovencitos, somos unos adultos. Si en caso Robert no hace nada por reconquistarte, quizás exista la posibilidad que conozcas a un buen chico en tu comunidad. Uno nunca sabe. Me parece que sería una buena alternativa: un joven cristiano. Pero ten en cuenta que ese no es un factor determinante. No me interesa a que religión pertenezca tu futuro pretendiente, lo unico primordial es que te pueda hacer feliz. Si en caso salgas con un nuevo chico, por favor asegurate de conocerlo bien. Al principio de una relación sentimental, los hombres tienden a ocultar sus defectos y solo te muestran sus virtudes, solo se empeñan en resaltar los rasgos saltantes de su personalidad. Pero logicamente toma mucho tiempo (alrededor de dos años) conocer el verdadero caracter de cualquier persona. Pues con el correr del tiempo, los hombres van mostrando involuntariamente señales que delatan su verdadera personalidad. Ten muy en cuenta eso por favor. El hecho que un chico te haya tratado muy bien y te haya complacido mucho por todo un año, no significa absolutamente nada. Tomate tu tiempo para elegir tu futuro esposo. No es cosa de juego. Muchas veces me he topado con casos donde la relación de pareja es muy armoniosa antes del matrimonio. Pero luego del matrimonio las cosas cambian para mal. ¿Y por que? Pues por la simple razón que la pareja no se tomó el tiempo en conocerse bien, en conocer las virtudes y especialmente las debilidades del otro, y no estaban realmente preparados para confrontar o adecuarse a las actitudes negativas y debilidades del otro.
Ya hasta me he cansado de repetirte que the perfect man doesn't exist, que tu príncipe azul only lives in your dreams, not in reality. ¿the perfect man? there's no such thing. Te aseguro que en este momento el hombre mas perfecto del planeta tiene innumerables defectos. Pero ese no es el punto. La cuestión es que tu sepas acoplarte o manejar bien aquellas faltas o errores que tu futuro esposo cometerá irremediablemente . Es decir, que aquellas imperfecciones no sean nada comparado con la felicidad que aquel hombre puede brindarte. Es como una balanza. Si la felicidad que un hombre te brinda es mucho mayor que las penas que inevitablemente te ocasionará, entonces la relación vale la pena. Quizás uno de los valores mas importantes en una relación es la comunicación. Si en una relación no existe suficiente comunicación, es 100% seguro que la relación fracasará. Cuando en un futuro tengas una relación seria, por favor asegurate que te comuniques bien con esa persona. Dile lo que sientes, dile lo que esperas de él, dile lo que te gusta de la relación, y sobre todo, dile lo que no te gusta de la relación. Esa es la vía mas eficaz para resolver cualquier problema. Por que los problemas al principio son siempre pequeños, pero con el tiempo llegan a agrandarse, y alcanzan un punto donde ponen en verdadero riesgo a la relación. Sobre todo cuando no se dialoga, ni se discute por acordar una solución. De la misma manera, tu tampoco asumas una actitud negativa cuando tu pareja te señala algunas cosas que no le agradan de tu comportamiento. Al contrario, dale la confianza para que él se exprese abiertamente. Haz que te confiese aquellos aspectos que no le agradan de su relación. En una relación se da y se recibe. Si tu esperas que un chico siempre ponga de su parte, cuando tu al contrario no haces nada por corresponder su afecto, entonces te aseguro que estas tomando el camino de la soltería. No seas tan orgullosa, no seas tan despistada o distraída, por que esas actitudes hacen mucho daño a las personas mas queridas , y siempre, siempre conllevan al fracaso. A veces uno por simple dejadez, por simple orgullo, o por ser tan despistado pierde oportunidades realmente valiosas, y desafortunadamente en ciertas ocasiones la vida no nos ofrece una segunda oportunidad. Mxxx, dejame enfatizar que la sinceridad y la comunicación son los dos pilares fundamentales de una relación sentimental. Sin la presencia de esos dos factores, todos los demas esfuerzos serán en vano, la relación fracasará. Cuando se inicia una relación sentimental, la pareja adquiere obligatoriamente un compromiso mutuo. Y para explicartelo de la mejor forma, dejame darte un ejemplo simple. Cuando inicias una relación, tu y tu pareja van al jardin y siembran una semilla. Ambos, a traves de la comunicación, acuerdan en que harán todo lo posible por germinar esa semilla. Por ello, ustedes se comprometen en que tu regarás la semilla en la mañana, y tu pareja regará la semilla en la tarde. Todo va bien por un tiempo. Pero en toda relación siempre ocurren imprevistos. Tu dejarás de regar la semilla un dia por que has tenido mucho trabajo en la librería, otro día por que te olvidaste por completo de hacerlo, otro día por que estuviste ocupada haciendo otras cosas útiles, otro día por que estuvistes haciendo las compras, por que estuviste estudiando quizás, etc, etc. Lo mismo ocurrirá con tu pareja. Y ahí es cuando se originan los problemas. Una planta no deja de crecer por que la dejaste de regar un día, pero creeme que ella se marchitará y morira si la olvidas por semanas o meses enteros. El asunto es que ambos rieguen y cuiden a la planta. Si solamente una persona riega la planta, esta crecerá torcida, debil, y correrá un alto riesgo de marchitarse. Pero si ambos la riegan diariamente, la planta crecerá fuerte y vigorosa, sus ramas resistirán a las inclemencias del tiempo, y con los años se convertirá en un arbol frondoso y macizo, al cual nada ni nadie podrá derribar jamas. Lo mismo sucede en una relación. En una relación, la pareja se compromete a renunciar parte de su propia libertad, a sacrificarse por el bien del otro, en hacer todo lo posible por mantener la armonía. En un matrimonio, la comprensión y el respeto mutuo son factores secundarios, quizás el factor mas crucial es en cuanto tu te puedas sacrificar por el bien del otro. Mientras mas dispuesta estés a sacrificarte, mas beneficio obtendrás de la relación, pero esto sucede si y solo si encuentras al hombre mas indicado. Pues no hay desgracia mas grande que sacrificarse por una persona que no vale la pena, por alguien que no valora lo mucho que te sacrificas por ella.
Antes de despedirme, te contaré que Robert me volvió a escribir. El solo queria saber como te encontrabas, pues hace mucho que no conversa contigo. Me reiteró que su decisión de terminar era definitiva, pero yo lo note un poco triste, ya que el piensa que tu ya no estas interesada en el. En general, el todavia sigue muy interesado en ti ¿Que pasa con ustedes muchachos? ¿Hasta cuando van a dejar que el orgullo les impida alcanzar la felicidad? ¿Por que no te sientas a conversar francamente de tus problemas con Robert y llegan a un acuerdo? Yo haré todo lo que esté a mi alcance para amistarlos. No les prometo mucho. Un mediador solo puede contribuir con un granito de arena. Todo lo demás depende de ustedes. A los dos los quiero mucho, mucho, y quiero verlos felices a ambos. Eso es todo. Chau amiga. Saludos.
Washington, 10 de Enero del 2003

Your true worth

2010-04-15T18:10:00.000-07:00

The other day I found out an old acquaintance of mine had made a drastic change in his life. He basically gave away all the goods he had acquired during years of hard work and struggle. The only things he kept were his laptop and a light wardrobe. His family and most of his friends believed he had gone insane.
I became concerned by my friend's behavior and I paid him a visit. When I first saw him I told him some stupid jokes, making swift allusions to Buddha and Mahatma Ghandi, who also renounced everything they had in order to lead a frugal life.
Then I asked him seriously what purpose he sought by giving away most of his money, quitting his job, following a meager diet, and abandoning all his commodities. He said:
"I thought it would be cool if I live dangerously, at least for a while."
"For what end?"
"I don't know. I just wanted to know what it feels like to live precariously, without any kind of support. I have always lived securely and I felt I was suffocating."
"Well. Take a break and relax. But I think it would be safe if you start searching for a job next month."
"I'll see what I can do."
"And what did you actually learn by doing this?"
"I learned that only during the bitter periods of misery, loneliness and abandonment, a real man can test his true worth."
"I prefer to be on the safe side"
"To indulge on the safe side? Are you kidding, bro? The safe side is the worst place to be.
"Why?"
"Because your character and qualities will never develop if you stay on the safe side. The safe side is actually never safe. All your potential dies away with self-indulgence."
"Mmm..."
"You need to get yourself in trouble....out of necessity..Whether you want it or not, troubles will show you the limits of your strenght and it will make you stronger on the way..."
On my way back home I thought a lot about what my friend said. It is true that certain actions in life bring along great lessons. There are certain lessons we will never know, because we will never have the courage to perform certain actions. There are lessons that belong only to the brave.
I know my friend is learning a lot right now. To lose everything you have makes you realize what you really have, and what is really yours. I believe Dr M.L.King was the one who said that only in the darkest night one is capable to admire the brightest stars.

Age is just a number

2010-03-31T08:25:00.000-07:00

My birthday is today. Thirty one years ago I arrived into this world "full of loneliness and misery, and suffering and unhappiness..."

Just kidding.
Life is great, of course. A good movie, a good book, a good cup of coffee, the sounds of John Coltrane's saxophone. What else could be better?
Life is a treasure you only learn to appreciate when it is running out of your hands. That's what I am feeling right now. I am getting older and I am learning to be more grateful for the simple things in life. Nothing is really for granted and we should learn to appreciate even the things we don't usually appreciate.
If a young man would come to me and ask me for advice, I would say to him:
Do what you always wanted to do. All your dreams and plans will take a lot of time to accomplish. Do not wait a minute. Your dreams are long and endless and life is too short and limited. Most people are fond of postponing and unfortunately the best part of life is spent in postponing.
Pursue your dreams now. Father Time is the biggest traitor that ever existed. Father Time is going to cheat on you without remorse. So you'd better start living your life passionately. Live with passion and you will alleviate the humilliation that Time has stored for you.
Time is actually a luxury but we understand that too late.
Pick the most absurd reason to be happy and over time you will understand that reason was not absurd at all.
And do not be afraid of adversity. Adversity is the only key available to unlock and release your true potential.

More recollections

2010-03-09T12:01:00.000-08:00

As I am about to get rid of most of my belongings, I recently checked all my old notebooks. I had too many and I intended to save the good notebooks from the bad ones. I thought of keeping only the good things I wrote. As you have already imagined, I dumped most of my eight notebooks. My writings have no value at all: they have nothing new, nothing relevant, nothing important. Things always have the nature of their creator and that is why most of the things I wrote are pure crap, intended only to fill up the garbage can. I kept only one of my notebooks because it contains some old recollections of my youth, of some dear friends, Willy Cutipa, some aphorisms, sketches, crappy short stories, poems, and random thoughts I had back then. The notebook has about eighty pages and I wonder how I could write so much. All I did in those years was just fool around and wasted my days in vanity!!! How could I write so much?
I open a random page; I read:

Experience is a delicatessen with a bitter taste.
There are no second opportunities for the most relevant things in life.
Our state is so uncertain that our worst troubles might bring the source of future blessings, and viceversa.
Our worst tragedies are really great strikes of luck.
There are no limits to improve your life, the only limits are the ones that you unconsciously impose upon yourself.
No matter how hard you try to conceal it, the truth will always arise.
People must taste the other side in order to understand and appreciate this side.
Fortunate are those who suffer in excess, for they can see the truth in its whole extent.
The other day Willy said to me: I am lucky because I suffered a lot during my youth. (No lo entiendo.)(Update: five years later, in 2004, I could finally understand him.)
The people who have nothing have really a lot, and the people who have a lot really have nothing.
Mireya Chirinos Diaz is an amazing woman and she will always be in my heart. I truly care about her, and maybe she does not know that. I don't think I deserve her, and she knows that.
Mankind will never find certainty in this uncertain world.
Self-sufficiency is the key to happiness.
The more things you know, the more free you become.
Our senses are always blinded by habit so that we hardly appreciate the things we have now.
In human affairs, you should never strive for perfection. The road to perfection is the road towards hell.
In order to succeed, you must evade the comfort zone at all times. There is nothing worse as getting comfortable.
A brief moment of genuine happiness is mostly acquired at the price of prolonged effort.
I love the poor, humble, simple and uneducated people. They will always be better than me.
Every disadvantage always brings a great advantage.
Beware of what you wish for. The realisation of a good wish can bring you lots of trouble.
Maybe we have really learned nothing, maybe all we have done so far is to change our perception of things.
If you are an excellent person, or an excellent friend, or an excellent husband, or an excellent worker, you are actually doing more bad than good to the people around you.
You should learn to appreciate people for what they are, not for what they have.
Our souls are very inclined to the vice of attachment, that is why we must cultivate the virtue of non-attachment.
If a person is fond of something, it is not for what that thing provides to that person, it is for what that person gives to that thing.
A poor man will always have real good friends.
Sometimes it is good to focus on only one problem, so that you may be relieved of the problems that will never dissappear.
My personality must be corrupted, since I wish to acquire the flower without even trying to build up the roots.
And why the hell do I keep on worrying about the things I can not change?
Willy recommended me to read only one book during my entire life. He must be right because he is a genius.
You should not complain of your present troubles, since they represent the sail that forces your boat to move forward.(A. Schopenhauer.)
Happiness resides in a constant activity of both mind and body.
Life is a mirror that reflects everything you do in front of it.
Memory is a dog that lies where it pleases.
You must be careful of your virtues, since they often can do more wrong than right.
Your acts of kindness can easily become acts of cruelty. It is not up to you to determine that.
To remember past events is to discover what really happened in those events.
Troubles are our best friends hidden under ugly masks.(R.W. Emerson.)
I am too indulgent with myself and too unforgiving with others. I should reverse that attitude.
We constantly sleepwalk throughout our present. It is time to wake up.
Habit is blindness. It can turn hell into paradise.
Our power of survival is based in our ability to forget and bury the past. You'd better bury your past or your past will bury you.
This world is pure sorrow. The more you cling to it, the more exposed to sorrow you are.
Humility is the foundation of purity. The higher your purity must be, the deeper must be its foundation.
To have will power does not consist in doing what one wants but rather in doing what one does not want, as long as it is necessary. (J. J.)
A person does and will perform actions throughout the course of his life, through the hours, the days, the months, the years, but only a few of those actions will change his personality forever.
Weakness is a magnet for misfortunes. The weaker you become, the more misfortunes fall upon you. Mother Nature is a cold-blooded mistress who is always trying to destroy the weak.
The Absolute Truth has the most destructive force. The Absolute Truth is lethal. That is why people keep on getting involved in fleeting trifles during their entire life. To avoid it.
Revenge is autodestructive by nature. Kindness towards your enemy is the best revenge.
Misfortunes always open the door to the Truth, because they have always had a close relationship.
Good friends are like mirrors that reflect our own true beauty.

Lima, 19 de Agosto de 1999.

Willy Desiderio Cutipa Paricahua

2010-03-03T12:06:00.000-08:00

I opened one of my old notebooks. I found the following:

My friend Willy must be a genius. He despises human beings but he claims to love them more than anybody else on earth. The other day he said: "I really love mankind, but I just don't want to deal with them." He must be a lunatic, but he is my friend and I love him so.
Last weekend we were strolling along Avenida Abancay. Willy is fond of flirting with the oldest prostitutes on the street, and he loves when people watch him doing that. He is funny because he does not go to bed with prostitutes, he only talks to them because he claims these women are fountains of wisdom. I feel embarrased when people see my friend flirting with the old prostitutes. They laugh at him and others shake their heads. I asked Willy why he likes to be exposed in public in such a way. He told me: "I just do it because I want to show people that I don't suffer from society's most common flaw: hypocrisy"...
I shared to him my opinion that dealing with prostitutes is morally wrong. He said: those nuns and priests in your catholic school really screwed your head, Pedrito, you should sue them for ruining your life.
We stopped on a corner to wait for a bus. We spotted a young beggar lying on the sidewalk. The beggar looked healthy, but he had lost one leg. I was not ready for what came next. My friend Willy approached the beggar and asked him: Why don't you find a job? The beggar quickly got angry. He told Willy: "Are you blind? Can't you see that I don't have one leg?" Minutes later Willy told me: "You see? People like to avoid challenges and hard work. People like to hide behind a good excuse, but they don't realize how many evils hide behind a good excuse." He later said: "At least that beggar had a reasonable excuse. I know plenty of healthy people walking around, wasting their life and losing all their potential with good excuses. Nietzsche was right, the most common characteristic of human beings is laziness."
I told him I was postponing my dissertation for my English class. He said:"no te preocupes, ese profe es un huevonazo." But he later added: "You are a procastinator, my friend. I always see you postponing everything. Every time you postpone, you allow a great evil to take a step closer to you.".........That night I checked the dictionary to find out what "procastinator" means.

Lima, 6 de Enero de 1999

On Genius and their Ideas

2010-02-10T14:05:00.000-08:00

For my dear sister, Carolina I. McNamara.

During my daily desultory reading, I came across a sort of unusual paragraph (at least, for me). Such lines belong to Nietzsche’s Birth of Tragedy, which deals with the influence of the Greek civilization in our present day. It is hard to narrow down the elements or main topic of this work with such a complex author as Nietzsche. His writings are so complex and therefore so unsystematic for they attempt to include vast fields of Knowledge. His work contains a profound web of allusions to Psychology, Philosophy, History and Politics.
Nietzsche worshipped the Greek Civilization, and he attributed all their excellence in the sciences and humanities to their powerful Identity. It would be tedious to call forth the many causes that made the Greeks so wonderful. I would like to focus in the foregoing line.
What must the Greeks have suffered to become so beautiful?
The Greeks must have suffered a great deal for them to become so advanced, or, in Nietzsche’s words, so beautiful. In order to produce something relevant, one must immolate oneself, sink in the most horrid humiliation, and immerse oneself in an existential crisis or catastrophe. Anguish opens the door to the deep tragedy of existence and it gives birth to great ideas and noble sentiments. When you suffer, you become connected with your fellow human beings; you become an essential member of humanity because you sympathize with their problems, struggles and their common fate. If Plato, Aristotle or others Greek writers would not have felt so unhappy and bitter with their own condition, they would not have created such beautiful works of art.
If we contemplate both sides of the matter, we must say that in principle suffering is essential to every man. What is suffering? It is a feeling of uneasiness related to pain, either mentally or physically. Suffering is something everyone in his right frame of mind would avoid. However, as intolerant as we are with suffering, we experience it every day in various degrees.
In general terms we may affirm that, excluding physical pain, even though suffering in a sense is what makes a man, for the most part is the man himself who creates his own suffering. The causes of suffering may be something irrelevant, or even imperceptible, but man himself is the one who perceives it and mold it according to his own opinion, upbringing, perception, constitution, frame of mind, hereditary traits, religion and national culture. To illustrate it better we might narrow it down and conclude that suffering depends on every man’s perception. We grab the things and facts around us and give them the shape and form of our souls. If we consider something as extremely evil, it is not the thing in itself that is evil, but only our opinion is what makes it. I do not mean to imply that our perception is bleak, wrong, or impure. Our perception is what it is, not necessarily good or bad, but we have inherited a legacy from past generations and our consideration of good and evil depend a lot from it. Some of our current evils were regarded as virtues in some old societies.
Besides, in spite of our education and personality, our perception is never fixed but it is flowing and transforming twenty four hours a day, a progression and regression, a line of peaks and valleys moving within a range. Our perception of suffering is never fixed, but it is stronger or weaker according to many circumstances.
I always strive for clarity, since obscurity is my main weakness. I will make use of metaphors to simplify my point. Everything we use or encounter is a rough material, and our soul is the artist, the sculptor, who is going to make something beautiful out of everything that comes his way. The small inconveniences and trifles in life are like plaster, clay, plasticin. In other words, materials easy to mold by the artist without any effort. But the best rough material must be as hard and inaccessible as a rock, a piece of granite, a material difficult to mold and shape, a material that is going to ruin your hands. A material which will present a real challenge for the artist, a material in which the artist is going to have to struggle, suffer, and exert all his mental and physical strength over a long period of time, in order to carve out that heavy, rugged, hard rock and transform it into a smooth, symmetric sculpture. In the same manner, a beautiful soul is going to transform or make a good thing out of the worst tragedies. The worst tragedies are in fact the best material suited to create a masterpiece. Because when the artist has finally finished his task, his scarred hands and exhaustion would not have been in vain. After facing such a challenge, his ability, his wisdom and his strength must have developed and reached a higher level.
When Nietzsche wrote, “How much must the Greeks have suffered to become so beautiful”, he thought of the Greeks as the rough material, suffering was the artist, and the force of will was what made or guided suffering to create that masterpiece. Because suffering is an extraordinary shaping force, but it requires a key element, which is the force of will. The force of internal will is what guides suffering, channels it and directs it to perform the desired effect. We have agreed that suffering, as well as happiness, only comes from inside the soul, and even though it feeds off its environment and surroundings, the soul itself is the main source of suffering. Hence, suffering, without any force of internal will, becomes a ferocious torrent capable to destroy and bring death to everything around, including its main source (the human soul).
In this sense, we observe that immersing yourself in dangerous situations, threatening environments, getting involved with scum, and dangerous, crazy individuals, might be(of course dangerous), but also a good learning experience. Learning does not consist in the contemplation of a problem to find a solution, learning consist in going through a problem, sink into that problem(the bigger the problem, the better) and endure the harsh consequences firsthand. In this sense, Otto von Bismarck, who said that, “a fool learns from his own mistakes, a wise man from the mistakes of others” proved himself to be one of those fools he referred to, because, in a worldly sense, real learning requires a sacrifice, a laceration, to prove capable to understand the depth and repercussions of any problem. In order to truly learn something, you must first let the problem leave a scar on your soul. The greater the scar, the more profound the lesson.
Graham Greene wrote that “the greatest saints have been men with a more than a normal capacity for evil”, men who have practiced the limits of cruelty in order to reach later in life the highest stages of sainthood. This is the natural order of Nature: for you to reach the highest state, you must first begin by the lowest state, that you must first go through error so that later you may safely arrive to the truth. When Bismarck claimed to learn from the mistakes of others, he believed in “shortcuts” or “safe passages”, and he was unable to understand that in this world and the natural order of things the shortcuts and safe passages have never existed. Shortcuts are actually roads that delude you and prevent you from developing your personal capabilities.
Therefore, the essence of living dangerously, suffer at the expense of another person’s vices, getting in trouble just for the sake of experience, getting acquainted with anguish and injustice, represent the great artist that, in a prolonged and tough period of time, will transform our unripe soul into a beautiful thing. Suffering is the greatest of schools and our lives depend on it. That is the reason why wise Mother Nature has decreed that every human soul visits the school of suffering, for, otherwise, our lives would become meaningless without it.
Schopenhauer described geniuses as the lighthouses that enlighten the bleak path of humanity. Without the influence of geniuses, humanity would have wandered aimlessly in the darkness of existence. I wonder what humanity would have become without the influence of geniuses. Countless people would have been unable to be inspired by their great example and sunk into mediocrity. Our debt to them is enormous, but what makes a genius?
It is not my purpose to tell you what makes a genius, or why only a few men are considered geniuses. The facts and details are out there and you must find it out for yourself. Read their books, analyze their thought, study their legacy, sense their profound love for mankind and grasp the living history moving in front of your eyes.
Genius is mostly a product of Chance. It is quite a rare combination of circumstances or complex dilemmas that affected a life, an uncanny capacity for observation, a great amount of suffering endured, a rebellious inconformity with the state of things, a heightened love for humanity, a superhuman force of will acquired over adversity, and the great thoughts conceived in dark periods. A long essay could easily be written on the making of a genius. However, I would like to focus on the topics of Ideas.
An idea is a concept, either true or false, that drives a person to behave in a certain manner to conquer an end. An idea is really an abstraction, a very powerful one, which provides the strength and faith to achieve an end. Great men or geniuses have conceived great ideas and lived according to them. Geniuses have bequeathed the legacy of their ideas, and the outstanding deeds shaped by those ideas. A genius has only produced ideas that are timeless, ideas that will endure for their relevance and nobility and will be useful until the end of time.
It would be erroneous to imagine that the genius did not pay a price for his greatness. The great ideas had a price, and the price the genius had to pay was horrible: a burden of sacrifice, solitude and privation. Just as the greatness of a man is measured by the way he treats his enemies, the greatness of a genius is measured by the amount of sacrifice he endured for the sake of future generations. In the annals of mankind, there have been geniuses and geniuses: Geniuses with delusions of grandeur and geniuses with humility and philanthropy. I consider that true geniuses were the latter ones, the ones that eradicated all traces of personal ego. When a genius forgets about himself and all his self-driven urges, his soul establishes a subliminal connection with the whole of humanity, and all the desires and noble sentiments of mankind find their voice in the mind of a genius. In this way the genius becomes the speaker and comforter of mankind, and his ideas strike with such a force that humanity identifies with them, and preserves them for their own development and survival.
A genius sacrificed himself in the way that he devoted his time, not in the pursuit of personal interest, but in the searching of the truth. He used all his time in pursuing a goal that will not benefit him in any way, a goal that could only be enjoyed by future generations. He is a virtuous man, because virtue does not consist in giving what you have, virtue consists in giving what you lack, in sacrificing your entire self for the benefit of the other. It is important to share a concept at this point: the disadvantages of virtue. Every gain has its own counter effect. An increase of something profitable (whatever it is) will at the same time worsen a negative aspect. In the same regard, if we attempt to increase our virtues, we would inevitably increase our flaws and vulnerability. That is what happened to geniuses: their virtue reached a point of high vulnerability. They destroyed themselves by their own virtue. They became blinded by the light of his own genius and practically immolated themselves, if not physically, materially, and sometimes spiritually.
Here comes the question: Why does a genius have relevance? Why should we pay them respect? Why not praise a material benefactor? A multimillionaire who grants homes and money to homeless children can be as great as a genius? The answer is simple: No.
All the riches in the world are nothing compared to the shaping energy of an idea. This can be further developed if we study human nature. A human being should be the main subject of our study. Every human being is born imprisoned; he is trapped in a dark world where animal passions and darkness prevail. Proof of this is that any child without the proper nurturing, control, care, affection and education will in a long term become a monster, an animal, a savage primitive. A human being is born with the tendency to corrupt himself, and sometimes extreme measures are required to mold him into a man.
A human being is born enslaved, reduced, imprisoned by his own mind; he is trapped by the limits of his consciousness. And this is where ideas come into play. A simple idea teaches a child to behave in a proper way. When you say to a child, don’t do that because it is wrong, or, you have to obey me to be a good kid, you are reinforcing a behavior by a simple idea. You are liberating a person by teaching him an idea, you are releasing him from prison, you are offering him relief from his weakness.
This is what every genius understood from the beginning: an idea can make you free. And from that point on they worked hard to conceive ideas that will liberate humanity from their misery. Because a genius knows what an enormous challenge is to live, he sees too clearly all the ills and necessities and suffering every human being is exposed since the moment he is born. He loved humanity to the point he gave everything for humanity’s redemption. They focused to pursue the great ideas that will heal humanity. And we may safely say that most of the geniuses conquered that end: they became the immortal teachers of mankind. Their ideas got rid of the burden, the guilt, the prejudice, the mental obstacles, the destructive behavior and ignorance that every human being had inside. Not only that: their ideas also made mankind stronger. Their ideas granted spiritual strength, insight to discover their enormous potential, spread their noble sentiments, and hope and courage to fight the injustice and misery of this world.
The genius also understood that we live in a competitive world where some ideas can push you to the dark side. As there are ideas that can liberate you, there also exist plenty of ideas that can push you towards the realm of misery. A careless statement coming from somebody you love can hurt you, become a burden, place a blindfold over your eyes and make you sink into error, self-hatred and imprison yourself into a world of misery (sometimes forever), until the final truth arrives and releases you. A combination of cruel words directed to you can destroy your life.
A genius understood that human beings ignore the tremendous power they have in their tongues. How, by saying a single word, we are able to heal somebody, or how, by saying an insult or a foolish remark, we can destroy somebody, including the people we love most. A genius understood that words, the elements used to construct an idea, are treasures that contain a metaphysical energy, a magical energy, an energy to cure the soul and the body, an energy that uplifts you if well used. Words are treasures and their value is priceless. But human beings in their daily interaction do not pay attention to the constructive (and destructive) power they hold in their tongues.
A rich man donating millions of dollars to humanitarian causes would not have done much compared to a genius without a penny in his purse. A genius gave his ideas, which are priceless and will never be exhausted. His ideas will never appeal to the real, material world, but to the world where human beings reside: the world of the senses and the world of the spirit. Everything truly relevant and the greatest things in this world will never be seen or touched or understood with the mind. Everything truly relevant in the world and happiness itself can only be sensed with the heart and the spirit. The genius understood that the greatest things in life are better known by not knowing, that they can only be enjoyed by feeling. So his great ideas appealed to the realm of the senses.
The genius knew that men always had the ill tendency to serve their intellect; he knew that most men needed to understand in order to believe. The genius comprehended the complexity of this world and he was humble enough to admit that he was unable to explain it. He realized how useful it would to be to make men believe in order to achieve greater ends. He understood that man must not serve their intellect, but intellect must serve men. So he did not fabricate his ideas for men to understand the world, he created his ideas to make men believe, so that they may understand the world better. In some sense he was lying to them, but it was a useful lie.
The material aid you give to somebody is only supposed to last a short time, but the great ideas of a genius represent a spiritual aid that is supposed to transform your soul forever. His effects are tremendous and everlasting. Geniuses are the benefactors of mankind and their legacy is not made of material goods, but something greater: great ideas and wisdom. Great ideas and wisdom represent the unique door, the only access to all the pleasures and treasures in life. The great ideas expand your mind, relieve you from many sorts of servitude, and provide you with spiritual wealth. They give you spiritual wealth so that you may focus your happiness not in the outside, not in the material world, but only in the inside, in the harmonious machinations of your soul. Because true happiness depends exclusively in spiritual wealth, and spiritual wealth is only to be acquired with the great ideas. The benefits of men who possess spiritual wealth are enormous. They are extraordinary people and their example makes people around them become extraordinary too. All the riches in the world are insipid to the men who are devoid of spiritual wealth, and all the miseries in the world are harmless to the men who possess spiritual wealth.
Every brain is a fertile field where we sow the seeds of thought, and if we sow that field with great ideas, the crop will be abundant, and the internal growth and achievements of such a person will be outstanding.
Our gratitude goes to the genius, and to God, Mother Nature, or whoever placed them in this world.
Picture: Nietzsche con su hermanita.

The genius in my family

2010-01-23T08:04:00.000-08:00

Years ago, when I was still a child, my mother told me about a certain uncle of hers. He was a sort of anonymous genius with an incredible knowledge of physics, mathematics and philosophy. My mother only referred to him a few times, but her accounts were imprinted on my memory ever since. She said her uncle was truly a brilliant man, a peculiar intellectual, and, as she assured me, the only genius in our family line. I only remember his last name: Carrillo.
My mother said she met uncle Carrillo when she first moved to Lima. Back then she was a teenager and she had recently enrolled in the University Federico Villarreal. My mother was searching for a place to live, and in the meantime, my grandfather made her stay in uncle Carrillo's home. My mother only lived in her uncle's house for nearly a month, but the impression that man left on her was so profound that, twenty five years later, she had to share it with her sonny boy(me).
According to her version, uncle Carrillo rose up early every morning, had a quick breakfast, and then locked himself up in his library for the rest of the day. My mother ignored in what kind of intellectual undertaking her uncle was involved (a book, a research, who the heck knows?), but he demanded peaceful silence in the house at all times. Uncle Carrillo had one daughter, Norita, who was still attending high school. My mother said her uncle was concerned with Norita's intellectual development, and he regularly took the time to give her counseling, teach her physics and geometry, and check her homework. However, like it usually happens, Norita did not inherit the brains nor the thirst for knowledge of her father.
I wish I could give a detailed account of everything my mother said. My forgetful memory does not allow me for more. I only recall that my family admired Uncle Carrillo. He was an incredible polymath, and his curiosity moved him to explore different fields of science. In addition to Physics and Mathematics, he also became a philologist, and proof of that was that he was able to read in different languages. And that is how he spent his days, locked up in his library, totally inmersed in his studies,(quantum physics, the history of ideas, the homosexuality of Socrates, the sadomasochistic orgies in the Roman Empire, who the heck knows?)
But unfortunately that great intellectual promise took a turn for the worst. Uncle Carrillo had a marvelous mind, but all his vast encyclopedic knowledge acquired in so many decades of diligent study was erased in a couple of days. Uncle Carrillo suddenly lost his mind and his sense of reality, or, to put it in better terms, he became mentally insane. He spent two years in a mental institution. When the psychiatrists were unable to cure his insanity, uncle Carrillo was transferred back home.
My mother had the opportunity to pay him a visit. I remember my mother telling me, in a sad tone of voice, that she could hardly recognize her uncle. He had aged rapidly and he had completely lost his memory. Every day he felt he was surrounded by strangers. He did not even remember the name of the people who took care of him. To make matters worse, uncle Carrillo was also unable to recognize his own daughter, Norita, the person he loved most.
Uncle Carrillo passed away months later.
My mother told me this story during my childhood, but not with the purpose of making me sad. She intended to encourage me to study. She said I should emulate her uncle. Emulate his passion for learning, I guess.
Back then I was only ten years old and there were truly difficult times in school. My grades were disappointing (to say the least.) I was an indolent child and I neglected the study of mathematics because I had recently discovered the pleasures of my two great passions: meditation and masturbation. My thirst for masturbation had eradicated my former thirst for knowledge. I did not want to study, I only wanted to masturbate.
My performance in school was on the verge of disaster. I failed many subjects and my poor mother was very worried. She hoped I would become inspired by the example of her great uncle. She would often quote some of my uncle’s aphorisms:
“Utiliza con diligencia tus años de juventud. El tiempo en la juventud vale por partida triple.”
Translation:“Spend diligently every year of youth. The time in your youth is a determinant factor for the remaining of your life”.
“Si pierdes una hora en la mañana, la buscarás en vano todo el día”
Translation:“If you waste one hour in the morning, you will not recover it during the day”
Since time during youth was so precious, I did not intend to waste it. Therefore, every time my mother quoted one of my uncle’s aphorisms, I ran to the bathroom to keep on playing with my willy. My mother did not understand that Uncle Carrillo had a gift, and he made the best of his gift by constant study and practice. I was not born with that sort of gift, and no matter how hard I studied and how much effort I put into it, I was never going to become a genius like my uncle. Nature always exceeds nurture.
My uncle was born a genius and he died insane. I was born insane and probably will die as insane as my uncle.
My uncle was really conscious of the importance of every hour. He knew that to waste every hour was to lose an opportunity for doing something profitable. We believe we have time, but that is the common delusion we all share. Time is going to cheat on you. Whenever you think you have it, you find out you do not have it anymore.
Time is always running out of our hands. A person very close to me just had a birthday. He turned 27 years old and he finally realized that time is never on our hands, that we are always on the hands of time. He was a bit gloomy for the fact that his youth is actually passing by. I told him to make the best of each day, that youth is not measured for the accomplishments you have had, or the years you have lived, but for the beautiful moments spent with your loved ones, the experiences and lessons you acquired every day, the way you have inspired the people around you, and the peaceful moments you spent with your own self. It is not the time you lived in one day, it is the way you lived in one day.
As a man who have wasted his time in idleness, meditation and masturbation, I am for once the less predisposed to excuse my idleness with the same popular excuses, “there’s always time”, “there’s always tomorrow,” and “Tomorrow is a new day”. Isaiah Berlin said in a lecture that such consolations and the usual attributions of destiny are arguments we regularly use to give us comfort and also hope. If the popular excuses, (such as “Destiny wanted it that way” or “Destiny has the last word”), would not exist, we would be so racked with guilt and our shame would be unbearable. But on the other hand such excuses are actually very dangerous for our self-development, we are too easy on ourselves and we try to rationalize everything, we distort our reason for our own convenience and we fail to see, or refuse to distinguish and admit the true causes of our failure. Our ego keeps us from seeing the light, our ego keeps us from seeing the truth. Truth is always hurtful, but it is the only remedy for our problems. Hence it is much better not to rationalize and just be honest with yourself.
God Almighty expelled man from Eden for having eaten the fruit of the tree of knowledge. The fall of Man originated when he acquired the power of reason. Instead of applying his reason for his own benefit, man used it to indulge himself, to deceive himself, to blind himself and deviate from the genuine paths of God.
L'homme, dans l'état actuel de la société, me paroit plus corrompu par sa raison que par ses passions.
Maximes et penseés, Chamfort
When you rationalize you believe you are helping yourself, but you are actually becoming your own worst enemy. Do not rationalize but see and judge everything with humility and purity of heart.
Everybody living in this world suffers disappointment every single day of their lives, but only the weak in character let those disappointments degenerate into misery. Every person makes mistakes and will keep on making mistakes, but one should not be discouraged for inconveniences on the way. Let the difficulties and obstacles become your motivation. Let the difficulties be the fuel that keeps you struggling for what you want. The obstacles are actually what makes your goals so desirable and challenging. Besides, if everything was so easy to achieve, what would be the purpose of pursuing it?
There is nothing as bad as a good excuse, and you should not let “Destiny” be the excuse for all your failures. A bad destiny only belongs to people who did not have the courage to confront it. Or, as a good friend told me: “Communism was the opium of intellectuals, but Destiny will always be the opium of losers.”
If you rationalize everything, you have not advanced, you have not assumed the responsibility of your actions and you indulge yourself with future promises that might never come true. Tomorrow is an illusion, a trap that keeps you immobilized, a drug that keeps you sedated in front of your computer, dreaming about the future, and not doing anything to make it happen.
Qui relinquunt iter rectum, et ambulant per vias tenebrosas
Proverbia, Latin Vulgate, 2-13
Translation: We unfortunately who leave the paths of uprightness, to walk in the ways of darkness.
Proverbs, 2-13
You must work on your own goals now. Today is the time. Your future depends on your present, on what you do today. The future is today, not tomorrow.
Carpe diem quam minimum credula postero.
Horace.
Translation: Seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the future
It it true that time is the only killer, that every thing in life has their own season and every year that passes takes away so many pleasures and great opportunities. We lose, but we also gain something in a good way. How? Time itself becomes more valuable as we keep on losing it. Hence the passing of time enhances our perception of life, of the relevance of the fleeting hour, of the great value contained in every single day of life.
But for those of us, who are not that young anymore and have been acquainted with dissapointment very often, to live becomes a great challenge. Do not try to evade the tough challenges of life. Life is a treasure that you have to rediscover every single morning. Every morning you must wake up knowing that searching for that treasure will not be easy. And when you finally accomplish your goals, you will understand that you were not searching for a treasure. You will understand that searching is in fact the only treasure. Happiness does not reside in a destination, happiness resides in the journey itself.
When you have lost your passion for life, you intrinsically sit down and wait for Death to come. But when you live your life with passion, you intrinsically force Death to sit down and wait for you.
These are my opinions today. I will probably change my mind tomorrow and return to my life of idleness, sloth, meditation and masturbation.

Mi derecho de morir.

2010-01-14T16:50:00.000-08:00

I feel pleased to have done my duty.

I saw the patients suffering. Not like other doctors who cowardly turn away.

Dr. Jack Kevorkian.

Some of you might not remember Dr. Jack Kevorkian, the American pathologist who, in 1998, was convicted to twenty five years in prison for being a promoter and practitioner of assisted suicide, or most commonly called, euthanasia.

His deeds caused a rumbling controversy when, in 1998, a home videotape prepared by Kevorkian was aired on public television. In this videoclip, Dr. Kevorkian is seen administering a lethal solution to Thomas Youk, a terminally ill patient who willingly voluntereed for euthanasia. Kevorkian is shown staring at the camera, daring the authorities to try to stop him from performing assisted suicide. At this point in time, Kevorkian had already assisted 130 terminal patients to voluntary suicide, and consequently, authorities had prosecuted him and even had his medical license revoked. Until then Dr Jack Kevorkian had already undergone numerous trials but luckily he was never convicted.
After the airing of the videotape, public authorities claimed that Kevorkian has single-handedly caused the patient's death, and prosecuted him once again. Unfortunately this time Kevorkian ran out of public support and was sentenced to twenty five years in jail
However, on the first of June of 2007, Kevorkian was paroled due to his good behavior. He spent eight years of his life in prison.
I believe the American Judiciary system did Dr. Kevorkian a great injustice and they, out of dignity, should at least attempt to compensate him.
Dr Kevorkian gave a great example of civil disobedience, he did everything within his power to arise public debate and make the public understand that euthanasia was an act of compassion. There are a few instances in life when a person must be honest with himself and go against the current, oppose the majority's opinion, step aside and say aloud: I will not be a part of this, because I believe this is ethically wrong.
Dr. Kevorkian made this trascendental step in order to advance a progressive view, in order to impose reason and question some areas of legislation which are inadequate to protect the weaker citizens(in this case, the terminally ill patients). But, of course, as it usually happens with outstanding personalities, Dr Kevorkian was accused of being "dangerous, disloyal, belligerent, sedicious, and anti-american". (Aunque la comparación es dispar para ambos personajes, lo mismo decían de Martin Luther King Jr, "peligroso, sedicioso, desleal, anti-americano", en fin, las mismas burradas de la gente que vive sin cuestionar la realidad de su entorno.)
If I was to be declared terminally ill, why should I not have the right to end my own life? Do I deserve to endure months of pain and humiliation just because the system and public opinion consider euthanasia a crime? This is actually an infringement to my natural rights perpetrated by the current legislation. As John Stuart Mill indicated, whether we might acknowledge it or not, both the government and the "tyranny of custom and opinion" have always played the role of diminishing our personal liberty.
According to legislation, were I to be diagnosed with terminal cancer, I would have to suffer agonizing pain for months, endure the pity of my friends, prolong the misery of my beloved ones, accumulate my medical bills, being a burden for my family, swallow my guilt for making them suffer, experience the humiliating loss of my strenght and vitality, die without dignity and taste other bitter experiences just because I have to abide the laws of my country. This is frankly absurd and unfair for the thousands of terminal patients who willingly desire to end such a nightmare. Human life is the cruelest punishment for those who neither have the mental and physical capacity to enjoy it. But this legislation, instead of granting them relief and compassion, force them to taste every bit of their misery until natural death comes. In these circumstances, it is not death, but dying that I fear.

"A quick death is the supreme fortune of human life" Pliny said, and Dr. Kevorkian was the only man brave and compassionate enough to grant relief to his dying patients.

Years ago Mario Vargas Llosa wrote in an article: el Dr. Jack Kevorkian no fue el angel de la muerte, sino el de la compasion y la paz.

This time I believe Mario's opinion was (Oh my God!!) correct.

Estudien, para que no sean burros (como yo.)

2010-01-07T09:35:00.000-08:00

I hate teachers. Those blue-haired bitches used to whack us with rulers. Forget teachers.

Bullets over Broadway, Woody Allen.

The other day, Ricardo, a latino New Yorker I see regularly at work, told me enthusiastically that he enrolled in college. He told me he has planned to pursue a technical program in order to enhance his ability and earn a better salary. Regardless to say, I was very happy for him. I wished him the best in his undertaking and our conversation went smoothly until he asked me for some advice. I always wonder why these youngsters often ask me for some counseling. (Me!!: a thirty year old man, without plans, without a future, without any passion, without a girlfriend, without money savings, and very soon, without a job).
Since human nature has always had the inkling for emulation, I believe example is actually the best teacher there is. You may teach others how efficient of a person you are by the way you act daily, by your interaction with other people, by your passion in following your dreams, by all your acomplishments. Your life itself is the best lesson you may give the people around you. Hence I confess I am the less suited to give advice, since I have achieved nothing remarkable in my life. They might as well ask for advice to a street bum to get better results.
I always feel sympathy for these naive and idealistic youngsters and I try to encourage them to pursue their long term goals. I told Ricardo: the only advice I can give you is to study very hard and remember that the real school is out there.
I do not intend to fall into commonplaces, but I believe that the best education actually exists outside the school system. My creed tells me that Education is better made in a profound interaction with older people, (senile people are the greatest teachers but we prefer to keep them isolated in an asylum), reading books that interest you, getting involved in dangerous and humanitarian experiences, constant traveling abroad, and most important of all, in inmersing yourself into the merciless, wicked, savage and competitive jungle of real life. For me that is what real education is made of.
The boorish lecture of a professor inside a cold classroom crowded with students (who neither participate nor talk) is the antithesis of what education means.
Seven years ago I also believed in the educational system and I enrolled in college to take some literature courses. Two semesters were more than enough to convince me that I was wasting my precious time. I hated to attend my evening classes, and instead I preferred to run to the MC college library (which had a wonderful collection of Latin American Literature), and stayed there, reading the poetry of Ruben Dario and W.H. Auden, until late at night. I missed many classes, and I did not give a damn about the essays and assignments required to pass the course. Pretty soon I understood that college education was nothing but useless bullshit, but that it was a painful process I had to pass through in order to find a good job. I was unable to put up with it. I felt I was betraying myself and I could not even look at myself in the mirror. I was sick and tired of wasting my time in those isolated classrooms and I decided to quit.
People often tell me that leaving school has been the biggest mistake of my life. I have always been shameful of all the mistakes I made in my past but, honestly speaking, dropping out of college is the only mistake in my life that I am extremely proud of.
Once again, I do not mean to fall into commonplaces. This world is so old that there is nothing new and there is a commonplace on every corner and one sometimes can not avoid to be a commonplace or to slip into a commonplace. Bernard Shaw, García Marquez, Jorge Luis Borges, y cuchucientos otros, have asserted that their true education began when they abandoned school, and such statement is so old and it has been repeated so often that it has become a commonplace, but I have unfortunately experienced this "commonplace" and concluded that this might not be a commonplace at all but, on the contrary, a fundamental truth.
When I finally awakened and understood that the real education is the education of the self, I recollected all the useless lessons I had to memorize by heart and all the tepid books I had to read and all the boring assignments I had to complete and I cursed myself for having spent the best years of my life in schools, years of valuable education went right down the toilet.
I despise education, I despise the school system, I despise bad teachers, and I despise schools in general. Every meaningful lesson can only come from within the deep waves of the soul, and it only comes to the surface through disapointment, hard work, pain, suffering and struggle. Those are truly the important lessons that are meant to survive and prevail inside ourselves forever because they have moved us tremendously, because those lessons acquired through stormy situations changed our life, made us more humble, elevated our mind and perspective to a higher level. A peaceful, quiet, dark, solitary classroom is not suited for teaching. It is a dormant environment made for dormant minds. No wonder Goethe wrote:

"I hate everything that merely instructs me without increasing or directly quickening my activity."

I know education will never work for me because I do not believe in it. But for you, dear reader, who believe in education, it will work wonders. The mere acting of believing in something, however superfluous, can work miracles. Sometimes I am surprised about the amazing power and potential the human brain has and that we rarely put into use. Sometimes I am convinced that faith is the only magic we human beings possess. I say magic because I know it can truly overturn tremendous difficulties and turn them into good. That's why I praise any man who, after losing everything and being oppressed by countless evils and trials, he, somehow miraculously, still manages to retain his faith in such horrible circumstances. I believe that man is capable to overcome all his miseries, because a seed of genuine faith is enough to change a life. The worse the circumstances, the more productive the faith.

Et ait illi: Euge bone serve, quia in modico fuisti fidelis, eris potestatem habens super decem civitates.

Secundum Lucam 19-17, Latin Vulgate

Translation:And he said to him, Well, you good servant: because you have been faithful in a very little, have you authority over ten cities.

Have faith in your goals and do not doubt. Doubt is, for the most part, the source of all failures.

Enough with this bullshit.

Como dijo Daniel F, leyenda urbana, mito vivo del rock peruano:

La mejor escuela es la escuela cerrada.

El Ultimo??

2009-12-31T10:12:00.000-08:00

The last is rarely meant to be the last.
Nobody has the power to say: this is my last post, my last meal, my last thought, my last say. Man has always been boasting of his privilege to command over things. In my case, I am sincere enough to admit that I do not always command over things but that certain things often have command over me.
The last rarely is the last, and I recall G. Greene illustrated this idea in one of his novels. He wrote that a story never has a beginning neither an end, since such story is only a fixed point, a tiny portion, of the endless chain of events. Hence the state of an event is always determined by the position and perspective in which one analizes it, and that's why I honestly ignore if this is my last post. As I always say: I don't know.
Maybe this post is meant to be the first one of a new phase, or the middle of an old phase, or the last one of the last phase, of the start of the sixth phase, of the middle of the beginning of the last of the fifth part of the initial phase. As I said before: things have command over me.

Since this is supposedly the last post of the year, I think it's time to make my new year's resolutions. But I sincerely doubt that I can keep up with those resolutions. The passing of time, the rule of chance, and the unstable perspective, conform the three dark horses capable of destroying my most powerful convictions and my most serious resolutions. The dark horses were produced by mother Nature, and they have recourse of that elemental law that dictates that absolutely nothing can be fixed or still over a long period of time. Change is the essence of Nature, the essence of History, the essence of Humanity. And since every resolution or conviction is a fixed entity, and despite of my will power and resistance, Nature will eventually reclaim Her original rights and change the circumstances, overturn my fate, reverse my behavior, change my opinions, turn the coin to the other side. We have the utmost necessity to change in order to survive and, as Lampedusa said, if we want things to stay the same, things will have to change.
But this is not always true. I have witnessed some people with the amazing capacity to persist in their goals, and I admire them for that.
The power of man basically resides in his persistence (or perseverance). Perseverance actually represents our only weapon to fight the two main tyrannies of this world: the tyranny of Chance and the tyranny of Nature. And the Aesop's fable of "The Turtle and the Hare" gives a clear example of Perseverance. The Hare possesed all the abilities to win the race: the hare has long legs; it is agile, fast, light, and smart. The Tortoise is naturally slow, and to make matters worse, has a heavy body, short legs, and carry a heavy shell. In spite of all these disadvantages, the Tortoise beat the Hare only with his persistence and constancy (slowly as he went, the tortoise never stopped; while the Hare was taking a nap). The Tortoise is the prototype of Persistence which, at the end, overcame all his disadvantages and accomplished his goal. This is the reason why I have to agree with the roman poets who wrote that Self-help is the best help, or, to put it in better terms:
"The most powerful man is the one who has absolute power over himself"

P.d: Estimados lectores. No pierdan su tiempo leyendo este estupido blog, lleno de pesimismo, amargura y malas vibras. Haganme el favor de empezar el 2010 de la mejor forma, leyendo buenos blogs. Los buenos blogs sobran en esta web, así que por favor olvidense de este blog. Y no vuelvan, se lo suplico.
Unicamente mantengo este blog para mantener un espacio de opinion. Por lo demas, las discusiones, las noticias de nuevos libros, los debates, los temas literarios, se los dejo a los literatos con verdadera vocación, a los que aman a la Literatura de verdad. Por ahora, mis unicas vocaciones son el oscurantismo, la flojera, el enanismo y el onanismo.
No vuelvan, se lo suplico.

Una Pork-Ería

2009-12-20T02:43:00.000-08:00

"Pasa cada cosa que uno se siente arrepentido de haber nacido"

Julio Sosa

I've forgotten this blog for a couple of months. But that's not a tragedy. Everything in life is destined to be forgotten, then remembered, then forgotten, then remembered, and so forth until the true ending, the final redemption arrives: the perpetual oblivion. I have not been endowed with that blessing yet, pray to God it may come sooner than I imagine. In the meantime, let's squander away our precious time with banalities.
Nothing has changed much in the past months. My antisocial trait has increased, I guess, and I keep on reading more and more, and driving more and more people away from me. For a lunatic, antisocial, hermit like me, there's nothing more unbearable than undesired company. Solitude is a jealous mistress, and she is inconvenienced enough with my soul, the presence of someone else will make her abandon me. And I need Her more than ever. She has become essential in my existence.
I regard Solitude as a wise queen, even though I honestly do not yet comprehend why she evades human beings. I sense her whispering on my ear that old tango performed by el maestro Julio Sosa, and I have no other choice than assenting:

Que el mundo fue y será una porquería ya lo sé...
(¡En el quinientos seis y en el dos mil también!).

I do not feel resentment towards Solitude. I understand that Solitude, aware of all the massacres and bloodshed perpetrated only in the past century, is wise enough to despise humanity in general.
My personal views have not changed either. Analizando un aspecto y otro, nunca llego a ninguna conclusion, nunca concibo una conviccion. No creo en nada. Estoy jodido, compare.
A man is basically made of what he believes. His ideas and convictions determine how his life will be in the long run. But I have no other thing than garbage inside my brain. My life is like an empty vessel, wandering lost in the vast ocean.
The mere act of getting into a conclusion, or a conviction, is such a ridiculous undertaking. The search for truth is perpetual, has no short-cuts, and its sole purpose is inquisition and doubt. Every conclusion is a misrepresentation of the truth. Every conviction certainly kills the truth. Some people believe that hiding the truth has its advantages. They believe that, as Plato said, societies must be built upon the influence of a "mighty lie".
Convictions are mighty lies invented in order to elevate our personal goals, I agree. Convictions are the engines of progress, I agree. But I think that convictions are also great excuses to commit atrocities. Sometimes there's nothing as bad as a good excuse. Every certainty opens a new window, a new perspective, but it is also a dangerous weapon because it creates a great temptation. And one has no idea how easily one can fall into that temptation.
With all my huge uncertainties I tend to lie closer to the truth. The terrible price I had to pay for residing closer to the truth is to have no convictions. A man without convictions is already dead. His soul is dead, because it is deprived of its main nourishment: ideas, beliefs and faith.
I'm a dead man, it's true. I don't believe in anything, it's true; but at least I have a set of contradictory points of view. It is better to have a dead horse than no horse at all. After all, a consistent pluralism of outlooks and points of view conform the essence of humanity, don't you think so?
Me puedes catalogar como quieras, pero ante todo soy un ser humano.
Y ya lo se, che, este mundo es una porquería y siempre lo sera...

Un amargo entremés, mi cuate (Si tu no lo entiendes, pos yo menos)

2009-10-25T06:31:00.000-07:00

"The vast impersonal forces have different meanings and, at the end, they mean nothing. The vast impersonal forces can be everything and nothing. The forces consist in the desire to unite and harmonize the whole variety of things and facts, (with the knowledge that such feat is an utopia) a vain task, and effort to give sense, to interpret a picture that has never meant nothing, a picture that has always meant chaos".
"The impersonal forces might also consist in the irrational instincts of man, that dark inner desire to annihilate, to separate, to destroy".
"The impersonal forces, in general terms, might mean the tyrannical rule of chance. On the bad side, why the heck we did not act as we should have, why we did something that we knew it was wrong, why sometimes we destroy ourselves with genuine intent".
"On the good side, it might consist in those unexpected flashes of insight, intuition and wisdom, and also the surprising strikes of luck, why and how, by making a bad decision, taking the worst courses, or using the worst methods, we somehow accomplish a good thing, y perico de los Palotes dijo: Podras despojarme de absolutamente todo, menos mi suerte"
"Tu entiendes algo, mano?"
"No le entiendo ni michi, chocherita."
"Hijole cabron, este hijo de la chingada esta rechiflado."
"In this world I live blinded most of the time, acting by the influence of my current mood, sleepwalking, seeing nothing, knowing nothing, doing nothing of purpose. They say I have true freedom, the total control of my behavior, that I’m the only master of my destiny, but as long as I live in a society, I know that’s truly impossible. I can only be free when I live in a desert, with my solitude, but once I return to society I get trapped on a spider’s web, I immerse myself into a jungle, a rollercoaster that will take me to different environments and relations and situations. I’m free, but not truly free. The only freedom and the only truth will come with eternal solitude, in other words, with Death itself."
"I live in a world in which I am able to control so little. The more things I get to control, the more I realize I ain’t controlling shit, my brotha."
"We are brought here by chance and therefore our lives are ruled mostly by chance. All we can do is to occupy ourselves and to have faith in the justice of our purposes (even though such purposes are absurd to others, or mean nothing to anyone) and keep on living with humility, peace of mind and faith".
(INDABACKOFMAFUCKDMIND*Talking about purposes: our most committed purposes mean truly nothing to anyone, the world is too vast and self-sufficient, that our existence and purposes mean nothing to it. On the spiritual side, even though our purposes and life itself mean nothing to the world, to the Almighty Lord, our souls and purposes are as important and relevant as to ourselves.)
"As we enter into the living world, we walk into a dark tunnel where nothing can be seen. In our most lucid moment we can only sense a tiny bit (or even less) of the infinite Truth. If I live my life with humility, only knowing what I need to know, I might be lucky enough to catch glimpses of the Truth, but once again, the Truth will only come when I don’t need Her anymore, She will only come when I am dead".
"Yes, Chief, I confess. I confess I was afraid to live because I understood what huge consequences my little actions could produce. Because I didn’t know what force or influence my careless words could produce on their soft minds."
"Don’t you understand, you freaking moron? Can’t you see that your actions can do nothing? ..that regardless of what you do or what you don’t, things that are meant to happen, will happen anyways?"
"That’s why tyrannies never last"
"Democracies never last either."
"They do."
"You think they do, but they’re only fake democracies. Your government has converted you and your people into an statistic, a number, a slave with the delusion that you are important, but you are only a slave."
"That’s why I never trust any Government. Where there is power, there will always be evil. Even if you place power on the hands of a saint, power will corrupt him and convert him into Satan."
"Conoces los estudios del Doctor Phillip Zimbardo?."
"Zimbardo, si vino aqui a Maryland y dio una charla en Prince George College."
"Es un psicólogo? Yo no se nada de esa nota. Solo sé que nuestro subsconciente, casi sin darnos cuenta, toma las riendas de nuestra vida sin pedirnos permiso."
"Con tu floro de que los gobiernos son sucios y corruptos de por sí, me recuerdas mucho a la prédica de Alexander Herzen. El solía decir: All my life I have served under one idea: war against all imposed authority."
"You are wrong, boy. Our relationship with Destiny is not one-sided, as many pessimistic assholes make you think."
"Events are not made by people. Events are made by destiny, and people only follow the course of Destiny."
"You are mistaken. Events are made by destiny but also by people. To put it more clearly: The individual is made by events, but events are also made by individuals. They interact all the time, it’s a constant intercourse, a perpetual flow of giving and taking, they carry their own influence, their own legacy…."
"What he said is true. Destiny is your Boss, but you can influence Her in a way. All you need to do is to work hard and believe. You must believe!"
"Bullshit!!! Believe? hahahaha…You citizens of the world eat, breath, and act by commonplaces. People always do and say the same things. Believe, believe, what a useless commonplace! and however, it never ceases to amaze me that people never get tired of hearing that crap!"
"Because that’s what they really want to hear!"
"Eres un animal domesticado y vives enjaulado en la sociedad."
"Por eso sufres mas de lo debido."
"Este huey esta encabronadísimo y no le entiendo ni jota."
"Yo creo que sI pude captar lo ultimo. Eso de los animales y la jaula de la sociedad. Creo que Juan Jacobo lo escribió no se donde."
"Juan Jacobo?"
"Juan Jacobo, pes weon, el que regalo a sus hijos como quien regala unas mascotas."
"No lo conozco."
"Y como lo vas a conocer, si ese huey guerejo murio hace dos siglos"
"El ruso Leon leyó a Jacobo. Y por eso Leon llegó a creer que lo mejor era que todos fuesemos unos campesinos, que vivamos en una granja, como los animalitos de George Orwell."
"El cuate Orwell, si fue un genio, eh?"
"Pos yo no les entiendo, cabrones. Ahora si ya me cansaron. Sácate Huey!!!"
"Orale, largate ya!. Si no te voy a agarrar a madrazos."
"Hijo de su pinche madre. Anda, vete a coger a tu vieja."
"Te refieres a su vieja o a su vieja?"
"Pos todo depende de donde seas. Si eres perucho, vieja significa una cosa, si eres mexicano, pos no."
"Only when I fully recognize my infinite ignorance, I will finally learn something valuable. Only when I live at the lowest point, when I appear to seem a loser, a bum, a “nobody”, that’s when I will finally become somebody."
"Et pourquoi?"
"Because suffering is a mirror that never fails to show who you are. Suffering always tells you what you truly are, and what you are really made of."
"Wisdom does not exist, my brotha."
"Yes, it does. Wisdom exists but it will never be on your hands. All you are allowed to have is knowledge. All your knowledge comes from your own self, your own experience, what you have learned, but wisdom can only come from the Almighty. Wisdom only lies in your connection with Him. But your connection with the Almighty is not even a guarantee for Wisdom. The Almighty will only give it to you according to his Will."
"Par de gueyes mamones, pos yo me voy"
"Pedro, siempre fuiste un tartamudo en la escuela. Ni siquiera podias pronunciar tu nombre, inutil. Me causaba risa ver como tartamudeabas, como todo el mundo se burlaba de ti, y como te escondias en el baño a llorar. Que maricon y ridículo eras."
"En esos tiempos descubri la gran verdad de la que hablaba Vanini, que esta vida es una mierda, un castigo innecesario."
"Tal vez sea necesario, pero tu no quieres entenderlo."
"Ya callate, loco de miercoles.....y tartamudea como lo hacias entonces….como el cerdito Porky, Porky, nuestro rey…han esta-, han esta-, han estado contentos? Eso es to, eso es to, eso es todo amigos!!…."
"That’s ah, that’s ah, that’s all Folks!!!!!!"

El (Des)Amor del Amor (Part 7)

2009-10-14T14:06:00.000-07:00

VII. More reflections and more doubts.
Every morning, as I sip a cup of Starbucks Coffee, I feel that Life is really beautiful. Unfortunately, as the hours pass by that good feeling diminishes and goes away. From that point everything gets worse and worse. In the evening hours I once again come to the conclusion that mi vida es una mierda and Life itself is not worth all the trouble.
Coffee is like my opium or my marijuana. It puts me in a hallucinatory mood. Under its effects I magically forget about myself, my miseries, my existence on this earth, and my human body, this worthless mass of muscles, bones and blood that is decaying every year. And it is decaying due to the passing of Time(the only killer.)
Tobacco, alcohol, and most vices are not truly harmful to the body. Time is the only poison.
Ralph Waldo Emerson.
While I drink my coffee I use certain methods to prolong my exhilaration. I pick up a book, read a few paragraphs and my enjoyment increases. Many times I was lucky enough to see a beautiful blonde walking by my table and I feel better than ever.
Right now I'm inside a Starbucks Coffee shop. I'm drinking a cup of coffee while I write this post.
(By the way, to the readers who rarely visit this blog, I would like to apologize for my crappy and incoherent writing style. I should remind you that every post was written a la diable, or like my countrymen say, a la volada, al puro champazo, in a hurry, so I neither have the time nor the intention to proofread or correct my mistakes. Sorry about that. Life is too short and there are more than a thousand things to do out there besides writing. I don't waste my time writing, I waste my time reading. And I think that you (who are not a hermit like me) should stop wasting your time reading these vain lines, and start using your time wisely. Go out there and live, and try to enjoy your time to the fullest. As sad as it may seem, you ignore how many days of life you have left. So, don't waste it in me.)
After my meeting with Ceka, it took me two additional weeks to finally have my romancing plans laid out. If everything worked as planned, Rosalia would fall in love with me in only one month. I carefully read the memoirs of Casanova, the Art of War of Sun Tzu, The Metamorphosis of Ovid, The Art of Seduction of Robert Greene and I used all their valuable advice to jot down a detailed plan to seduce Rosalia. I had confidence because I carefully prepared every single action. I had all the chances for Victory.
Victory: What the hell does that mean? Who was I trying to fool?
I believe it was Cervantes who wrote that "every man is the son of his own works"or "the brave man carves out his own destiny" or something like that. And my Dad used to tell me that your destiny was made of the bittersweet combination of your diligence and negligence, or something like that. But I don't quite agree with them. I guess they are right and wrong in some sense. The absolute truth has never existed. There are only half-truths and people have chose them according to their national sentiments, personal prejudice, narrow judgment, and they have fought and killed each other in order to perpetuate one half truth. People never understood that it is not only black or only white, but that it has always been gray, always gray, and their stubborn refusal to accept this simple truth has cost us more than a million human lives and rivers of blood during the course of History. And that fateful quantity keeps rising, of course.
Early in life my friend Willy Desiderio Cutipa taught me that everything, absolutely everything in this world was infected with a contradiction. Willy did me a great favor for teaching me that. Such notion brought me good things, like understanding that regardless of the side we took, we were always wrong in a way, the awareness that everyone is by nature overindulgent with himself (his work, his opinions, his judgment). With these two relevant points in mind, I comprehended that every human being on earth was sunk into the same pit, we all were trapped in the same jail, we all were condemned to the same imperfect nature, and that taught me to be more tolerant with other people.
But, as I just said, the good is always infected with the bad, and Willy's notion also brought me some evil. Years later I felt like an asshole, when I realized that one day I had one opinion, and the next day a different one, and the next day another one, and I defended the first opinion with the same conviction that the opposite one. It was too much to take for a young man of 21. I understood that I had no convictions of any kind. I did not believe in absolutely anything. And nothing has changed, I'm still the same. I'm an impostor, I am not a human being, I am only a ghost, a ghost that does not believe in anything. I don't even believe in myself.
Why am I always so sour, negative and pessimistic? Is it because life punished me so hard in my early twenties? Great sufferings increase the appetite for death, I must be terribly hungry.
Let me return to the topic of Victory. This is what I wrote in my notebook months ago:
"Victory would be possible if we had the exact knowledge of all the factors of every situation. But the factors are far too many and, to make matters worse, they are shifting constantly. The A situation on Monday afternoon will never be the exact same A situation on Thursday night. Therefore the solution for Monday afternoon has to be different for the one on Thursday night, even though is for the same problem. I'm a fool for trying to apply a fixed method to a problem that is fluctuating every second, every minute, a living thing that every moment is showing a different face, a tricky detail, a polymorphic trap that I failed to recognize the minute before, that I fail to recognize right now, that I will fail to recognize tomorrow. The popular statement that "there is always the right time, the right place and the right way for everything" is false, it's a lie, a comforting lie. La batalla de la vida es dura, comparito. Es enfrascarse en una lucha perpetua con un enemigo que nunca llegas a conocer, un enemigo que siempre llevara la ventaja en cada situacion. No se ni mierda and life is very malicious pues siempre te devela las verdades demasiado tarde."
It's better to have an advisor for every single undertaking. Especially for the dangerous undertaking of Love, because passion makes you a blind man, a helpless child who walks on the wrong path and takes the worst decisions. To say it in more polite terms: The dangerous combination of Love and Passion conform a mental sickness that turn you into a pathetic idiot, an idiot who hurts himself and the woman you supposedly love. Our mind is blind, narrow, limited, overindulgent, and a good advisor is needed to counterbalance our tremendous weaknesses. This common rule(zonseras que cualquiera sabe)is applied not only for love, but to everything else:government, management, business relationships, friendship, even for war. Counterbalance is the key. I don't recall where the heck I read that the best officers are the ones who do not always follow their Superior's commands. In military affairs, the act of disobedience is a terrible offence, but disobedience is useful too. How many battles have been won with the act of disobedience? Someone in middle rank is able to see things their superiors are incapable to see, and they visualize a middle course that will profit everybody else. In other words, nobody entirely trusts anybody else(it is actually profitable not to trust anyone), everyone is always watching the actions of others. And isn't that root of every democracy?
To live is to suffer. If I were to count the multiple occasions that I went through pain and if I knew the many days and hours of pain I have yet to endure I will surely end my life right now. But Life is a punishment we all must go through. Since Life is a must, I have no other choice than to trust Fortune. Fortune is the Mistress, the Absolute Queen who has ruled my life since my birth. Fortune is powerful, Fortune knows more. The conduct of Fortune surpasses all the rules of human prudence, and no matter what I do or say She will always do with me whatever She pleases. I should not complain, because Fortune has more judgment than me, and if She insists on giving me pain, there must be a higher reason my dumb mind is incapable to understand.
The years have given me the knowledge that Fortune is fond of Suffering. Fortune has a closer friendship with Pain, and, on the other end, Fortune deeply despises Pleasure. Sometimes I imagine that Fortune is telling me: "Pedrito, suffer, suffer, please suffer. Suffering is good, suffering spices up your life, it makes your life more complex and dangerous, and therefore more interesting. Suffering makes your life a wonderful adventure. If you were not to suffer, if everything went as perfect as you always wished, you would have experienced extreme Boredom(el peor de los males, segun Voltaire),and you would have killed yourself. Because you refuse to admit that Suffering gives a powerful meaning to your life,a meaning to keep on struggling and fighting for what you want. Suffering also makes you stronger, suffering is a fuel that keeps you at an efficient level, it gives you a strong character and persistency to continue, it strenghthens your most noble sentiments(Love becomes greater and nobler in calamity), it elevates your personal virtues(las virtudes se intensifican y enriquecen en epocas de sufrimiento), suffering also maintains your main priorities on the top of your list, and if you don't believe me, look back at the Roman Empire, y como en sus epocas de mayores lujos, placeres y comodidades, su Imperio se degradó y se hundió en la mierda. Suffering also gives you knowledge and Wisdom. Nunca aprenderas nada relevante sin antes haber sufrido y caido en la mas baja humillacion. Great Wisdom can only be bought at the price of terrible suffering. And I can give you a hundred more reasons to keep on suffering...asi que no me discutas, por que yo soy Dama Sabia y tu, Pedrito lindo de mi corazon, eres un burro de mierda. Y ahora con tu permiso....dejame hacerte sufrir mas, ya que, en cuestiones de sufrimiento, todavia tomas en biberón..."
Suffering forms an important part of our lives. A day of life hasn't passed without us tasting the bitter cup of suffering. The fact is that we are so accustomed to it that we don't think too much about it, and we hardly feel it. Custom and Habit are very compassionate with our doomed existence. They have granted us a bit of relief from our daily dosis of suffering.
But the Truth is that suffering is our essence. We were born to suffer. And just take a look around you and you will notice that everything around is so unstable that a shadow of death and tragedy is following us everytime, everywhere. A fateful sword is perpetually hanging over our heads. The sword might drop at any moment, even right now, for the best things and also the most terrible things in life usually happen when we least expect it.
To the optimistic fellow who tells me that everything is bright and shiny, I would ask him, if Life is really wonderful, then, why bad things come easily and good things are always hard to get? And Why is that since we were born and grow up we are so predisposed(due to our ignorance and weakness)to fall, get hurt and keep on making mistakes? Certainly if we were made to be happy, we would have been born better prepared and not with such huge flaws. Such reflections reminded me of what el Gran Willy Desiderio Cutipa said to me:
Pedro, en toda escuela elemental primero te enseñan la lección y luego te toman el examen. Y por eso yo te digo que la vida es la escuela mas injusta que existe. Pues en la escuela de la vida primero te toman el examen, y luego de que fracasaste miserablemente, te enseñan la leccion.
Wilber Desiderio Cutipa Paricahua.
I’ve come to understand that every goal we achieve, every possession we acquire mostly consists in a passing, swift illusion. I don’t pride myself in the things I achieve, because in two or three days I probably don’t value them as much as in the beginning. If we would learn how ungrateful we often are, how we take everything for granted, how much evil we provoke without realizing, we would be so petrified and ashamed. But we don’t know. We’re blind and maybe for good.
“We are all guilty in the eyes of God”
        Broadway Danny Rose, Woody Allen.
We all feel satisfaction for the things we own. Some have cars, other have houses, others have dogs, others have money, others have degrees, and I only have books. But I don’t pride myself for the books I have. In eighty years (or maybe sooner) all my possessions will be recycled or belong to somebody else. Every day I use my belongings with the certainty that what I have today, I might lose tomorrow. That’s all fine with me. Besides, as William James said:
Can things whose end is always dust and disappointment be the real goods which are our souls require?
William James.
I’m 30 years old and at this stage of my life I understand that I will eventually lose everything I have: my books, my job, mi gatito CuchiCuchi, the people I love most, my strength, my vitality, including my own life. I accept that I will lose everything and that fact humbles me. Everyone living in this world share the same fate. In eighty five years all the people inside this Starbucks café will be dust and ashes, and my soft, healthy hands (that are typing right now) will be bones, stench and worms lying underground.
Life is a mistake since the moment we are born. Since our birth we are perpetually in need of something: food, care, love, friendship, exercising, studying. We are all attacked from different sides, from different needs, and sometimes we are not able to fulfill them evenly. When we focus on one need, certainly another need arises. It is really hard to cope with all of them. Our needs are perpetual and the lack of certain things will always cause trouble. The beginning of life is the beginning of trouble. Sometimes the only solution for that trouble is death. Some people are truly conscious of this truth and they choose to end their trouble by ending their lives. Suicide: for a coward like me that solution is out of the question. I comfort myself with the hope that whenever I die, all my worries will dissolve, and my soul will be buried in perpetual darkness, silence and solitude.
I believe I’m approaching the ways of ancient Indian philosophy, which considers that Life is the greatest of evils, but that is a necessary stage, an evil transition which must be spent in frugality, sacrifice, and the total annihilation of desire.
I’ve emphasized that human beings are doomed into error and failure. In every new undertaking we are, by a natural law, more predisposed to error. Some believe this is due to our natural ignorance, we were born knowing nothing, and we ignore how to behave in new situations. But I must disagree; I believe that even if we learn, we are still more prone to error.
It takes a lot of sweat and effort to obtain a good thing. For most people one single victory is obtained after a long series of failures. If one would analyze it this way, one would notice that successful people were in fact habitual losers. They have endured failure after failure; they have been failing his whole life in order to get their greatest victory. Their success was built at the price of struggle, hard work, and mostly disappointment. Victory is a friend of persistence, discipline and blind stubbornness. Isn’t this the reason why 60% of every success is mostly a product of confidence? If you are willing to bear with hard sacrifices and privations, then you must be a brave person. If you are brave by nature, then consider yourself lucky. Fortune is fond of courage. Fortune favors the brave. And I said all these things to conclude that great achievements are not accomplished by talent, only by perseverance. Some brilliant minds don’t even think like that:
Cuando conozcas al exito y al fracaso, y trates de la misma forma a aquellos dos impostores.
Jorge Luis Borges.
We are condemned to failure (y mi puta memoria me falla) since I can’t remember the name of the Roman poet who wrote that the path towards heaven is strenuous, harsh, and difficult, while the road to hell is short, slippery, smooth and easy.
Once again, we are condemned to failure. If you still have doubts, just review any volume of World History. And if you are not yet convinced, go and ask the opinion of historians. The Historian Liddell Hart, in his book “Why don’t we learn from History?”, affirmed that throughout all his historical research he found an incredible(demoralizing) amount of mistakes committed by the makers of history. Mistakes, mistakes, more mistakes, and only a few good deeds: “ History is the record of man's steps and slips. It shows us that the steps have been slow and slight; the slips, quick and abounding". The historian Gibbon was of the same opinion: "History is indeed little more than the register of the crimes, follies, and misfortunes of mankind".
We live surrounded by walls of despair, error and pain. And Robert Louis Stevenson knew this:
“There is indeed one element in human destiny, that not blindness itself can controvert. Whatever else we are intended to do, we are not intended to succeed; failure is the fate allotted. Our business is to continue to fail in good spirits”
Robert Louis Stevenson.
Human beings have to suffer. I believe the main cause for that is our weakness and imperfection. If only man were to become a Superman (in the sense Nietzsche defined it), our calamities would probably be reduced in half. (Anyone could argue that too much strength, self-sufficiency and perfection in humans would provoke boredom, and consequently, meaningless, desire of death and suicide. But my contention is that the evil of boredom can be cured, it’s in our power to control it. There are plenty of evils we can’t control. But Boredom is manageable by hard work, constant activity and planning).
We can’t blame Nature for our shortcomings. That’s the way we were born. Our genes, the mold in which we were made was insufficient, defective, to endure all the ills and complexities of this world. Our Nature at its most allowed us to survive, but not to “survive happily.” Our constitution is genetically vulnerable to many ailments (physical and imaginary). What is the cure for that? I truly don’t know. Sabes que soy un ignorante and I don’t know shit. But if you ask my honest opinion I think that, (since a great part of our misery is a product of our poor judgment and misdeeds), passion (in all the broad meaning this word implies) is one of the principal sources of suffering. Our brain is extremely susceptible to passion. In a single day of life our mind is subjected to an endless chain of passions(anger, nervousness, resentment, laughter, fear, boredom, sadness, exhaustion, euphoria, excessive happiness, passionate love) and every time we experience these strong emotions(and as long as these may last), our reasoning and judgment diminish.
Every small passion has an ill effect (ill but temporary) in our judgment. I think Marcus Aurelius and some Greek philosophers wrote about this...and some citations come to my mind:
Anger and Wisdom have never lived together,
If you have one, you can’t have the other,
Anger is the worst enemy of Wisdom.
                                           Anonymous
Tum pavor sapientiam omnem mihi ex animo expectorat
Cicero.
Translation: Then fear itself expelled all the intelligence from my mind.
It is only in the moments when we are calm and at peace with ourselves, that our state of mind is at its full capacity, and it enables us to think reasonably, search for the best course, and make the best decisions according to our circumstances.
When I was younger I believed the purpose of life was to be happy. What an optimist fool I was! How ignorant I was of the crooked ways of this world! Now, at thirty years of age, and with the memory of all the blows and misfortunes inflicted upon me, I ask not for happiness, but to stay away from happiness as long as possible. I wish to remain in a middle state, a peaceful state, away from joy and away from misery. He who seeks much, suffers much and that’s why I seek to avoid disappointment by expecting little. Everybody would say I’m an idiot for not desiring happiness. But I truly don’t desire happiness. I truly don’t need happiness. I have never enjoyed living and I only beg my Almighty Lord to keep me in a peaceful state.
My master made me from dead. I love dead, I hate living.
The Bride of Frankenstein, James Whale.
Dear reader, leave me alone, if you wish to be happy, I wish you have happiness abundantly in your life. We all share the same prison, we all share the same chains, and I feel fraternal love and solidarity for you. I love you and I only advise you to beware of what you wish, remember that in this dark world Happiness and Pain have always been connected by a fatal link. Present happiness will provoke future Pain, and viceversa, as Rousseau said:
"Speaking generally, a hard life, when once we have become used to it, increases our pleasant experiences; an easy life prepares the way for innumerable unpleasant experiences"
Emile, Jean Jacques Rousseau.
I conclude this post with a phrase from a good friend of mine. He was tired of my pessimism and told me, sin pelos en la lengua:
Pedro, eres sin dudar la mosca mas asquerosa de todas. Siempre te ha gustado posarte sobre la mierda!
                                         JXXX.
Picture:Courtesy of the Band "Suffer now"

El (Des)Amor del Amor Part VI

2009-08-25T19:21:00.000-07:00

VI. El inicio de la idiotez.
El camino del amor es irremediablemente el camino hacia la idiotez. Unfortunately we are blind enough to detect such relevant truth. And when we see the light and decide to take up some measures against it, it’s already too late. Don’t feel bad; that is not our fault. That has always been the sneaky nature of the Truth. We are powerless to confront with the ambiguity of the Truth. She is way smarter than us and we all have repeatedly fallen victims of her tricks. How many times have I heard others complain about the same thing?: They didn’t appreciate what they got until they lost it. They didn’t know they love somebody until they the lost him/her. In a certain time they imagined they were miserable, and years later, they come to realize they were happy.
As always in our kind, we just didn’t know.
In our daily lives the door of the truth is closed. But year by year, the door begins to open. The gap increases, little by little, and almost a decade later, when the door is fully open and truth shines in all her extent, you realize you didn’t behave the way you should have. Dante wrote a brilliant verse dealing about this:
“Noi veggiam, come quei c’ha mala luce, le cose” disse “che ne son lontano;Cortanto ancor ne splende il sommo duce. Quando s’appressano o son, tutto e vano nostro intelletto; e s’altri non ci apporta, nulla sapem di vostro stato umano”.
Translation: “Like one who has bad light, we see things” he said, “which are remote from us: so much does the Supreme Ruler still shine on us; but when they draw near, or are, our intelligence is wholly vain, and unless others bring us word, we know nothing of your human state”.

Inferno, Dante Alighieri.

Truth comes late, and the same can be said about Justice. Justice comes when we already lost all taste of revenge, or when we don’t care on that matter anymore. Sabino Condor, a master technician who had me under his wing, said to me once:
La verdad y la justicia son un par de perras pendejas. Siempre llegan tarde con el sólo propósito de jodernos cuando uno menos las espera.

When I finally made up my mind about the Rosalia’s affair, I went to visit Ceka. He received me in his fine living room, invited me to sit and ask me what he could do for me. I told him I had decided to relax a little, that I was a bit nervous because I had made a decision: I wanted to date Rosalia. At first Ceka didn’t believe what he heard and had me repeat it: Yes, man, you heard me right, I wanna date Rosalia.
Good choice! It was about time, you pussy, he said. Ceka seemed thrilled to hear me talk like that. Minutes later he confessed having been concerned with my condition. I asked him what he meant by “my condition.”
“It wasn’t healthy for you to be reading all day long, that stuff that you read can kill you, you know that?”, he said.
“You’re talking gibberish”, I replied.
“I mean, you sit there all day long, thinking and reading, and learning facts that you’re never gonna apply in your life”, Ceka said.
“It might be so. But I’m having the time of my life. Books are the best. You don’t know what you are missing”, I said.
“I really don’t wanna know. You think, you philosophize, you doubt but never get to any relevant conclusion. Dudas mucho y no pones las manos a la obra. Men are not meant to doubt, but to act” Ceka said.
Both Charles Reade, (in his book the Cloister and the Hearth), and Jorge Luis Borges (in an interview) have affirmed that anybody can say beautiful words, touching phrases or profound statements, without even realizing it. Wisdom and beauty of expression were never a patrimony of a few, but it was endowed to all human beings without distinction. These rare flashes of insight or so called inspiration don’t really come from us. They are a product of a Higher Power, ordained by chance. No nos sale por voluntad propia pes’ comparito, sino cuando al caprichoso azar le de su puta gana. Even an ignorant like me has his moments. In numerous occasions my friends, who are far better souls than me, have told me that sometimes I can come up with a profound statement. It must be the same kind of surprise that el Quijote had with Sancho:

Con esa manera de amor, dijo Sancho, he oido yo predicar que se ha de amar a Nuestro Señor por si solo, sin que nos mueva esperanza de gloria o temor de pena.
¡Valgame el diablo por villano, dijo Don Quijote, y que de discreciones dices a las veces! No parece sino que has estudiado.
El Quijote, xxxi
I admit having being surprised when I heard Ceka speak. My cousin Ceka, a frivolous, materialistic fellow, with an unquenchable lust for women, said two interesting things, also found in the greatest books.
1) That shit that you read so much can kill you. You know that?
1) non littera, sed spiritu: littera enim occidit, spiritus autem vivificate
Latin Vulgate, 2 AD Corinthios,3
Translation: we are ministers of a new covenant, not of the letters but of the spirit, for the letter kills, but the spirit gives life.
The second thing Ceka said was:
2) Dudas mucho y no pones las manos a la obra. Men are not meant to doubt, but to act.
2)A man lives by believing something; not by debating and arguing about many things
Thomas Carlyle, Heroes and Hero Worship.

Thinking has been my hobby since I was a child. Now I can safely say that I have distrust for the common act of thinking. I used to rely blindly upon it and I currently regret having done that. A great mind like Jorge Luis Borges knew better than me:
Pensar es olvidar diferencias, es generalizar, abstraer.
Funes el memorioso, Jorge Luis Borges.
It is as simple as this: thinking is the mother of all doubts. Once you start thinking, you start doubting. I first met Rosalia in December 2006, and the simple act of deliberation of whether I should go after her or not took me almost eight months. What a waste! When you finally stop thinking and start acting, half of your life is over.

..cuando deja de hacerlo dice que lo pospone. En estas postergaciones puede pasarsele la vida.
La letra E, Augusto Monterroso.
I should have rolled the dice, or flipped a coin so that I could make a decision. Flipping a coin takes one second, deliberation can take weeks.
“He found the business so dubious and intricate, that he knew not what to determine therein”
Gargantua and Pantagruel, Rabelais.
Sometimes I’m inclined to believe that animals are in a higher category than us, for they are blessed by instinct. Instinct, what a great boon! El instinto es pariente cercano de la intuición, y la intuicion es el único vehículo hacia la sabiduría. Other people believe intuition is greater than reason.
Our intuition is more powerful and higher than our intellect.
David Lynch.
On the other hand, most animals are satisfied with the fulfillment of their present needs, like mechanical entities that live for the present and let the future at the hands of Fate. The philosopher Will Durant once said that the origin of all evil and misery in man began with his constant preoccupation about the future. Obsessed and busy, planning his life down the line, sacrificing the certain present for an uncertain future, saving and making provision for tomorrow, for a future that, maldito el puto destino, we all take for granted. Now I ask myself, Am I really sure that I’m gonna be alive tomorrow? How the heck do I know?

Two excellent filmmakers have clearly expressed their views about the future. One Argentinian Director, author of amazing screenplays, named Adolfo Aristarain:
¿De que puto futuro me hablás? ¿Vos sos vidente acaso?

Lugares Comunes, Adolfo Aristarain
The other, in my humble opinion, is the greatest European filmmaker alive, the genius Mike Leigh:
Why is this fucking fixation with the future?
Naked, Mike Leigh.

A friend once told me that to believe is the key for everything related to life. If you have a dream, you believe in it wholeheartedly. When you truly believe in something, half of the arduous task is already done. You only need to complete the other half to achieve what you want. Other friend told me that by believing you are happy, you can become happy. Y luego de este absurdo entremes de filosofia barata, filosofia de autoayuda, (zonseras que cualquier idiota sabe, y por eso yo, el idiota mayor, las escribo), debo dejar una conclusion, para continuar con este farrago. In conclusion, I should live content with my present lot and don’t stress myself for something that is out of my hands. Leave it to God and don’t attempt to take it back from Him. Take one day at a time and let the Future worry about its own self. The Future knows everything about us; no human being on earth knows anything about the Future.
Ceka invited me to go for a ride in his car. We went into a McDonald’s restaurant and had a Quarter Pounder with cheese and milkshake (the American breakfast). After finishing our meal, Ceka asked me about my plans. What was my first step to approach Rosalia? I asked Ceka to give me Rosalia’s phone number. I was thinking that I should first call her. Ceka recommended not to do so. “Many guys called her cell phone, if you do the same, she will treat you like the rest”, he said. He advised me to behave different, to be different, so that Rosalia would recognize I was a special guy. I told him that I had already meditated about what to do first. And that had left me insecure about the whole issue.
“¡Volvemos a la misma mierda de siempre!”, Ceka yelled, “I already told you not to think but do something about it!”

Silence.

“Tu problema es que nunca actuas conforme a la situacion, you try to solve all your problems with the same scared attitude and for the same reason things never work out for you”, he concluded.
Once again, Ceka, sin querer queriendo, had proposed some idea from William James:
“There are people for whom evil means only a mal-adjustment with things, a wrong correspondence of one’s life with the environment. Such evil as this is curable, in principle at least, upon the natural plane, for merely by modifying either the self or the things, or both at once, the two terms may be made to fit.
The Sick Soul, William James.
I didn’t get irritated at Ceka for his blunt honesty. Even though sincerity never leaves any room for respect (mientras mas sincero son, menos respeto te guardan), I knew Ceka gave it to me straight because he cared for me. His only intention was to see me happy. Real friends or members of a family have the obligation to be honest with each other. Truth is hurtful in the present, but useful and necessary for the future.

Sometimes I believe my idiocy came when I began reading. It is generally asserted that learned people have a great advantage over the rest. Knowledge is a precious gift, so they say, and years ago my parents told me that ignorance is the worst malady for our soul.“Knowledge is power, and he who knows more has a better opportunity to succeed in life”, most people affirm. But that is bullshit! A worthless bunch of crap! I’m pretty ashamed for having believed such flim flam. Knowledge is garbage compared to the power of virtue. An ignorant virtuous person will always be superior over a scholar with four PhD degrees. No matter what they told you: Nothing is more important than a virtuous mind.; a humble mind that produces Wisdom without effort. Isaiah Berlin wrote:
“The immemorial wisdom is said to reside only in peasants and other simple folk”
Isaiah Berlin.
In his analysis of the greatness of the early Roman Statesmen, Berlin attributed their power to their virtue, (the power of hard labor, humility and ignorance). Roman Statesmen didn’t know much, and that’s why they succeeded. Because, in general terms, the less you know about a particular enterprise, the more faith you have on it. The Roman Statesmen did their small part, they left the greater task in the hands of Divinity.

Ceka despised me in a way, because I was totally influenced, overtaken by the indolence of ideas. By reading every day, absorbing knowledge from that book and the other, I lost the habit of thinking for myself. Schopenhauer had good reasons in asserting that learning and studying make us more stupid than we really are. Learned people may have interesting opinions, but never have conviction about anything. Because all genuine ideas bring up the force of the soul who conceived them. The validity of ideas did not matter, only the conviction of the person who had them was crucial. Therefore, Schopenhauer believed that souls who thought for themselves were far better.
Nothing can be really taught. Education in schools might be a fraudulent process. Soy un burro de mierda, pues no recuerdo nada de lo que me enseñaron en la escuela. Quizas yo no sea tan burro, quizas el mismo proceso educativo sea una burrada. I really started learning when I decided to stay away from teachers. I admit that teachers can guide the way, but true knowledge can only come from within the soul of a student. And that’s because Life, with all their sufferings and punishment, is the only great teacher.
Nothing has changed much. La educacion es y ha sido deficiente desde el inicio. (Deficient, since the violence of the old days until the indolence of modernity) In educational matters, the professionals affirm that we are more advanced than the old timers. But I differ from their opinion. Although the methods have changed, I consider the outcome has always been the same. It might be argued that the old teaching methods were worse for their being too violent or intolerant, correazo, latigazo, lapazo, tandas y palizas, but I guess they also worked in a way. Mi mamita santa me contaba anecdotas sobre lo severos que eran los maestros de antaño, pues entonces se creía que las letras y lecciones solo pueden entrar con sangre.

My constant failures in my past romantic relationships had left me with a lack of enthusiasm. With the intention of boosting up my confidence, I wanted to revise some books dealing about the art of seduction and romance. Ceka advised me to “fuck all that”, to ignore all that supposed knowledge and begin acting as soon as possible. “The counseling of those people that lived centuries ago will not help you, he said, you have to learn to let go of your past and renew yourself”.
Some people, instead of being guided by their past experiences, become burdened by the memory of their past. Ceka understood that I was not able to begin a relationship without healing myself first. One should not begin building a castle with an unhealed hand. I have seen countless people doing that, intentando sacar un clavo con otro clavo, y ante esto debo decir que, en el terreno de las relaciones sentimentales serias y formales, intentar sacar un clavo con otro clavo debe ser el consejo mas idiota que existe.

Sometimes I would prefer to have a clear mind, the brain of a young man, with no knowledge, and tons of energy, good will and optimism.
“Only strong personalities can endure history; the weak are extinguished by it. History unsettles the feelings when they are not powerful enough to measure the past by themselves. The man who dare no longer trust himself, but asks history against his will for advice “how he ought to feel now”, is insensibly turned by his timidity into a play actor, and plays a part or, generally, many parts-very badly therefore and superficially.
The Use and Abuse of History, Nietzsche.
My goals were waiting for me to get them. I only had a great obstacle that turned me into a “spiritual loser”, my own self, a hermit librarian, afraid, doubtful, scared, meditative, the person I still am. I conclude this post with an old Spanish saying that I have encountered in so many different books:
Que Dios me defienda de mi mismo.

El (Des)Amor del Amor (Part 5)

2009-07-25T11:42:00.000-07:00

V. The hermit abandons his library.

To abandon my library. I recognize it was a brave decision for such a coward as myself. If you quickly take any living being out of his element, you either commit a crime or a sin. You can not place a prostitute in a convent, a clown in a public ministry(I might be wrong in this), a priest in a boxing match, because they will surely die. Maybe not physically but spiritually. I immersed myself in that same dilemma to conquer love. I was accustomed to be in solitude, surrounded by my books, meditating in that marvelous world of ideas, and I decided to renounce those pleasures to prepare myself to conquer love.

Before taking the first step you realize the Muse can not be cheated. As soon as I began to prepare myself, I started to consider my blunt stupidity. While living in solitude I was happy because my own mind, sedated with philosophical thoughts, was the only source of my happiness. And by attempting to seduce a woman, make her fall in love with me, I was automatically placing my happiness at the hands of another person: that woman. From now on all my well-being depended on her. If she accepted me she would make me happy, if she rejected me I would suffer. Was not that an irrational risk?

Most of the philosophers I studied seemed to agree on one thing, that true happiness only lies within yourself and trying to deviate it on another person other than yourself is madness. My intentions of romancing Rosalia were as insane as jumping from the top of a building. You expect to fly like Super-man but instead of that you become a Dead-man in a matter of seconds. But those were the ill effects Charles Lamb attributed to Cupid(el angel pernicioso): Love is a powerful drug that never reveals the great dangers in which it gets you involved.

Before the undertaking, I had already lost the battle because my enemy was at home, in myself. I didn't wanna take the risk. I refused to place my own happiness at the mercy of Rosalia. I only desired to focus my welfare in my own self. I had been unlucky all those years, but with the power of internal will I had been happy. I had learned that the most unlucky person in the world can reach happiness because riches, success, stature, consideration of people,(all the material things society tells us can make us happy) means nothing at the end. It is just pure emptiness.

Public recognition is a deceitful illusion. That's why people who pursue these vanities, after years of struggle and hard work, always get disappointed when they reach their goal and find out that happiness did not reside there, but only in spiritual purity, solidarity with other people, faith, genuine friendship, and hard work. Happiness never resides in what you have, happiness only resides in what you are. But we, stubborn as always, still desire a better house, a better job, a better car, etc. We should read some passages of the Bible to regulate our desire, that desire which is the main source of our misery, and be imbued of the only requisite for real happiness: humility.

Vanitas vanitatum, dixit Ecclesiastes; Vanitas vanitatum, et omnia vanitas.

Latin Vulgate, Liber Ecclessiastes, 1-2

Translation: Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher; vanity of vanities, all is vanity.

And wealthy people who own plenty of houses, fancy clothes, automobiles and club memberships, have the same vice that I, worthless man, have in collecting old books, movies and video cameras. We have more things than we really need and we hardly use them, as Lucretius said:

Nimirum, quia non bene norat, quae esset habendi

Finis, et omnino quoad crescat vera voluptas

Lucretius, V. 1431.

Translation: Truly because they ignore how narrow is the limit of acquisition and how far real pleasure extends.

And it is inevitable to forget the Roman emperor Severus who, (if we believe the version of Gibbon), after a long life of luxury, fame and absolute power, wound up unsatisfied:

..the possession of a throne could never yet afford a lasting satisfaction to an ambitious mind. This melancholy truth was felt and acknowledged by Severus. Fortune and merit had, from an humble station, elevated him to the first place among mankind. "He had been all things," as he said himself, "and all was of little value."

The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, VI, Edward Gibbon.

I believe Emperor Severus felt what he deserved, as the Chinese philosophical Taoism preach that he who has little will receive, and he who has much will be embarrassed.

To state it in simple terms, every human being should not pursue material wealth, only spiritual wealth. The spirit is the unique open door for happiness, the flesh and the material things in contact with it provide absolutely nothing. And the most sublime thing is that, to absorb happiness, you don't need anything but your own self. The most valuable things in society cost tons of money, but the most valuable thing required for happiness has always been free. Happiness lays in front of our noses, all it takes is being capable to recognize it and grab it. The acquisition of riches doesn't empower but weaken your personal well-being. It makes you more susceptible to disappointment, for when you are powerful, you are proud and fearless, and consequently you become weak and more exposed to suffering. But when you are humble, you become stronger, humility puts you in a better position to handle calamities. Humble people are fearful of God, but that weakness is a shield against adversity:

"It's safer trusting fear than faith"

Arthur Schopenhauer.

I haven't concluded in indicating the problems that riches produce. Wealthy people are attached and fond of pleasure. They can't get rid of their habits, because over the years pleasures have been long ingrained in their souls. Wealthy people are pitiful slaves of pleasure.

Quae quo plures maioresque sunt, eo ille minor ac plurium servus est, quem felicem vulgus appellat.

De vita Beata, Seneca.

Translation: The more and the greater the pleasures are, the more inferior that man will be, the more masters he will have to serve. (Virtue makes you free, pleasure makes you a slave)

And some of the fellows who criticize me for not getting a degree, have nothing but a menial job, a junky car, tattered books, in other words, being nothing but a loser, I would say to them:

et dixit mihi: Sufficit tibi gratia mea: nam virtus in infirmitate perficitur. Libenter igitur gloriabor in infirmitatibus meis..

2 Corinthios 12-9, Latin Vulgate.

Translation: And he said unto me, my grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities..

Willy Desiderio Cutipa, filosofo de la calle, one of the few brilliant minds I've encountered in my life, said to me almost a decade ago:

Pedro, todo lo insignificante en realidad vale mucho, cuando por fin entiendas eso podras vivir en paz contigo mismo. Todo lo poco vale mucho y esa ley es muy favorable para todos, pues nuestra debilidad es nuestra arma mas poderosa y debemos aprender a usarla para nuestro beneficio.

Pedro, every little thing means a lot, when you finally understand that, you will live at peace. Small things matter a lot, and that rule is favorable for everybody, since our weakness is our most powerful weapon and we must learn to use it for our benefit.

After this long consideration of facts I still could not decide. Books or women, women or books. That was the dilemma. At age 23, when I learned the incommensurable consolation hidden in books, I forgot about women all together. And there began my arduous quest for books. I was as poor as a dirty rat, and I didn't have the guts to walk into a bookstore. Barnes and Noble and Books-a-Million were stores I did not dare to visit. The temptation would have been too great and I would have easily spent 25 dollars(a small fortune for my empty pockets) in a single book. Although life always shows you a solution for every problem, and then I began to frequent thrift stores. In those dusty places one could find used items of all sorts: paintings, statues, clothes, toys and, thanks be to the Lord, books. And I drove around the city for weeks, hoping to locate any of those thrift stores. I would drive hundreds of miles, filling up my car's gas tank every other day.

Meanwhile, while other young men chased the ladies, I chased the old books.

The burning of a dream, Charles Bukowsky.

Each book cost twenty five cents and I was able to buy a full box for only five dollars. Education comes almost free for those who really want it. Every week I would bring a box of books into my apartment. In a period of three years my cramped apartment became filled up with books. My sister and my mother became pretty upset about my new bibliophilic hobby. They would say: I'm tired of you bringing all these dirty books to the house. Those books are old, they have dust and germs, you are gonna get sick if you keep on touching them, tus manos se van a llenar de hongos y verrugas, vas a ver!
They didn't understand me. They didn't understand that had I not brought those dirty books to the house, right now I wouldn't be writing this post. Right at this moment I would have been buried ten feet underground in a cold cementery, a victim of suicide.

El (Des)Amor del Amor (Part 4)

2009-07-21T16:42:00.000-07:00

IV. El llamado del abismo.

After the revelation of the truth, my whole attitude changed. The good experiences I had during the next years were ruined by a subtle feeling of tragedy. I no longer searched for happiness. As I emphasized before, we might have arrived into this world as a punishment. This world seemed predisposed for evil and suffering; even the good things had their own painful cost. God made us this way and He designed that we taste nothing pure; meaning that each advantage brought its own disadvantage, and present happiness inevitably provoked future pain: la excesiva felicidad origina sufrimiento, y por ello, ay carajo!, no era tan saludable regodearse en la felicidad. Such were the twisted laws of nature and I had to accept them.

If suffering was the common lot of man, it was reasonable to admit, as Sophocles did, that it was better not to be born at all. Death might not be bad after all. But our own nature and environment tell us otherwise. Our own civilization has taught us that death is the worst tragedy ever. But how do they know? (Death might be a blessing but, listening to the common opinion, we constantly run away from it)

The chief of all remedies for a troubled mind is the feeling that among the blessings which Nature gives to man, there is no greater than an opportune death; and the best of it is that everyone can avail himself of it.

Historia Naturalis, Pliny

Death is so underrated in society that everything concerning death is just bad. For example, the priests in my catholic school taught me that it was wrong to wish somebody’s death. But reflecting deeper, I think I would take it as a nice gesture if somebody wished me death. The paradise of Our Lord is the sublime haven and it’s frankly idiotic to keep postponing our arrival. I would renounce this misery of life now so that I could enjoy the pleasures of Heaven. Therefore, if somebody tells me that he wants to see me dead, I would give him an honest hug and thank him for his good wishes. And I would sing aloud the popular song of the Yaipén Brothers:

Ojala que te mueras, que se abra la tierra, te hundas en ella y que todos te olviden.

Ojalá que te mueras, Los hermanos Yaipén.

But let’s be fair and turn our eyes to the other side:

Human life is even such as you have painted it. But for this very reason let’s turn our thoughts from it, and not dwell on what is sad when pleasant things are in hand.

Herodotus, the Histories.

The same advice was given to me years ago by Mireyita, a close friend of mine, who had memorized the Bible from beginning to end. She said to me:

Ay Pedrito, ¿por que eres tan trágico? Recuerda que en la Biblia dice: te enfocaras en lo bueno e ignorarás todo lo malo.

I don’t recall what I replied to her that day. But I would have said to her that this life was the harsh path we were forced to walk in order to enter the kingdom of God. That this life was misery and God himself intended it to be that way:

The life of man upon earth is a trial.

Job, VII

And when God expelled man from the Garden of Eden, HE told Eve that her suffering would be multiplied. And God also said to Adam:

Maledicta terra in opere tuo: in laboribus comedes herbam ex ea cunctis diebus vitae tuae. Spinas et tribulos tibi, et comedes herbam terrae. In sudore vultus tui vesceris pane.. Latin Vulgate, Genesis, 3, 17-19

Translation: Cursed is the ground because of you, in sorrow shall you eat of it all the days of your life. It will produce thorns and thistles for you, and you will eat the plants of the field. By the sweat of your brow you will survive..

And for some of us unable to read between the lines, Doctor Johnson put it in a few simple words:

Human life is a state in which little is to be enjoyed and much to be endured.

Rasselas, Samuel Johnson.

I don’t remember if Mireya and I ever agreed on anything. Our friendship was the prototype of tolerance. We argued about everything but we loved each other all the same. She was nice and tended to regard only the good aspect of everything. I’m sure she would be horrified in reading these pessimistic lines. I really must be a monumental asshole for keeping this sick attitude, for refusing to enjoy my life and not live at peace with myself.
The wicked have never true joy, nor feel internal peace, for there’s no peace, saith my God, to the wicked.

Imitation of Christ, Thomas Kempis, Vii

Some days I feel remorse for my acquaintances, who have to cope with my bleak opinions and idiosyncrasies. They are right and I am wrong. And they are noble enough to put up with me. Maybe they suspect I will change my mindset eventually. Goethe’s mother said that she always tried to enrich, call forth, develop the good side of every person she met, and she patiently endured the imperfections knowing that el tiempo y la vida misma fortalecerían las debilidades y limaría las asperezas of every soul. Life is the great artist and she molds us and makes us stronger to face the troubles in the future. Goethe’s mother also held the opinion that we were born into this world for good. She claimed the hardships of life taught us to become virtuous, because true virtue can only be achieved through suffering.

I truly believe every single person on this earth is not satisfied with their present condition. We strive for more and have dreams for the future. Everyone on this earth has a dream, which is an illusion that helps us escape from this world. That’s the reason we live our own dream and protect it so much. Because without them we would sink in this dark reality. And all this talk about dreams and purposes of life reminded me of Carmelita, a close friend of my family. My family used to invite Carmelita to the family reunions because she was a lonely old woman. My mother told me that Carmelita had been a prostitute during her youth. I only had the opportunity to talk to her twice and she was incredibly wise. Carmelita was the living proof that real education can only be acquired through conversation with other people. She had met innumerable men from all the walks of life and talked to them. Her clients were lonely and confessed to her all their life experiences. As Carmelita told me, most of her clients had studied in the best Peruvian universities, but she pointed out that ellos habían pasado por las universidades pero las universidades no habían pasado por ellos, meaning that these men learned many concepts in their universities but never applied those lessons in their daily life. But Carmelita had learned so much because she received her education in the best school: the University of Life. She learned everything by her constant falls and mistakes and her great wisdom was built at the price of tears, anguish and pain. The harder the pain, the greater the lesson. Now Carmelita is in the Kingdom of Heaven and I still remember the day when she said to me:

Pedrito, los sueños son como faroles que nos permiten caminar en este mundo de oscuridad. Nunca permitas que esos faroles se apaguen.

Pedrito, our dreams are the only light that allows us to walk in this world of darkness. Please never let anyone extinguish that light.

But I better conclude these useless meditations and continue my story. As I said before, Ceka was pushing me to date Rosalía. But I didn’t heed Ceka’s advice because that would have been as insane as jumping into an empty pool. I was at peace in my library, enjoying the pleasures of reading, and I wasn’t ready to give that up for a woman that was NOT interested in me. But fate wanted it otherwise. One day I was talking to Deyvis, another friend of mine, who also belonged to Ceka’s circle, and he gave me some astonishing news. The week before, Deyvis, accompanied by Ceka and other fellows, had attended a peruvian pollada(Chicken party). Deyvis almost swore to me that, in the middle of the evening, Rosalia had approached Ceka and asked him(once again) about me. My first reaction was to think that Deyvis was lying. But he was an honest guy and I could see in his eyes that he was being truthful.

Dreams are a way to escape this world. But the other common way to flee this world is Love. Love puts you in a state of mind in which you blindly believe this world is wonderful. You have escaped, you are in love, you are free. Due to my terrible romantic past, I had decided to evade love. But after talking to Deyvis, I could see that circumstances were pressing me to abandon my library and begin courting Rosalia. I didn’t want to do it. But the forces of destiny were pushing me towards the abyss, el abismo me llamaba, y yo no podía rehuírlo. Cupid is not the angel, but the devil of love. As the English author Charles Lamb(Carlitos Cordero, in Spanish) wrote in a short story:

The gifts of this idle deity(Cupid)-if there's actually any at all-usually prove destructive and pernicious.

Cupid's revenge, Charles Lamb.

However, all the knowledge in the world is useless when one is taken by the passion of love. Therefore I was determined to make Rosalia fall in love with me by any means necessary. Una vez mas, el ermitaño abandonaba su biblioteca hacia la conquista absurda del amor.

El (Des)Amor del Amor (Parte 3)

2009-07-02T17:49:00.000-07:00

III. The discovery of a big truth.
"Ni te imaginas; Rosalía me acaba de preguntar por tí", Ceka said. A few minutes before Ceka had a conversation over the phone with Rosalía. Out of the blue, Rosalía had called Ceka and asked him about me. "I know Rosalia pretty well and I bet she got a crush on you", Ceka said. I was holding my cell phone and I could not believe what I was hearing. I've always had a certain distrust of good news. I was well aware that people are generally predisposed to distort facts for their own convenience. Things are never as bright as people portray them. And I don’t blame people. Truth has always been too terrible to swallow. If I was obliged to say or describe things for what they really are, my life would have been infinitely worse than it is now. This habit, inherited from people, of "gilding the bitter pill", telling myself that things are not as bad as they seem, or looking at the bright side of things, is what makes my existence more bearable. But the fact is: those words of self-encouragement are only lies, a process of self-brainwash that I learned since childhood in order to keep my spirits up. Or like a Roman poet wrote:
That it was only for our benefit to deceive our mind.
It’s for our own good to lie to ourselves. But for my own sake I took the precaution to disregard Ceka's words. I supposed Rosalía really asked about me. But not because she was interested in me, as Ceka claimed. Maybe she and Ceka had run out of topics of conversation and Rosalía asked about me just for the fuck of it. Besides it wasn't right for me to listen to Ceka. All those weeks I had not been able to stop thinking about Rosalía. I logged into my Hi5 page so that I could watch the pictures Rosalía posted on her profile. Every morning I took a minute to look through her album. I would admire her pictures, shake my head and tell myself: Oh my, if only she would like me.
But the reality told me it was impossible that a young businesswoman, with a bright future ahead and surrounded by professional men at her feet, would get herself involved with a hermit like me, (not even if I was the only man left on earth.)
I was infatuated by Rosalía and it would have been insane to listen to Ceka. I preferred to disregard his advice. I was already too messed up for deluding myself with such high hopes. I was 26 years old and I knew I didn’t live in a paradise. I knew this world was a dark valley where things often conspire to make you unhappy. This world is never willing to help you, you always have to help yourself. Or like I told my friend the other day:
Bad things come easily and tend to stay, while all good things are hard to get and (even harder) to keep.
After reading these lines, you must be thinking: This dude is pretty fucked up in the head; he has his mind full of negativity.
I don't have much to say concerning my pessimism. I wasn't that bad before. Like all human beings, I was born with a great amount of idealism. I can even swear that during my childhood I was the undefeated world champion of Optimism. I aimed for the best and tried for the best. But time and experience deprived me of hope and optimism. Experience always works against your hopes.
What I wrote just reminded me of Schopenhauer on his studies of pessimism. Schopenhauer felt pity for children. Children believe they live in the best of possible worlds and expect many good things. Schopenhauer felt pity because he knew children would discover the bleak truths of life through suffering. And overall human beings would feel that life had been a cheat, he said. These ideas are really pessimistic. Aren't they? Philosophy is supposed to enlighten your mind, but Schopenhauer ideas do the opposite. They can lead you to suicide if you read him in the wrong circumstances.
He who increases knowledge increases sorrow, Ecclesiastes wrote. And fulano de tal wrote that men were designed to live as cows in a cornfield. Cows plowing the field with a heavy yoke on their shoulders, a yoke that keeps them from staring at the sky(the truth), because that sky itself can be the only cause of their misery.
Sometimes is better to never know the truth about anything. But life, that miserable cheat, would reveal it to you whether you want it or not. That’s what happened to me. It usually takes decades and a great deal of experience to discover the truth. But in my case it didn’t take that long. I discovered the truth too early and that’s why my mind is so fucked up now.
When I was a little boy of 10 I broke my elbow. One day I was riding a horse in my grandfather’s farm. I fell off the seat and broke two bones. I felt a horrifying pain but I must admit that disgrace didn’t let me see the truth. Truth always comes hidden, in the most subtle way, and provokes a profound effect. That day I sensed a certain hint that this world wasn’t the paradise I imagined. I sensed the truth, but I didn’t know it yet. Two weeks later I would discover it in the most unexpected way.
During my recovery, my father took me to the doctor every week. The doctor’s office was located on the third floor of a building in San Isidro. The doctor was a tall grey haired man, with a loud voice and coarse manners. He examined my broken arm, he did it roughly and I felt pain. Whenever I complained, he would say: Don’t cry like a sissy, men never cry. The doctor was assisted by a young nurse. She was pretty young and most of the adult patients tried to flirt with her.
One day my father and I arrived very late to my appointment. We had to wait half and hour to see the doctor. I remember my father and I sat at the couch when suddenly a new patient arrived. An old gentleman accompanied by a little girl. She was about seven years old. The gentleman exchanged a few words with the secretary. He and the little girl(apparently his daughter) sat at the chairs placed in front of us. I never imagined the face of the little girl would impress me so much. It has been almost twenty years but a month hasn't passed since I thought of her. She had beautiful blond hair and an innocent face. In a matter of seconds I began wondering why she kept her eyes closed. She also had an expression of sadness in her face. She embraced her father tightly. And there I was, an eight year old boy, looking intently into that little girl. She seemed scared, worried and sad. When she finally opened her eyes I understood everything. The little girl was blind.
This odd encounter affected me deeply. For the rest of the day I couldn’t take the girl's image off my mind. I could not comprehend why such an innocent angel could be blind. I thought it was so unfair. She looked wretched, scared and weak. That night I could not sleep and I cried very hard for the blind girl. I cried, I cried, and I cried. Almost after midnight the revelation of the truth came upon me:
Vivimos en un mundo de mierda, jodido, injusto, despiadado, corrupto, donde por alguna razon los mas inocentes tambien sufrian. Un mundo donde estamos muy predispuestos al error, a la maldad, y donde somos geneticamente mas sensibles al sufrimiento que al goce. Y para agravar la situacion, ademas de soportar las maldades de la madre naturaleza, tambien debiamos soportar la maldad de los demas.
We live in a fucked up world, filthy, unfair, cruel, corrupted, where for some obscure reason the most innocent also suffered. A world in which we are genetically more sensitive to suffering than happiness. And to make matters worse, besides enduring the cruelties of Mother Nature, we also had to put up with the cruelty of our fellowmen.
I came to the conclusion (also found in the Bible, Vanini, De Maistre,Schopenhauer,etc)that we must have come to this evil world as a punishment. We were born into this world to redeem an original sin.
After that night things were just never the same.
*Picture: a blind girl in Thailand

El (Des)Amor del Amor (Part 2)

2009-06-20T08:28:00.000-07:00

II. About how I recovered my virginity.
Before delving into my affair with Rosalia, I will confess some minor details to round out my story. In the Christmas of 2006 I was settled in my own world. My imagination had framed a mental and spiritual safeguard to protect myself from reality. All the political issues of society were foreign to me. I regard them as something distant which could not harm me in any way. But meeting Rosalia was like receiving a calling from the other side. What other side? The Normal world. The Society in which you, dear reader, live. Back then I was proud to affirm I didn't belong to your world. How can I say this?
First of all, don't think I despise your world. I know you are well satisfied of the opportunities and blessings it has granted you. But I'm obliged to say the contrary. I wanted to participate, being a member of society as you are now. I struggled to join in, but this world rejected me.
Maybe in the beginning I was as fond of this society as you are now. I desired to earn a degree, have a career, save money, buy a house, meet a good woman, have children and other swell things most people want. But all my attempts were futile. Life treated me really badly in my early twenties.
Dear reader, how much have you suffered? Wouldn't you agree that sometimes is hard to keep up the spirits when your whole situation collapses? Well, that was my case. Such blows were so harsh that extinguished every bit of hope within me. If you haven't felt that way, then be grateful. Life has been kind to you. Looking back at that kafkian period, I wonder how I didn't attempt suicide. I had the bleakest opinions concerning life and I constantly fell sick. Sickness represented the rebellion of my soul. My soul was ill, tired, and wanted to get rid of my body to be relieved of such agony. I felt so bad that any thought concerning myself was devastating. I wanted to escape from this reality that refused to give me the minor dreams I coveted. Fortunately Mother Nature, as late as always, would grant a solution for my torments. I began to shelter my torn soul in the universe of Books. I believe Carlyle wrote once in "Heroes and Hero Worship" that only a few people know the huge amount of marvels and happiness that can be found in those little things called Books. At age 23 I understood what Carlyle meant with that phrase. I discovered a world of ideas, sceneries, people, situations, tragedies, romances, affairs that were so attractive that I had no choice but to embrace them. And while other people in the normal world followed the flow of reality, I was entirely absent. My mind was traveling across the centuries, in that magical ships of time and knowledge contained in books. I was no longer that young Peruvian dude resident in Washington D.C. I wasn't living in myself any longer. I was free.

“A great book should leave you with many experiences, and slightly exhausted. You should live several lives while reading it"

William Styron.

I don't mean to sound ridiculous. But most dreams may sound ridiculous to everybody, except the person who conceived them. I became a french enfant strolling on the shores of the Seine, a mute member of Johnson Literary Circle, a lustful spectator of the orgies of Casanova, a peasant friend of Machiavelli in Sant'Andrea in Percussina, an acquaintance of the young Cabrera Infante in la Habana Vieja, etc,etc. Pedro Moreno had luckily died in order to live the life of others. In the beginning I had only one small bookshelf. But Kafka said once that books are the worst narcotic, and that came to be true. My empty apartment suddenly started to be filled up with books. Two years later I had twelve bookshelves with volumes of psychology, sexology, history, literature, philosophy, etc,etc. My sister would look at me with shame and say:

Hermanito lindo, te has vuelto loco.

In those two years I read, I read, and I read. My only company was my kitty cat, "Cuchi Cuchi," that would stay with me till a late hour, lying at my feet while my mind and thoughts were rambling everywhere. I was lonely, but extremely happy. At those hours, late at night, I discovered that happiness can only be found inside myself. In the tumultuous depths of my soul, joy was waiting to be discovered. I learned that one could feel lonely, hopeless, poor, sunk in despair, but it was still possible to find a reason to smile. I certainly found happiness, and my mind was sedated with books. I began to tell everyone:

"Mi interes por los libros ha aumentado y mi interes por las mujeres ha desaparecido"

My interest for books has increased as my interest for women has diminished.

"Quiero rentarme un cuarto en la biblioteca nacional y vivir ahi por el resto de mi vida".

I wanna rent a room in the National Library and live there for the rest of my life.

Most people thought that I had lost my mind, and maybe I did. Maybe I was really crazy but if being crazy was the price to be happy, then I wanted to stay crazy for the rest of my life. I had no friends, not even one. With the exception of two people, nobody came to visit me in those two years. My X girlfriend was one of those that visited me. She would forget me for a period of two or three weeks and suddenly call me to arrange a date. She wanted to meet me in my apartment. To remember her is still painful so I'll be brief: she would step into my apartment, get naked on the spot, grab my penis and push me to my bed. We made love for hours in a livid, furious state, like two wild animals that hated each other, while my cat "Cuchi Cuchi" watched us with a bored look.

This X girl claimed she loved me. But all that time I suspected what I know now: She just loved me passionately, which means her love was a fake love, a bullshit love, a love that would never last. In other words, she just wanted to have sex with me. I shouldn't go into more details. I will only say that she later disappeared for good. I didn't see her or call her for a long period of two years. But even though I sometimes missed her, I didn't care much. I was reading, I was happy.

My cousin Ceka also visited me from time to time. He would talk to me the way a normal person talks to a child, an alien, or a psycho. He would give me a stern look and ask me: What happened to you? Why have you changed so much? Why don't you go out, have a girlfriend? For God's sake, you need to fuck a girl urgently!!

Ceka was right. For a period of two years I didn't date anybody. I didn't have sexual intercourse with a woman. You must think I'm crazy but I felt I didn't need it. I was happy reading a lot, surrounded by my books and Cuchi Cuchi. In that period I recovered my ingenuity; I was as clean and pure and immaculate as the ten year old catholic boy I once was.

*Picture: Mi gatito Cuchi Cuchi.

El (Des)Amor Del Amor (Part 1)

2009-06-17T16:45:00.000-07:00

No se puede vivir del amor.
Andres Calamaro.

I. About how my affair began.

A few days back I had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting an attractive young girl. You must think there's no misfortune in such an encounter, and I should agree with you (in some way.) But for such a candid man like myself, susceptible to strong passions, a dame can be a slippery road to hell. Certain French philosopher has warned us of the inherent danger of a young beautiful female. A simple fellow must be extremely cautious in dealing with them. Especially when one doesn't have a slight chance to get romantically involved. To fall under the spell of such a woman is certainly an unjust agony.
I’m thirty years old and I’m not an idiot anymore (not too sure.) That innocent adolescent of fifteen that wrote love letters, gave nice compliments, bought gifts and candies, and loved unconditionally has died in me. An unconditional love might be something everyone might feel proud of. I know I was proud of it. But I had to suffer the consequences of that noble feeling. It’s not the feeling I feel ashamed of, but of my carelessness in giving it
Everyone could say my wounds are still unhealed. But I consider falling crazily in love a boundless stupidity. It may be argued that one must first know how to choose the ideal person. That’s the tricky part: It’s a difficult task to find the right one. My godmother used to say,“Pedrito, tienes que enamorarte con la cabeza y no con el corazón”, without realizing the incongruity of her statement. Because I’m of the opinion that falling in love in a rational way is impossible. Love is irrational by nature, and it submerges in a world of irrationality, a world in which two plus two is no longer four but four thousand. A sentimental relationship is like a picture hanging from a wall. One can’t appreciate the value of that picture in its full extent; one can’t possibly be objective and examine the picture with detachment because one is the picture. Only time and distance may offer you the perspective to discover which persons or relationships were worthy. Or, like my dear Dad used to say:

Hijo, el futuro es el único juez de nuestro presente.
(My boy, the future is the only judge of our present)

In the meantime, a person goes through a series of relationships and affairs as an sleepwalker who ignores what goes with what, or someone who lives in his own delusion, confounding a feeble hut with a fortress or vice-versa. The only thing one can do is just give the best of oneself in your relationship and hope for the best. Don’t despair; pathways always find the destinies they deserve. I certainly found the destiny I deserve: bitter loneliness. Having said all this, I must declare I don’t agree with Martin C. D’Arcy:

“Eros must include the best in man, which is his reason and will and all the ideal possessive love of which is capable. To right the balance, therefore, Eros should stand for both the ecstatic, irrational and self effacing mood of love and the rational, self-assertive and possessive form, as they are found in human experience.
Human and divine, Martin C. D’Arcy.

I don’t know if somebody in love can actually call forth a rational side. Once they do it they might as well no longer be in love. To attempt to rationalize or formalize a wild sentiment as love is to kill it. Love runs away or simply disappear when one tries to control it. That’s the case with marriages. For I hold the theory that marriages destroy passionate love because it imposes norms, laws, contracts, obligations, and other bullshit. I don’t intend being cynical so let me put it in a better way. Marriages end any romance and transform it into a good friendship, for only friendship or “rational love” can preserve a good marriage. That’s the kind of fraternal love that is meant to last. I think Giuseppi di Lampedusa wrote a humorous metaphor about it:

Certo, L’amore. Fuoco e fiamme per un anno, cenere per trenta.
(Sure, Love. Flames for one year, ashes for thirty)

My last romantic relationship happened three years ago. It was December 2006 and I had recently broken up a relationship with a X girl. I wasted three years of my life with that woman. I was hurt.
On Christmas’s Eve my cousin invited me to a Christmas reunion. The Christmas dinner was to be held in his girlfriend’s house, in Herndon, Virginia. I didn't have any plans for that night and I decided to go. I took my sister and my niece with me. I drove almost two hours to get there. The house was crowded with people I never saw before. The only familiar faces were that of my cousin, Ceka, and his girlfriend, Gabriela.
There was a table lined up with trays of Peruvian food. We enjoyed having Papa a la Huancaína and Turkey. A comerrr!!!!! Later Gabriela introduced us to her family and friends. She took us to the kitchen to meet her mother and her sister Rosalía.That’s when I met Rosalía for the first time. She had big eyes, long curly hair, thick lips, and a figure that made me tremble. It wasn't love at first sight, but I was caught up by her beauty. Her irresistible charm had an special effect in me. Hours later, when I saw her interact with other people, I was totally taken by her. She was a sociable, friendly, talkative, lively soul. Her most impressive quality was her sense of humor. She was constantly making others laugh. Her laugh was loud and contagious.
I sat at the couch and watched her closely. She loved dancing all sorts of music but it was salsa in which she excelled most. My hands were sweating just by watching her hips swing with the rhythm. Rosalía was only twenty one and she possessed what I lacked: knowledge of the world, of people, and a keen enthusiasm for life. Weighing up the facts, that enthusiasm was what drove me crazy about her. I was a lonely, bookish, shy, boring, quiet, taciturn guy, with no desire to jump into the exciting world. A guy locked up in his library, thinking how his life would have been if he had made the right choices.
Rosalía’s dance was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. Her friends seemed to call her every minute. I was informed she was courted by many guys who often invited her to restaurants and clubs. My cousin Ceka said: “Rosalía no tiene enamorado y por eso los tiburonazos la acosan por todos lados.”
I had the opportunity to talk to Rosalía that night. However, she was easily distracted. It was the time for dancing, not for talking. Even though I tried to establish a connection, she did not pay attention to me. An hour later I left that reunion with the conviction that Rosalía would never like me.
On the way home I thought about what my cousin told me about Rosalía. I found out that a year before her life had been touched by tragedy. Rosalia's father, a MetroBus driver, was killed in a terrible car accident. When the paramedics arrived to the site, they found her father's body laying beside the wreckage. Rosalía was deeply affected by that loss. That tragic incident also caused many problems; her father was their only support and the family ended up in bankruptcy. They had some credit debts and lost the house they owned. But somehow Rosalía moved on and worked very hard to get her family back on their feet. She became a Realtor sales agent and her performance was outstanding. A few months later she earned a good salary, she bought a new house, she paid all her debts and became the head of the family. Everybody was proud of her. She was happy and irradiated so much energy around.

The coming weeks I couldn't stop thinking about her. Rosalía represented a world I craved to explore. I admired her. I wanted to know her secret. How was it that after the tragedies in her life she regained the will to keep on fighting? What was it about this world that gave her such a passion for life?

Differences

2009-06-11T06:05:00.000-07:00

The sad events provoked by the police authorities and the indigenous communities in Bagua, makes me think about the profound segregation in our Peruvian Society. It would be naive to assert that we have a sense of unity that is far more prevalent than our differences. As a Peruvian living in Lima, I experienced firsthand the high levels of prejudice and exclusion that unfortunately exist in my country. That kind of "racismo asolapado" even prevailed within my social group: the middle class. Some of my old acquaintances used to express racial epithets towards people of Andean origin and of lower social classes. Unfortunately, that wasn't an isolated event, it was a common thing. I should not fall into generalizations. But I wonder if the violence in Bagua is not really a direct consequence of our seclusion from other minorities, of our deep complex of superiority over other groups who in reality have the same right to live justly and peacefully. This economic policy is destroying in order to build; and it doesn't really care for the victims, especially when they don't share those supposedly "common" ends. Are they common ends? Of course not.
The Aprista government has proved their incapacity to handle this crisis, and the shared cynicism of Alan García and his prime Minister Yehude Simon is frankly pathetic. They both blamed the indigenous leader Alberto Pizango as the main responsible for this bloody confrontation.
"Estas personas no son ciudadanos de primera clase", Alan García said in a recent interview. He would later infer that the hidden purpose of the indigenous community is to take Peruvian society towards "irrationality and primitivism.''
By hearing his absurd opinions, anyone would understand that Alan García (a first class citizen, of course) is a victim of his well known ego and his prejudiced mind. It's frankly criminal to blame somebody else for our own incapacity. This is what García has done, by demonizing the Baguan citizens, just because they bravely stood up to defend their properties. Now García is also looking for ways to blame Chavez and other groups "that want to stop our economic development". The Peruvian President is searching for demons in distant places, aiming to blame somebody, and refuses to admit that the only enemy is at home, in himself, in Congress and other institutions whose inefficiency and partiality has cost already more than thirty human lives. This kind of behaviour is unacceptable for our incipient democracy and yet, we let it happen. What a shame.

Cesar Hildebrandt would say "Eso se llama terrorismo de estado. ¡Alan, usted tiene mas de trescientos cadáveres en el closet!"

The Apostle of Darkness: Joseph de Maistre

2009-06-07T13:03:00.000-07:00

Joseph de Maistre was born in 1754, in the Duchy of Savoy. His father was a senator, and his family reached an aristocratic rank. Joseph de Maistre's early life was spent in commodities and luxury. He acquired a privileged education. De Maistre was initially educated in the Jesuit School and a decade later, planning to follow his father's footsteps, he studied Law at the University of Turin. He became a Senator in 1787.
His formal education with the Jesuits was extremely strict. He was taught the advantages of discipline, the authority of the Catholic Church, the required obedience to hierarchy and, as a result, he advocated the validity of these concepts. However, after all that severity and morality ingrained in him by the Jesuits, De Maistre still retained a love for liberty and constitutionalism. These beliefs made him have a more progressive outlook and he supported the claims for political reforms in France. Years later he would regret having done that; believing that a democratic spirit was the most suited to govern France was, according to him, an utopian illusion. A truly noble sentiment in an ideal world, but totally impracticable in reality.
After the terror broke out in Paris, the French Revolutionary army invaded Savoy in 1792. De Maistre was forced to flee and abandon all his properties. In the following years, at the service of the King of Sardinia, De Maistre wandered aimlessly through Switzerland and Sardinia, living the life of an impoverished royal exile. The other members of his court were apprehensive of his radical views(De Maistre had just published Lettres d'un royalist savoisien a ses compatriotes, in which he criticized the French Revolution) and fearing any resentment from Napoleonic France, they participated their fears to the King of Sardinia. Motivated by the pressure of his subjects, the King appointed De Maistre as a diplomatic representative in Saint Petersburg.
All these tragedies made a deep impression in De Maistre's mind. It was a terrible blow for his morale and he perpetually lamented his naivety, his good faith, his innocence in having trusted in the good nature of man, in having believed that a rational man was capable enough of governing a society. In those dark years, by being demonized and reviled by most intellectuals, living in bitter contempt, hatred and solitude, De Maistre understood (or thought having understood) a great truth: Man was an incurable beast, a savage that must be governed by strict rules and punishment. He no longer believed in man and his noble sentiments: love, justice, respect, equality. All these values were, in De Maistre's opinion, nothing but vicious lies and an absurd caricature of man. By doing so, by having believed in constitutionalism and liberalism, he admitted having made an awful mistake, a great sin. A sin that he was now paying at the cost of a profound spiritual pain.
Therefore Joseph de Maistre became a pessimist, a rare man, a cynical man, an apostle of darkness and oppression, and while all the thinkers and philosophers of his era, Diderot, Rousseau, Locke, Hume, Kant, Montesquieu, agreed in the reason and good nature of civilized man, a civilized man capable of living peacefully in a society, De Maistre was the only one who attacked (what he thought was) the stupidity of these views and he advocated repression, punishment, torture to subdue the common citizen (man was only created to be surrendered to a greater authority) and the establishment of a primal religious sect to govern this corrupted world. In the coming years he would develop these ideas in more detail.
De Maistre argued that man, as a product of Mother Nature, was an incurable savage. No matter how educated, disciplined, liberal, or religious modern man became, he would eventually fall into the dark abyss of his nature. He would kill, destroy, and this predator's instinct was unavoidable. De Maistre didn't blame man, but only his irrational inner instincts that will always prevail no matter what. De Maistre reinforced this idea by portraying the way savage creatures and animals lived in a natural environment, killing each other, and killing the weaker species in order to survive. Insects, reptiles, mammals, and others have always been devouring each other, since the beginning of time. Animals just followed the laws of Nature: the will of God. He argued that anyone would think that man, due to his superior intellect, would avoid this predatory calling. But unfortunately Mother Nature created man with Her same fateful hands and the terrible fact was that man did follow this predatory practice. He killed in order to feed himself, to clothe himself, and worst of all, he would murder people of his own species; he would conquer, subdue and enslave inferior groups, and he would immerse himself in bloody wars, massacres, etc, obeying his deep desire of self-immolation. This was the main reason why wars were unavoidable, because it was the sacred will of Mother Nature. Wars were divinitely instituted by God, and all the rational powers of man were pitifully weak to restrain it. De Maistre believed that all this destruction and bloodshed were fruit of man's original sin. After that first original sin, man jumped into the bottom of a pit. Since then Life for all mankind became a perpetual suffering.

Here's an extract of his most famous book, the Soirees of Saint Petersburg:

Quoi qu'il en puisse arriver dans l'avenir, voyons, je vous en prie, où nous en sommes aujourd'hui. Nos entretiens ont commencé par l'examen de la grande et éternelle plainte qu'on ne cesse d'élever sur le succès du crime et les malheurs de la vertu; et nous avons acquis l'entière conviction qu'il n'y a rien au monde de moins fondé que cette plainte, et que pour celui même qui ne croirait pas à une autre vie, le parti de la vertu serait toujours le plus sûr pour obtenir la plus haute chance de bonheur temporel. Ce qui a été dit sur les supplices, sur les maladies et sur les remords ne laisse pas subsister le moindre doute sur ce point. J'ai surtout fait une attention particulière à ces deux axiomes fondamentaux: savoir, en premier lieu, que nul homme n'est puni comme juste, mais toujours comme homme, en sorte qu'il est faux que la vertu souffre dans ce monde: c'est la nature humaine qui souffre, et toujours elle le mérite; et secondement, que le plus grand bonheur temporel n'est nullement promis, et ne saurait l'être, à l'homme vertueux, mais à la vertu. Il suffit en effet, pour que l'ordre soit visible et irréprochable, même dans ce monde, que la plus grande masse de bonheur soit dévolue à la plus grande masse de vertus en général; et l'homme étant donné tel qu'il est, il n'est pas même possible à notre raison d'imaginer un autre ordre de choses qui ait seulement une apparence de raison et de justice. Mais comme il n'y a point d'homme juste, il n'y en a point qui ait droit de se refuser à porter de bonne grâce sa part des misères humaines, puisqu'il est nécessairement criminel ou de sang criminel; ce qui nous a conduits à examiner à fond toute la théorie du péché originel, qui est malheureusement celle de la nature humaine. Nous avons vu dans les nations sauvages une image affaiblie du crime primitif; et l'homme n'étant qu'une parole animée, la dégradation de la parole s'est présentée à nous, non comme le signe de la dégradation humaine, mais comme cette dégradation même; ce qui nous a valu plusieurs réflexions sur les langues et sur l'origine de la parole et des idées. Ces points éclaircis, la prière se présentait naturellement à nous comme un supplément à tout ce qui avait été dit, puisqu'elle est un remède accordé à l'homme pour restreindre l'empire du mal en se perfectionnant lui-même, et qu'il ne doit s'en prendre qu'à ses propres vices, s'il refuse d'employer ce remède. À ce mot de prière nous avons vu s'élever la grande objection d'une philosophie aveugle ou coupable, qui, ne voyant dans le mal physique qu'un résultat inévitable des lois éternelles de la nature, s'obstine à soutenir que par là même il échappe entièrement à l'action de la prière. Ce sophisme mortel a été discuté et combattu dans le plus grand détail. Les fléaux dont nous sommes frappés, et qu'on nomme très justement fléaux du ciel, nous ont paru les lois de la nature précisément comme les supplices sont des lois de la société, et par conséquent d'une nécessité purement secondaire qui doit enflammer notre prière, loin de la décourager. Nous pouvions sans doute nous contenter à cet égard des idées générales, et n'envisager toutes ces sortes de calamités qu'en masse: cependant nous avons permis à la conversation de serpenter un peu dans ce triste champ, et la guerre surtout nous a beaucoup occupés. C'est, je vous l'assure, celle de toutes nos excursions qui m'a le plus attaché; car vous m'avez fait envisager ce fléau de la guerre sous un point de vue tout nouveau pour moi, et je compte y réfléchir encore de toutes mes forces.

So far, after having written these points, I can find many objections in De Maistre's theories. But I feel powerless in defending the inevitability of wars. If man was a good soul by nature then, with all the advantages of modernity, why do we still have wars?, Why does modern society preach so much the value of tolerance? Isn't it because man is really intolerant by nature? Doesn't he wish, deep inside his soul, attack people who doesn't share his own beliefs? Does such irrational forces in modern man still prevail? Isn't man his own worst enemy?.

Books that I (shouldn't) read

2009-06-02T17:27:00.000-07:00

Right after reading the novel "Santa Evita" by Tomás Eloy Martínez, Mario Vargas Llosa wrote:"Cuando una ficción es capaz de inducir a un mortal de firmes principios y austeras costumbres a cualquier exceso, no hay la menor duda: ella debe ser prohibida o leída sin pérdida de tiempo". By his own admission, Vargas Llosa felt so dazzled while he was reading Martínez' novel that, for a brief moment, he wished that Eva Peron would return to the Casa Rosada to reestablish the Peronist Revolution. Vargas Llosa, who reviles tyranny and dictatorships, later would admit the absurdity of those sudden thoughts and ideas. I don't know if Vargas Llosa was being ironic, but by his declarations one may infer that certain books can really distort your judgment and weaken your most firm convictions. That leads me to the question if one really knows how strong-minded one is. If one willingly expose himself to certain ideas, books, or propaganda, Can one really be brainwashed without even noticing it?

Isaiah Berlin, a historian of ideas, always emphasized that he didn't believe his liberal principles were the absolute truth and therefore he always gave the other systems of government the benefit of the doubt. Berlin claimed he studied Marxist thought, that he willingly exposed himself to all sorts of Marxist publications, including those written and translated in different languages. After that intellectual undertaking Berlin concluded that he wasn't convinced of the Communist propositions, and he also considered Marx was an arrogant intellectual, a brilliant mind blinded by the shade of his own ego.

I always believed in democracy, freedom, equality and the liberal thought. This world is already too old to have faith in other systems of government, taking into account the atrocities perpetrated around the world by Fascism, Communism, Nazism, Totalitarian Socialism, and others. The shedding of innocent blood has proved that these systems don't work and all the theories that still attempt to defend them or justify them are as insane as the intellectuals who endorse them.

What makes capitalism and democracy useful for our present world is, in my own view, its adequacy for our human nature. Democracy and Capitalism allow flexibility, personal interest, and most important of all, considering the perversity and cruelty inherent in the human soul, a perpetual source of distrust. Democracy has its biggest strength in that it allows distrust, as a central force, in a society where nobody trusts the other, and an ideal system of check and balances, where power never centralizes but keeps on flowing as a perpetual wave. It is never static. However, this must sound so ideal and perfect and noble, but in the real world, of course, is a totally different thing. I support Capitalism and Democracy but all it takes for me is to walk out my house (I live near Washington D.C) and drive a few minutes to arrive to the numerous ghettos and shanty neighborhoods around this city and realize, with much grief, how much poverty and social injustice still exists in this (supposedly) modern and developed country. These depressing ghettos can convince anyone, even the most enthusiasts, that democracy is not ideal, but is, at least in my own limited perspective, the best way to rule this complex world.

I came to the knowledge of Joseph de Maistre while reading Isaiah Berlin. "Joseph de Maistre and the Origins of Fascism" is the title of an essay written by Isaiah Berlin, which is included in his book "The Crooked Timber of Humanity." This interesting essay aroused my interest in Joseph de Maistre and it made me search for some of his works. Days later, a close friend, an intellectual I respect for his deep learning, caught me reading one of De Maistre's books. He was stunned and he quickly asked me why I was reading that "fascist author". I shared to him my conviction that I prefer to read books that challenge my intellect, books that defy and attack my most intimate set of values. I told him I believed these books can enrich and broaden my opinions of certain topics, and give me more conviction that my opinions are just and fair. In other words, getting acquainted with ideas that favor the pursuit of atrocities, gives me more assurance and courage to believe in democracy. My friend said that my opinion was understandable. But, please, don't read too much of that stuff, he said. Now, after reading De Maistre's correspondence and his the Soirees of San Petersbourg, I can tell my friend was right. I should have listened to him.

In addition to De Maistre's beautiful prose, his ideas and catholics principles were put in a such a way that they defeated me from the very first pages. Reading him was a horrid and tough challenge, not only because it shook my most solid beliefs and values, but later, horror de horrores!, it almost convinced me that fascism was more efficient than democracy! This is insane and absurd! De Maistre's books must be forbidden or burned publicly in all libraries. His philosophy was infectious, and while reading him, it made me angry, it disturbed me, it bothered me, and made me aware of the subtle cunning and evil ways of certain intellectuals, who can distort or disguise the most horrid cruelties and made them look like something humanitarian and necessary. This sort of intellectuals are like spiders that gently seduce you in their well constructed webs and approach you, little by little, to finally inject you with their mortal venom. Now I understand why Tolstoy had a certain distrust of intellectuals, with their sophistication and subtlety, disguising and clouding the most simple truths with their needless argumentation.

De Maistre was a despicable philosopher and, thanks to the Lord, he is totally forgotten nowadays. However, with all his sadistic theology, this apostle of darkness had some lucid ideas concerning mankind and human nature. Ideas that even the great Tolstoy endorsed and accepted. It's in these brilliant ideas I'm interested in. I will write about them in the next post.

*Picture of Isaiah Berlin.

Advice for writers???? Enough please!!!!

2009-05-28T11:26:00.001-07:00

Ignorance is bliss. I must sound like an idiot, repeating concepts that I've already emphasized in older posts. I just remembered the sad period when I attempted to learn from the example of other writers. I went through a phase of reading stupid books about how to write a novel, or what to do to write a good story, but mainly I devoured memories and biographies of great writers, hoping to find the tools and techniques to improve my own writing. I supposed Joseph Roth, Faulkner, Cheever, etc, must have known something special, or done something the others didn't do, in order to become the absolute literary masters they were.

I believed in learning what they learned, and doing what they did. I thought of enrolling in the army and go to Iraq to be a war veteran like Hemingway, I thought of working as a security guard as Faulkner, so that I could write a great novel as "As I lay dying", or, following the advice of Javier Marías, I tried to translate some novels of Conrad and Nabokov into Spanish, an enterprise that would give me, according to Marías, a thorough knowledge of language, plot, form, character development, etc, etc, etc. Again, ignorance is bliss. I hoped to become great by imitating the greats. But this is one of the multiple cases in which faith is not enough.

One ancient latin poet wrote:

"Believe, and the path to a happy and prosperous life is a short one"

Well, this unusual advice didn't work for me. Believing is not enough......(I shouldn't be so cynical) Ok, ok, ok, believing is enough as long as you keep persisting.

Fortunately now I don't waste my time looking at what the other writers did to succeed, I only look into myself. That's the only good thing I can do.

That's the reason why I restrain a laugh whenever my friends, Kike and Roberto, two young aspiring writers, come to visit my library and ask me!(me!, a mediocre writer!!) for some advice. They know I've been writing for quite a few years now, and they come to me and say: come on, Pedro, tell us what to do, you know better about this.

They surely must think that I'm a sort of selfish, egotistical pig, or that I despise them or consider them idiots, because every time they want advice, I, with the same bored look, tell them the best advice I can give them: Just write, my friend, just write.

They are never satisfied with my answer and lately I've noticed they get pretty upset because they assume I know something and, out of pure spite, I don't want to share it with them. (I wish I knew something; life and writing would become easier by now. But the sad truth is that I don't know much and the best advice for me to give is just a simple "keep on writing"). Kike and Roberto get irritated and turn their back on me and minutes later they begin browsing into my shelves in search of that valuable, interesting, unheard, astonishing advice they crave to have. They look into many books, and they spend hours trying to find that "real truth" in some distant places without realizing that real truth is in front of them, laying on their feet. It really hurts me to see these young fellows waste their time finding advice and talking about advice when they are not doing what they are supposed to do: write. They remind me of my youth days and how I wasted my time and strength in those vanities and, out of pure kindness, I feel like stopping them. But then I reflect better and I let them be. I let them do what they want, they will get there eventually.

All these meditations bring to my mind what the philosopher Isaiah Berlin said once. That all the most complex and difficult problems always have a simple solution, but people, imbued of arrogance, tend to ignore these solutions for their being too simple or base.

I don't intend this post to prolong and turn it into a lecture. All I want to do is assert the validity of these two points:

"The best advice is to follow your own advice"

"The best advice is to follow no advice and just work very hard in your enterprise"

No need to prolong this useless post. I finalize it with this verse of the extraordinary Manilius:

Et male consultis pretium est; prudentia fallit:

Nec fortuna probat causas, sequiturque merentes,

Sed vaga per cunctos nullo discrimine fertur.

Scilicet est aliud, quod nos cogatque regatque

Majus, et in proprias ducat mortalia leges.

Manilius,iv, 95

Translation:

Hasta los peores consejos podrían ser provechosos,

La prudencia es muy embustera e incierta, a la buena fortuna

no le importan las causas justas, por que también rehuye de aquellos que mas la merecen,

y se mueve de un lado a otro sin discriminación alguna.

Debido a que existe un poder oculto, que la dirige y la maneja de acuerdo a sus propias leyes y caprichos.

Manilius,iv, 95.

Hemil Garcia Linares presenta nuevo Libro

2009-05-25T09:19:00.000-07:00

Hemil García Linares (Lima, 1971) Periodista y escritor. Egresado de la Universidad Jaime Bausate Y Mesa de Publicó artículos en el diario El Comercio (Perú) y en periódicos latinos de Estados Unidos. Editor de la revista Raíces Latinas (USA).Sus cuentos han sido antologados en México, Estados Unidos, y Argentina. Finalista del Concurso Internacional de Cuentos Junín País 2008 (Argentina). Actualmente toma clases de literatura en Northern Virginia Community College.Página web y blog del autor www.hemilgarcia.com www.hemilgarcia.blogspot.com

Cuentos del norte, historias del sur, se presentará este martes 26 de mayo a las 6:00 pm en el Centro Cultural de España. Los comentarios estarán a cargo de los escritores Oswaldo Reynoso, Rodolfo Ybarra, Gabriel Rimachi Sialer (Ed.), y contará con la presencia del autor.El ingreso es libre. Vino de honor.

Pedro El Ampuloso Part VI

2009-05-25T08:21:00.000-07:00

This is incredible. When I started the section of "Pedro El Ampuloso", I certainly didn't imagine that it would prolong itself for that long. Browsing into some hidden files in my computer, I keep on finding more old letters that I wrote to my friends years ago. Letters that I completely forgot about and, now that I read them, I feel like they were written by a stranger, an idiot, somebody that couldn't possibly be me.

Ampuloso: redundante, pomposo, ridiculo, etc

Another aspect that confuses me is that I don't know how I found the time to write such fooleries. In those years I worked two full time jobs, I was attending College, I was babysitting my niece, I was busy with plenty of things every minute of every day....so....How did I make the time to write these letters??? How??

Here is a letter I wrote to a dear brother, friend, partner, intelligent young man, peruano de nacimiento pero Argentino de Corazón, who resides in Buenos Aires. I will call him "&"

Tal vez muy tarde nuestros sueños se unieron
en lo alto y en el fondo, arriba como ramas que un mismo viento mueve,
abajo como rojas raíces que se tocan.
Pablo Neruda.

Estimado &:
A lo largo de la vida uno se encuentra con seres extraordinarios, que con sus gestos y acciones, van moldeando nuestra personalidad. Personas que influyen de manera invisible en nuestra alma, y que dejan una huella profunda, que ni el tiempo ni la experiencia llegan a borrar. Por desgracia, los avatares de la vida siempre nos distancian de aquellas entrañables relaciones. Los hombres somos víctimas perpetuas del azar, aquella telaraña laberintítica que une y sesga a su antojo los destinos humanos.
En mi adolescencia tuve la fortuna de toparme con cuatro personas magnánimas, que marcaron hitos trascendentales en mi vida, y que cambiaron drásticamente mis perspectivas para afrontar el futuro. (.............) Sería tedioso relatarte las causas por que ellos calaron hondo en mi pensamiento. Bastará decir que apenas los conocí, no dejé de repetirme en mi interior: he aquí un ser deslumbrante. Lastimosamente la vida es severa con todo mundo. Desde el inicio la vida nos inculca que aquellos tesoros que poseemos ahora, podríamos perderlos en cualquier momento. Así de inestable es nuestra existencia. Es por eso inteligente contentarnos con lo escaso que tenemos, pues aquellas minucias bien podrían convertirse mañana en tesoros irrescatables. Quizás esa sea la mejor receta para vivir feliz. Pues la raza humana por naturaleza siempre albergará la semilla de la insatisfacción. Toda persona sea esta rica, pobre, famosa, mediocre o inteligente, todos sin excepción tenemos nuestra propia fuente de infelicidad. Y esto es debido a nuestras carencias y limitaciones, pues un hombre no puede tenerlo todo. Es por ello infinita la sabiduría como fue diseñado este mundo: algunos poseen ciertas cosas, que otros desean, pero que jamás llegaran a conseguirlas por mas que intenten. Las miserias de unos son los tesoros de otros....
De todas estas estupendas influencias, ahora ya no poseo a ninguno. Me he quedado solo. Básicamente, desde que me separé de ellos a los veintitres años, me quedé solo con sus fantasmas. Con frecuencia me consuelo recordando sus conversaciones y sus enseñanzas. Como los quiero tanto, poco después resolví en no perderlos. Esa fue la razón principal del orígen de mi lista de correspondencia. Intenté reconstruir aquel castillo de felicidad e instrucción que el azar derrumbó cruelmente. En estos cuatro años no he dejado de escribirles. Me he empecinado en mantenerlos dentro de mi vida, aunque ellos me hayan olvidado, o tan sólo me recuerden muy raras veces. Montaigne dijo que es imposible explicar el origen de la amistad, él propone una intervención divina en el hecho de encontrar a alguien con quien seas capaz de alcanzar esa fusión espiritual. También sugirió que es estupido perder a las amistades por causa de la distancia, la desidia o falta de interés. Un hombre debe hacer lo posible por mantener a sus amistades, pues ellas son un elixir de felicidad, uno de los pocos factores que hacen esta vida llevadera.
Por eso, aunque (..............................)quiero pensar que yo también formo parte de sus vidas, que tantas cartas y esfuerzo por escribirles no hayan sido en vano.
Anoche decidí incluirte en mi lista de correspondencia. Creo que eres una persona muy inusual, ya que en el poco tiempo que tenemos contacto me has demostrado una de las características que los ya mencionados poseen: tu humildad y capacidad ilimitada de perdón. En el mensaje que me enviaste, tus palabras me tocaron el alma. &, la humildad es una virtud divina, pero me veo obligado a reiterarte que no agradezcas por algo que por derecho te pertenece. La Justicia no es limosna, al contrario, es un don que Dios nos impuso al nacer. Unicamente debemos agradecerle a Dios por habernos reunido.
Mi consejo es que nunca dejes de fortalecer esa humildad que posees. Pues te aseguro que el orgullo propio podría compararse a aquellos cuervos que ocasionan destrozos en los cultivos del labrador. Dichos cuervos acecharán los cultivos diariamente. Frecuentemente aprovecharán los descuidos del labrador para atacar sin piedad. El labrador que no se tome el trabajo de recorrer y vigilar sus campos diariamente, al final se quedará sin cosecha. Es decir, el labrador deberá combatir esa plaga inmortal, que lo acosará por siempre, desde el dia de su nacimiento hasta el día de su muerte. En eso consiste la vida, en una lucha perpetua entre el bien y el mal.
Tampoco te dejes atrapar por las redes del idealismo. Pienso que toda crítica siempre debe ser precedida por una autocrítica. Cuando joven, yo era demasiado arrogante. Mi idealismo me entronó en una nube altísima, desde la cual, pude observar con nitidez deslumbrante, los incontables defectos que la gente a mi alrededor cometía. Los adolescentes poseen una visión privilegiada para detectar las faltas de sus mayores. En mi caso, cuando era un ferviente católico, solía criticar a los cristianos, mormones, adventistas, por su ceguera e incapacidad para reconocer la única verdad, el único sendero de salvación eterna. Desde mi nube altísima denostaba a toda esa gente en el abismo. Ahora que tengo 27, tengo la certeza que la única alma en ese abismo era la mía. En si la lección que yo ignoraba (y que tu quizás ya hayas descubierto desde niño) era que tuvieras la certeza que la persona que se crea moralmente superior, que tenga una convicción inamovible y absoluta en sus principios, y que se jacta de señalar los defectos de los demás, cometerá errores mucho mas graves que aquellos que critica.
No se donde carajo leí a un autor que escribió algo que me tocó. Aquel autor X escribió que en las situaciones mas azarosas y cruciales en la vida, un hombre debería optar por el camino que iba en contra de sus intereses, el camino que lo pusiera en desventaja, pues ese era en realidad el camino mas provechoso. Aquel autor X, sin duda con espíritu moralista, también escribió que en general un hombre debe ser extremadamente severo consigo mismo, ser indulgente y comprensivo con las injurias de los demás, y tratar a todos con el mismo respeto................................. Un argumento bastante discutible, por cierto.
En mi adolescencia me solazaba de haber leído mucho. Ahora me río de mi estupidez. Entonces ignoraba que un jovencito puede ser muy educado, pero su capacidad de razonamiento es muy insuficiente debido a la falta de experiencia. Los mas grandes conocimientos no sirven de nada sin la experiencia. Traeré a colación al Doctor Johnson, cuando en su vejez dijo: en mi juventud leí mucho, podría decirse que en ese entonces mi erudición era tan grande como ahora, pero eso si, mi capacidad de razonamiento era casi nula.
El conocimiento adquiere mayor valor con la experiencia. Cuando los profesores en el colegio me repetían semanalmente las enseñanzas de la Biblia, me parecía que ellos perdían su tiempo, pues tales lecciones las había memorizado desde la primaria. Pero ahora, luego de haber cometido incontables errores, pienso que si me vuelvo a reencontrar con aquellos profesores, yo les diría: profesor, ¡¡¿y por que no nos repetió las enseñanzas de la Biblia mas seguido??!!
Y recuerdo a un viejo amigo quien me aseguró que leer el Quijote a los 15 años puede ser una experiencia muy placentera, .....pero que releer el Quijote a los sesenta años es como escuchar la opera mas sublime de todos los tiempos, con todas sus texturas, sabores, magias y colores, y esto se debe a que la experiencia contribuyó a enriquecer cada pequeñez, lo simple ya no nos parece simple, por que cada pequeñez en si contiene una maravilla que antes no reconocíamos... ...
............Pero bueno, no importa cuan sabio, generoso, culto o magnánimo sea un hombre....un hombre siempre estara muy propenso a cometer maldades.
Marco Aurelio, el emperador mas notable de su época, el mas sabio y dueño de la opinion mas venerada de su tiempo, autor de pasajes memorables como este,
"Vivimos por un instante, sólo para caer en el completo olvido y el vacío infinito de tiempo de esta parte de nuestra existencia. ...Piensa en lo que han hecho, tras pasar una vida de implacable enemistad, sospecha, odio... ahora están muertos y reducidos a cenizas" ......el mismo Marco Aurelio concluyó, con toda su sabiduría, que el cristianismo era nocivo y debía ser exterminado.

Querido &, espero no haberte aburrido con esta carta tan dispar y desordenada. Me despido y por favor recuerda que te estimo mucho.

Pedro.
Washington, 12 de Agosto del 2006

Kurt Vonnegut

2009-05-23T05:50:00.000-07:00

'The most important thing I learned on Tralfamadore was that when a person dies he only appears to die. He is still very much alive in the past, so it is very silly for people to cry at his funeral. All moments, past, present, and future, always have existed, always will exist. The Tralfamadorians can look at all the different moments just the way we can look at a stretch of the Rocky Mountains, for instance. They can see how permanent all the moments are, and they look at any moment that interests them. It is just an illusion we have here on Earth that one moment follows another one, like beads on a string, and that once a moment is gone it is gone forever.
When a Tralfamadorian sees a corpse, all he thinks is that the dead person is in bad condition in that particular moment, but that the same person is just fine in plenty of other moments. Now, when I myself hear that somebody is dead, I simply shrug and say what the Tralfamadorians say about dead people, which is "So it goes."'
Excerpt taken from his novel, Slaughterhouse-Five, 1969.

La Profesora Daudu y su peor alumno (Part 2)

2009-05-13T18:58:00.000-07:00

Curse

(A story)

Whenever I attend a reception, I always meet people who enjoy drinking. I have noticed these fellows usually twist their whole personality when drinking in excess. They seem temporarily out of the real world. Well, that is not my case. I have never tolerated the presence of alcohol around me. Its strong odor has forced me to ran away from it like a scared child. This has been the reason that I frequently choose not to attend any receptions.
My friends are aware of this idiosyncrasy and they don't even bother to invite me anywhere. Many of them have often inquired why I am this way. And I told them because there are certain odors that magically take me back to my past. Unfortunately, that is the case with alcohol. The smell of alcohol has never failed to bring me a childhood memory I wish I could forget.
When I was five years old, I started attending the kindergarten. It is hard to believe, but back then I hardly spent time with my father. He left to work very early in the morning and came back home late at night when I was already sleeping. He didn't have any day off. Every time my mother talked about “my daddy“, I felt confused and I wondered why she cared so much about that "stranger." Because my father was a real stranger to me.
At dinner time my mother always had the same routine. While we were at the table, she would turn thoughtful and suddenly put her plate aside in order to stand next to the window. Looking out the streets, she would ask me impatiently, “What time is your daddy coming home?”. Most of the time she would seem worried and I used to embrace her to make her wait more bearable. Moments later I would grab a chair, stand on it and look through the window. I gazed the streets carefully , to see if that stranger my mother loved so much was approaching. When it was time for bed, I usually lay down with my eyes wide open, trying to overcome my drowsiness just to be able to meet my father. He would always arrive when I was already in deep sleep. I only had the chance to hear his voice when he was talking to my mother at midnight.
Months later my father started taking Sundays off. Those days I used to look at him closely and study every one of his movements. He was a dark-skinned, tall man. I didn't have enough time to watch him for he often came to me, embraced me tight and said, “ I love you, my little dwarf. Please stop growing up.” Every Sunday my mother focused all her time to please my father. She was very happy to have him around. I also wanted to share her happiness but for some reason it was very hard for me to get acquainted with my dad's presence. I felt that an intruder invaded my space. I used to be the only man in the house, and now I wasn't it any longer. However, things changed with time. Six months later I came to love my dad as much as my mother did.
One Saturday night my father came home early from work. He told my mother not to serve dinner yet for he was going to the grocery store to get some bottles of soda. My mother waited for him a long time, but he did not come back. We decided to have dinner without him. An hour later, when we finished washing the dishes, my mother sat next to the window. She asked me if I wanted to accompany her while she waited for my father. I told her I was tired and I went to sleep.
When I woke up the next morning I caught my mother crying in the kitchen. I knew then that last night my father hadn't come home. As soon as my mother saw me close, she wiped her tears and pretended to make my breakfast.
“Mom, why are you crying?
She told me she was crying for the homeless people who wander on the streets. After washing her face, she said, “You wait here, I am going to the grocery store to get something. I will be back in a couple of hours.” She left without giving me a chance to say anything. I felt terrified to stay in the house alone. Everything in it turned unfamiliar. The deep silence in the living room made me rush to the window. Grabbing the steel window frame, I felt I was imprisoned. I thought I shouldn't have let my mother go. I thought that, the same as my father, my mom wasn't going to come back. I thought that there must be something cursed in that grocery store that makes people disappear. I can't remember for how long I waited, but I spent every minute thinking that I wouldn't see my family again.
When I finally saw my mother approaching the house, I felt relieved. She came in and, without replying any of my questions, locked herself in the restroom. I heard the water running in the shower. I knocked the door.
“Mom, are you ok?”
“ I am coming out, sweetheart. Just wait”
I went back to the living room. My throat was hurting. I sensed that something awful was about to happen. I suddenly heard some footsteps coming from the street. It was then that somebody opened the door abruptly. After looking at the stranger who just entered, I got panicked. He was wearing dirty clothes and his hair was covered with dust. The expression on his face showed intense anger and he proceeded to destroy things around. He behaved like a wild animal, roaring words I had never heard before. Once he shouted my mother’s name, I finally recognized him. It was my father.
I followed him around the house wondering what had happened to him. For a moment I thought I had turned invisible for the whole time I was close to him, he didn't even notice me. When my mother came out of the bathroom, my father started beating her. At his first blow on my mother’s face, my heart was shaken with horror. She was begging him to stop, but he kept on beating her harder. I covered my eyes and I tried to settle my mind down. I asked myself a lot of questions. Was this the man who played with me, embraced me and constantly told me he loved me? Was this the man who kissed my mother, making her smile with his sole presence? The room smelled of alcohol and I quickly came to a conclusion: This monster was not my father.
I ran to the kitchen, grabbed the broom, and hurried back to the bedroom. My mother had collapsed on the floor, but the monster was now pulling her hair. I gathered all the strength I had and hit his back with the stick. When he turned around, he finally realized I was there. His red eyes were fixed on me. All I perceived in his countenance was hate. I told myself again that that monster wasn't my father. He opened his mouth to say something, but suddenly my mind went blank.
When I woke up, I found myself lying on my bed. I gave a deep sigh. At that moment I wanted to believe that everything had just been a nightmare. There was a deep silence in the house. I called for my mother, but she did not reply. I searched for her around the house. I went to the living room and I found her sleeping on the couch. As I was getting close to her, I felt a slight pain on my lips. I sat down at the edge of the couch and I realized that my mother’s face was swollen. Her skin was full of purple blotches from the contusions. Dried blood covered her nostrils. I placed my face on her belly and I started crying.
My father came back home the next day. He promised not to drink anymore.

My father is actually the most generous man I ever know. But I still wonder if he and that monster of that dreadful afternoon are the same person. I wish that somber experience would vanish for ever. But I know I will keep it in the back of my head until the day I die. That's why I revile alcohol, for it revives demons that turn me into a ghost.

La profesora Daudu y su peor alumno. (Part 1)

2009-05-13T18:43:00.000-07:00

In 2005 I enrolled in College to take a class called "Techniques of Writing". I intended to major in English Literature and that course was an obligatory requirement for all students. During my freshman year I sensed that most of my partners in the English Department tended to postpone in taking that class because it was taught by the most feared professor: Miss Bette Daudu. During my short college experience I met plenty of professors, but without a doubt, Professor Bette Daudu is the one I will always remember.
Miss Bette Daudu was reverenced by all her colleagues, and she also was the Head of the English Department. Everybody respected her and considered her the most knowledgeable professor in my College. I heard many rumors concerning her personality, such as: she always boasted that only the "A-1 students" could pass her class; many students complained about her rudeness and her high level of efficiency; and also that she was extremely competitive and if you had the honor to be in her class you'd better get ready for some extreme-top of the line-hard working-painstaking learning experience. If you were her student you either love her o hate her.
I must confess that I didn't hate her. But I didn't love her either. She had some great qualities, as having a keen eye to find every little error in my essays. But on the bad side she was very tough with her students. I've always adored tough people because I have a sort of masochistic side. But I believe the level of toughness of professor Daudu was right off the chart. She used to say to me: Pedro, you are too lazy and very complacent!. And anytime I paid a visit to her office to ask her a question, she would say: Pedro, you are wasting my time!. However, she always took the time to clarify my doubts. Sometimes I used to get irritated because I craved to hear at least one word of encouragement from her. But I must have really been a terrible writer, because she made me feel that, on the art of writing, I was at the bottom of the pit.
Now I'm convinced that she is the best teacher I ever had. All her good lessons and advice were invaluable in the development of my technique. If I hadn't met Professor Daudu, my writing would surely be much worse than what it is now. I love her, and I miss so much to hear her voice and her constant rants. In the following paragraphs I will attach the only short story she read from me: "Curse". Her comments about my story were: this is a horrible story!. You'd better rewrite it again or I'll dump it in the trash can!
After reading this short story I must agree with her opinion. This story belongs in the trash can. But, following my masochistic side, I feel I should publish it so that, in 10 years, I can reread it and make fun of my own self.

The story is included in part 2.

Bolañitis Aguda

2009-05-10T18:51:00.000-07:00

Since last month I've been suffering from a chronic illness: Bolañitis Aguda. The only symptom of this malady is that you feel the obsession of searching and devouring anything written by Roberto Bolano. Consequently, I have visited many libraries in order to find some of his books. The one I'm currently reading is the monumental novel 2666. Of course, American publishers are still translating Bolano's works. I also heard they're planning to release a novel recently found in his notebooks.
Así que tenemos Bolaño para rato y, in the meantime, here is one of his short stories I reproduce with the permission of "The Barcelona Review".

SENSINI
Roberto Bolaño
La forma en que se desarrolló mi amistad con Sensini sin duda se sale de lo corriente. En aquella época yo tenía veintitantos años y era más pobre que una rata. Vivía en las afueras de Girona, en una casa en ruinas que me habían dejado mi hermana y mi cuñado tras marcharse a México y acababa de perder un trabajo de vigilante noctumo en un camping de Barcelona, el cual había acentuado mi disposición a no dormir durante las noches. Casi no tenía amigos y lo único que hacía era escribir y dar largos paseos que comenzaban a las siete de la tarde, tras despertar, momento en el cual mi cuerpo experimentaba algo semejante al jetlag, una sensación de estar y no estar, de distancia con respecto a lo que me rodeaba, de indefinida fragilidad. Vivía con lo que había ahorrado durante el verano y aunque apenas gastaba, mis ahorros iban menguando al paso del otono. Tal vez eso fue lo que me impulsó a participar en el Concurso Nacional de Literatura de Alcoy, abierto a escritores de lengua castellana, cualquiera que fuera su nacionalidad y lugar de residencia. EI premio estaba dividido en tres modalidades: poesía, cuento y ensayo. Primero pensé en presentarme en poesía, pero enviar a luchar con los leones (o con las hienas) aquello que era lo que mejor hacía me pareció indecoroso. Después pensé en presentarme en ensayo, pero cuando me enviaron las bases descubrí que éste debía versar sobre Alcoy, sus alrededores, su historia, sus hombres ilustres, su proyección en el futuro y eso me excedía. Decidí, pues, presentarme en cuento y envié por triplicado el mejor que tenía (no tenía muchos) y me senté a esperar. Cuando el premio se falló trabajaba de vendedor ambulante en una feria de artesanía en donde absolutamente nadie vendía artesanias. Obtuve el tercer accésit y diez mil pesetas que el Ayuntamiento de Alcoy me pagó religiosamente. Poco después me llegó el libro, en el que no escaseaban las erratas, con el ganador y los seis finalistas. Por supuesto, mi cuento era mejor que el que se había llevado el premio gordo, lo que me llevó a maldecir al jurado y a decirme que, en fin, eso siempre pasa. Pero lo que realmente me sorprendió fue encontrar en el mismo libro a Luis Antonio Sensini, el escritor argentino, segundo accésit, con un cuento en donde el narrador se iba al campo y alIí se Ie moría su hijo o con un cuento en donde el narrador se iba al campo porque en la ciudad se Ie había muerto su hijo, no quedaba nada claro, lo cierto es que en el campo, un campo plano y más bien yermo, el hijo del narrador se seguía muriendo, en fin, el cuento era claustrofóbico, muy al estilo de Sensini, de los grandes espacios geográficos de Sensini que de pronto se achicaban hasta tener el tamaño de un ataúd, y superior al ganador y al primer accésit y tambien superior al tercer accésit y al cuarto, quinto y sexto. No sé qué fue lo que me impulsó a pedirle al Ayuntamiento de Alcoy la dirección de Sensini. Yo había leído una novela suya y algunos de sus cuentos en revistas latinoamericanas. La novela era de las que hacen lectores. Se llamaba Ugarte y trataba sobre algunos momentos de la vida de Juan de Ugarte, burócrata en el Virreinato del Río de la Plata a finales del siglo XVIII. Algunos críticos, sobre todo españoles, la habían despachado diciendo que se trataba de una especie de Kafka colonial, pero poco a poco la novela fue haciendo sus propios lectores y para cuando me encontré a Sensini en el libro de cuentos de Alcoy, Ugarte tenía repartidos en varios rincones de América y España unos pocos y fervorosos lectores, casi todos amigos o enemigos gratuitos entre sí. Sensini, por descontado, tenía otros libros, publicados en Argentina o en editoriales españolas desaparecidas, y pertenecía a esa generación intermedia de escritores nacidos en los años veinte, después de Comzar, Bioy, Sábato, Mujica Lainez, y cuyo exponente más conocido (al menos por entonces, al menos para mí) era Haroldo Conti, desaparecido en uno de los campos especiales de la dictadura de Videla y sus secuaces. De esta generación (aunque tal vez la palabra generación sea excesiva) quedaba poco, pero no por falta de brillantez o talento; seguidores de Roberto Arlt, periodistas y profesores y traductores, de alguna manera auguraron lo que vendría a continuación, y lo anunciaron a su manera triste y escéptica que al final se los fue tragando a todos. A mí me gustaban. En una época lejana de mi vida había leído las obras de teatro de Abelardo Castillo, los cuentos de Rodolfo Walsh (como Conti asesinado por la dictadura), los cuentos de Daniel Moyano, lecturas parciales y fragmentadas que ofrecían las revistas argentinas o mexicanas o cubanas, libros encontrados en las librerías de viejo del D.F., antologías piratas de la literatura bonaerense, probablemente la mejor en lengua española de este siglo, literatura de la que ellos formaban parte y que no era ciertamente la de Borges o Cortázar y a la que no tardarían en dejar atras Manuel Puig y Osvaldo Soriano, pero que ofrecía al lector textos compactos, inteligentes, que propiciaban la complicidad y la alegría. Mi favorito, de más está decirlo, era Sensini, y el hecho de alguna manera sangrante y de alguna manera halagador de encontrármelo en un concurso literario de provincias me impulsó a intentar establecer contacto con él, saludarlo, decirle cuánto lo quería. Así pues, el Ayuntamiento de Alcoy no tardó en enviarme su dirección, vivía en Madrid, y una noche, después de cenar o comer o merendar, Ie escribí una larga carta en donde hablaba de Ugarte, de los otros cuentos suyos que había leído en revistas, de mí, de mi casa en las afueras de Girona, del concurso literario (me reía del ganador), de la situación política chilena y argentina (todavía estaban bien establecidas ambas dictaduras), de los cuentos de Walsh (que era el otro a quien más quería junto con Sensini), de la vida en España y de la vida en general. Contra lo que esperaba, recibí una carta suya apenas una semana después. Comenzaba dándome las gracias por la mía, decía que en efecto el Ayuntamiento de Alcoy también Ie había enviado a él el libro con los cuentos galardonados pero que, al contrario que yo, él no había encontrado tiempo (aunque después, cuando volvía de forma sesgada sobre el mismo tema, decía que no había encontrado ánimo suficiente) para repasar el relato ganador y los accésits, aunque en estos días se había leído el mío y lo había encontrado de calidad, «un cuento de primer orden», decía, conservo la carta, y al mismo tiempo me instaba a perseverar, pero no, como al principio entendí, a perseverar en la escritura sino a perseverar en los concursos, algo que él, me aseguraba, también haría. Acto seguido pasaba a preguntarme por los certámenes literarios que se «avizoraban en el horizonte», encomiándome que apenas supiera de uno se lo hiciera saber en el acto. En contrapartida me adjuntaba las señas de dos concursos de relatos, uno en Plasencia y el otro en Ecija, de 25.000 y 30.000 pesetas respectivamente, cuyas bases según pude comprobar más tarde extraía de periódicos y revistas madrileñas cuya sola existencia era un crimen o un milagro, depende. Ambos concursos aún estaban a mi alcance y Sensini terminaba su carta de manera más bien entusiasta, como si ambos estuviéramos en la línea de salida de una carrera interminable, amén de dura y sin sentido. «Valor y a trabajar», decía. Recuerdo que pensé: qué extraña carta; recuerdo que releí algunas capitulos de Ugarte, por esos días aparecieron en la plaza de los cines de Girona los vendedores ambulantes de libros, gente que montaba sus tenderetes alrededor de la plaza y que ofrecía mayormente stocks invendibles, los saldos de las editoriales que no hacía mucho habían quebrado, libros de la Segunda Guerra Mundial, novelas de amor y de vaqueros, colecciones de postales. En uno de los tenderetes encontré un libro de cuentos de Sensini y lo compré. Estaba como nuevo -de hecho era un libro nuevo, de aquellos que las editoriales venden rebajados a los únicos que mueven este material, los ambulantes, cuando ya ninguna librería, ningún distribuidor quiere meter las manos en ese fuego- y aquella semana fue una semana Sensini en todos los sentidos. A veces releía por centésima vez su carta, otras veces hojeaba Ugarte, y cuando quería acción, novedad, leía sus cuentos. Estos, aunque trataban sobre una gama variada de temas y situaciones, generalmente se desarrollaban en el campo, en la pampa, y eran lo que al menos antiguamente se llamaban historias de hombres a caballo. Es decir historias de gente armada, desafortunada, solitaria o con un peculiar sentido de la sociabilidad. Todo lo que en Ugarte era frialdad, un pulso preciso de neurocirujano, en el libro de cuentos era calidez, paisajes que se alejaban del lector muy lentamente (y que a veces se alejaban con el lector), personajes valientes y a la deriva. En el concurso de Plasencia no alcancé a participar, pero en el de Ecija sí. Apenas hube puesto los ejemplares de mi cuento (seudónimo: Aloysius Acker) en el correo, comprendí que si me quedaba esperando el resuItado las cosas no podían sino empeorar. Así que decidí buscar otros concursos y de paso cumplir con el pedido de Sensini. Los días siguientes, cuando bajaba a Girona, los dediqué a trajinar periódicos atrasados en busca de información: en algunos ocupaban una columna junto a ecos de sociedad, en otros aparecían entre sucesos y deportes, el más serio de todos los situaba a mitad de camino del informe del tiempo y las notas necrológicas, ninguno, claro, en las páginas cuIturales. Descubrí, asimismo, una revista de la Generalitat que entre becas, intercambios, avisos de trabajo, cursos de posgrado, insertaba anuncios de concursos literarios, la mayoría de ámbito catalán y en lengua catalana, pero no todos. Pronto tuve tres concursos en ciernes en los que Sensini y yo podíamos participar y Ie escribí una carta. Como siempre, la respuesta me llegó a vuelta de correo. La carta de Sensini era breve. Contestaba algunas de mis preguntas, la mayoría de ellas relativas a su libro de cuentos recién comprado, y adjuntaba a su vez las fotocopias de las bases de otros tres concursos de cuento, uno de ellos auspiciado por los Ferrocarriles del Estado, premio gordo y diez finalistas a 50.000 pesetas por barba, decía textualmente, el que no se presenta no gana, que por la intención no quede. Le contesté diciéndole que no tenía tantos cuentos como para cubrir los seis concursos en marcha, pero sobre todo intenté tocar otros temas, la carta se me fue de la mano, Ie hablé de viajes, amores perdidos, Walsh, Conti, Francisco Urondo, Ie pregunté por Gelman al que sin duda conocía, terminé contándole mi historia por capítulos, siempre que hablo con argentinos terminó enzarzándome con el tango y el laberinto, les sucede a muchos chilenos. La respuesta de Sensini fue puntual y extensa, al menos en lo tocante a la producción y los concursos. En un folio escrito a un solo espacio y por ambas caras exponía una suerte de estrategia general con respecto a los premios literarios de provincias. Le hablo por experiencia, decía. La carta comenzaba por santificarlos (nunca supe si en serio o en broma); fuente de ingresos que ayudaban al diario sustento. Al referirse a las entidades patrocinadoras, ayuntamientos y cajas de ahorro, decía «esa buena gente que cree en la literatura», o «esos lectores puros y un poco forzados». No se haga en cambio ninguna ilusión con respecto a la información de la «buena gente», los lectores que previsiblemente (o no tan previsiblemente) consumirían aquellos libros invisibles. Insistía en que participara en el mayor número posible de premios, aunque sugería que como medida de precaución les cambiara el título a los cuentos si con uno solo, por ejemplo, acudía a tres concursos cuyos fallos coincidían por las mismas fechas. Exponía como ejemplo de esto su relato “Al amanecer”, relato que yo no conocía, y que el había enviado a varios certámenes literarios casi de manera experimental, como el conejillo de Indias destinado a probar los efectos de una vacuna desconocida. En el primer concurso, el mejor pagado, Al amanecer fue como Al amanecer, en el segundo concurso se presentó como Los gauchos, en el tercer concurso su titulo era En la otra pampa, y en el último se llamaba Sin remordimientos. Ganó en el segundo y en el último, y con la plata obtenida en ambos premios pudo pagar un mes y medio de alquiler, en Madrid los precios estaban por las nubes. Por supuesto, nadie se enteró de que Los gauchos y Sin remordimientos eran el mismo cuento con el título cambiado, aunque siempre existía el riesgo de coincidir en más de una lista con un mismo jurado, oficio singular que en España ejercían de forma contumaz una pléyade de escritores y poetas menores o autores laureados en anteriores fiestas. El mundo de la literatura es terrible, además de ridículo, decía. Y añadía que ni siquiera el repetido encuentro con un mismo jurado constituía de hecho un peligro, pues estos generalmente no leían las obras presentadas o las leían por encima o las leían a medias. Y a mayor abundamiento, decía, quién sabe si Los gauchos y Sin remordimientos no sean dos relatos distintos cuya singularidad resida precisamente en el título. Parecidos, incluso muy parecidos, pero distintos. La carta concluía enfatizando que lo ideal sería hacer otra cosa, por ejemplo vivir y escribir en Buenos Aires, sobre el particular pocas dudas tenía, pero que la realidad era la realidad, y uno tenía que ganarse los porotos (no se si en Argentina llaman porotos a las judías, en Chile sí) y que por ahora la salida era esa. Es como pasear por la geografía española, decía. Voy a cumplir sesenta años, pero me siento como si tuviera veinticinco, afirmaba al final de la carta o tal vez en la posdata. Al principio me pareció una declaración muy triste, pero cuando la leí por segunda o tercera vez comprendí que era como si me dijera: ¿cuántos años tenes vos, pibe? Mi respuesta, lo recuerdo, fue inmediata. Le dije que tenía veintiocho, tres más que él. Aquella mañana fue como si recuperara si no la felicidad, si la energía, una energía que se parecía mucho al humor, un humor que se parecía mucho a la memoria. No me dediqué, como me sugería Sensini, a los concursos de cuentos, aunque si participé en los últimos que entre él y yo habíamos descubierto. No gané en ninguno, Sensini volvió a hacer doblete en Don Benito y en Ecija, con un relato que originalmente se titulaba Los sables y que en Ecija se llamó Dos espadas y en Don Benito El tajo más profundo. Y ganó un accésit en el premio de los ferrocarriles, lo que Ie proporcionó no solo dinero sino también un billete franco para viajar durante un año por la red de la Renfe. Con el tiempo fui sabiendo más cosas de él. Vivía en un piso de Madrid con su mujer y su única hija, de diecisiete años, llamada Miranda. Otro hijo, de su primer matrimonio, andaba perdido par Latinoamérica o eso quería creer. Se llamaba Gregorio, tenía treinta y cinco años, era periodista. A veces Sensini me contaba de sus diligencias en organismos humanitarios o vinculados a los departamentos de derechos humanos de la Union Europea para averiguar el paradero de Gregorio. En esas ocasiones las cartas solían ser pesadas, monotonas, como si mediante la descripcion del laberinto burocrático Sensini exorcizara a sus propios fantasmas. Dejé de vivir con Gregorio, me dijo en una ocasion, cuando el pibe tenía cinco años. No añadía nada más, pero yo vi a Gregorio de cinco años y vi a Sensini escribiendo en la redacción de un periódico y todo era irremediable. También me pregunté por el nombre y no sé por qué llegué a la conclusión de que había sido una suerte de homenaje inconsciente a Gregorio Samsa. Esto último, por supuesto, nunca se lo dije. Cuando hablaba de Miranda, por el contrario, Sensini se ponía alegre. Miranda era joven, tenía ganas de comerse el mundo, una curiosidad insaciable, y además, decía, era linda y buena. Se parece a Gregorio, decía, solo que Miranda es mujer (obviamente) y no tuvo que pasar por lo que pasó mi hijo mayor.Poco a poco las cartas de Sensini se fueron haciendo más largas. Vivía en un barrio desangelado de Madrid, en un piso de dos habitaciones más sala comedor, cocina y baño. Saber que yo disponía de más espacio que él me pareció sorprendente y después injusto. Sensini escribía en el comedor, de noche, «cuando la señora y la nena ya están dormidas», y abusaba del tabaco. Sus ingresos provenían de unos vagos trabajos editoriales (creo que corregía traduciones) y de los cuentos que salían a pelear a provincias. De vez en cuando Ie llegaba algún cheque por alguno de sus numerosos libros publicados, pero la mayoría de las editoriales se hacían las olvidadizas o habían quebrado. EI título que seguía produciendo dinero era Ugarte, cuyos derechos tenía una editorial de Barcelona. Vivía, no tardé en comprenderlo, en la pobreza, no una pobreza absoluta sino una de clase media baja, de clase media desafortunada y decente. Su mujer (que ostentaba el curioso nombre de Carmela Zajdman) trabajaba ocasionalmente en labores editoriales y dando clases particulares de inglés, francés y hebreo, aunque en más de una ocasión se había visto abocada a realizar faenas de limpieza. La hija solo se dedicaba a los estudios y su ingreso en la universidad era inminente. En una de mis cartas Ie pregunté a Sensini si Miranda también se iba a dedicar a la literatura. En su respuesta decía: no, por Dios, la nena estudiará medieina. Una noche Ie escribí pidiéndole una foto de su familia. Sólo despues de dejar la carta en el correo me di cuenta de que lo que quería era conocer a Miranda. Una semana después me llegó una fotografía tomada seguramente en el Retiro en donde se veía a un viejo y a una mujer de mediana edad junto a una adolescente de pelo liso, delgada y alta, con los pechos muy grandes. EI viejo sonreía feliz, la mujer de mediana edad miraba el rostro de su hija, como si Ie dijera algo, y Miranda contemplaba al fotógrafo con una seriedad que me resultó conmovedora e inquietante. Junto a la foto me envió la fotocopia de otra foto. En esta aparecía un tipo más o menos de mi edad, de rasgos acentuados, los labios muy delgados, los pómulos pronunciados, la frente amplia, sin duda un tipo alto y fuerte que miraba a la cámara (era una foto de estudio) con seguridad y acaso con algo de impaciencia. Era Gregorio Sensini, antes de desaparecer, a los veintidós años, es decir bastante más joven de lo que yo era entonces, pero con un aire de madurez que lo hacía parecer mayor. Durante mucho tiempo la foto y la fotocopia estuvieron en mi mesa de trabajo. A veces me pasaba mucho rato contemplándolas, otras veces me las lIevaba al dormitorio y las miraba hasta caerme dormido. En su carta Sensini me había pedido que yo también les enviara una foto mía. No tenía ninguna reciente y decidí hacerme una en el fotomatón de la estación, en esos años el único fotomatón de toda Girona. Pero las fotos que me hice no me gustaron. Me encontraba feo, flaco, con el pelo mal cortado. Así que cada día iba postergando el envío de mi foto y cada día iba gastando más dinero en el fotomatón. Finalmente cogí una al azar, la metí en un sobre junto con una postal y se la envié. La respuesta tardó en lIegar. En el interín recuerdo que escribí un poema muy largo, muy malo, lIeno de voces y de rostros que parecían distintos pero que sólo eran uno, el rostro de Miranda Sensini, y que cuando yo por fin podía reconocerlo, nombrarlo, decirle Miranda, soy yo, el amigo epistolar de tu padre, ella se daba media vuelta y echaba a correr en busca de su hermano, Gregorio Samsa, en busca de los ojos de Gregorio Samsa que brillaban al fondo de un corredor en tinieblas donde se movían imperceptiblemente los bultos oscuros del terror latinoamericano. La respuesta fue larga y cordial. Decía que Carmela y él me encontraron muy simpático, tal como me imaginaban, un poco flaco, tal vez, pero con buena pinta y que también les había gustado la postal de la catedral de Girona que esperaban ver personalmente dentro de poco, apenas se hallaran más desahogados de algunas contingencias económicas y domésticas. En la carta se daba por entendido que no solo pasarían a verme sino que se alojarían en mi casa. De paso me ofrecían la suya para cuando yo quisiera ir a Madrid. La casa es pobre, pero tampoco es limpia, decía Sensini imitando a un famoso gaucho de tira cómica que fue muy famoso en el Cono Sur a principios de los setenta. De sus tareas literarias no decía nada. Tampoco hablaba de los concursos. Al principio pensé en mandarle a Miranda mi poema, pero después de muchas dudas y vacilaciones decidí no hacerlo. Me estoy volviendo loco, pensé, si Ie mando esto a Miranda se acabaron las cartas de Sensini y además con toda la razón del mundo. Así que no se lo mandé. Durante un tiempo me dediqué a rastrearle bases de concursos. En una carta Sensini me decía que temía que la cuerda se Ie estuviera acabando. Interpreté sus palabras erroneamente, en el sentido de que ya no tenía suficientes certámenes literarios adonde enviar sus relatos. Insistí en que viajaran a Girona. Les dije que Carmela y el tenían mi casa a su disposicion, incluso durante unos días me obligué a limpiar, barrer, fregar y sacarle el polvo a las habitaciones en la seguridad (totalmente infundada) de que ellos y Miranda estaban al caer. Argüí que con el billete abierto de la Renfe en realidad solo tendrían que comprar dos pasajes, uno para Carmela y otro para Miranda, y que Cataluña tenía cosas maravillosas que ofrecer al viajero. Hablé de Barcelona, de Olot, de la Costa Brava, de los días felices que sin duda pasaríamos juntos. En una larga carta de respuesta, en donde me daba las gracias por mi invitación, Sensini me informaba que por ahora no podían moverse de Madrid. La carta, por primera vez, era confusa, aunque a eso de la mitad se ponía a hablar de los premios (creo que se había ganado otro) y me daba ánimos para no desfallecer y seguir participando. En esta parte de la carta hablaba también del oficio de escritor, de la profesión, y yo tuve la impresión de que las palabras que vertía eran en parte para mí y en parte un recordatorio que se hacía a sí mismo. EI resto, como ya digo, era confuso. AI terminar de leer tuve la impresión de que alguien de su familia no estaba bien de salud. Dos o tres meses después me lIegó la noticia de que probablemente habían encontrado el cadaver de Gregorio en un cementerio clandestino. En su carta Sensini era parco en expresiones de dolor, sólo me decía que tal día, a tal hora, un grupo de forenses, miembros de organizaciones de derechos humanos, una fosa común con más de cincuenta cadaveres de jóvenes, etc. Por primera vez no tuve ganas de escribirle. Me hubiera gustado lIamarlo por teléfono, pero creo que nunca tuvo teléfono y si lo tuvo yo ignoraba su número. Mi contestación fue escueta. Le dije que lo sentía, aventuré la posibilidad de que tal vez el cadaver de Gregorio no fuera el cadaver de Gregorio. Luego llegó el verano y me puse a trabajar en un hotel de la costa. En Madrid ese verano fue pródigo en conferencias, cursos, actividades culturales de toda índole, pero en ninguna de ellas participó Sensini y si participó en alguna el periódico que yo leía no lo reseñó. A finales de agosto Ie envié una tarjeta. Le decía que posiblemente cuando acabara la temporada fuera a hacerle una visita. Nada más. Cuando volví a Girona, a mediados de septiembre, entre la poca correspondencia acumulada bajo la puerta encontré una carta de Sensini con fecha 7 de agosto. Era una carta de despedida. Decía que volvía a la Argentina, que con la democracia ya nadie Ie iba a hacer nada y que por tanto era ocioso permanecer más tiempo fuera. Además, si quería saber a ciencia cierta el destino final de Gregorio no había más remedio que volver. Carmela, por supuesto, regresa conmigo, anunciaba, pero Miranda se queda. Le escribí de inmediato, a la misma dirección que tenía, pero no recibí respuesta. Poco a poco me fui haciendo a la idea de que Sensini había vuelto para siempre a la Argentina y que si no me escribía el desde alIí ya podía dar por acabada nuestra relación epistolar. Durante mucho tiempo estuve esperando su carta o eso creo ahora, al recordarlo. La carta de Sensini, por supuesto, no llegó nunca. La vida en Buenos Aires, me consolé, debía de ser rápida, explosiva, sin tiempo para nada, solo para respirar y parpadear. Volví a escribirle a la dirección que tenía de Madrid, con la esperanza de que Ie hicieran llegar la carta a Miranda, pero al cabo de un mes el correo me la devolvió por ausencia del destinatario. Así que desistí y dejé que pasaran los días y fui olvidando a Sensini, aunque cuando iba a Barcelona, muy de tanto en tanto, a veces me metía tardes enteras en librerías de viejo y buscaba sus libros, los libros que yo conocía de nombre y que nunca iba a leer. Pero en las librerías solo encontré viejos ejemplares de Ugarte y de su libro de cuentos publicado en Barcelona y cuya editorial había hecho suspensión de pagos, casi como una señal dirigida a Sensini, dirigida a mí. Uno o dos años después supe que había muerto. No sé en que periódico leí la noticia. Tal vez no la leí en ninguna parte, tal vez me la contaron, pero no recuerdo haber hablado por aquellas fechas con gente que lo conociera, por lo que probablemente debo de haber leído en alguna parte la noticia de su muerte. Esta era escueta: el escritor argentino Luis Antonio Sensini, exiliado durante algunos años en España, había muerto en Buenos Aires. Creo que también, al final, mencionaban Ugarte. No sé por qué, la noticia no me impresionó. No sé por qué, el que Sensini volviera a Buenos Aires a morir me pareció lógico. Tiempo después, cuando la foto de Sensini, Carmela y Miranda y la fotocopia de la foto de Gregorio reposaban junto con mis demás recuerdos en una caja de cartón que por algún motivo que prefiero no indagar aún no he quemado, llamaron a la puerta de mi casa. Debían de ser las doce de la noche, pero yo estaba despierto. La llamada, sin embargo, me sobresaltó. Ninguna de las pocas personas que conocía en Girona hubieran ido a mi casa a no ser que ocurriera algo fuera de lo normal. Al abrir me encontré a una mujer de pelo largo debajo de un gran abrigo negro. Era Miranda Sensini, aunque los años transcurridos desde que su padre me envió la foto no habían pasado en vano. Junto a ella estaba un tipo rubio, alto, de pelo largo y nariz ganchuda. Soy Miranda Sensini, me dijo con una sonrisa. Ya lo sé, dije yo y los invité a pasar. Iban de viaje a Italia y luego pensaban cruzar el Adriático rumbo a Grecia. Como no tenían mucho dinero viajaban haciendo autostop. Aquella noche durmieron en mi casa. Les hice algo de cenar. EI tipo se llamaba Sebastián Cohen y también había nacido en Argentina, pero desde muy joven vivía en Madrid. Me ayudó a preparar la cena mientras Miranda inspeccionaba la casa. ¿Hace mucho que la conoces?, preguntó. Hasta hace un momento solo la había visto en foto, Ie contesté.Después de cenar les preparé una habitación y les dije que se podían ir a la cama cuando quisieran. Yo también pensé en meterme a mi cuarto y dormirme, pero comprendí que aquello iba a resultar dificil, sino imposible, así que cuando supuse que ya estaban dormidos bajé a la primera planta y puse la tele, con el volumen muy bajo, y me puse a pensar en Sensini. Poco después sentí pasos en la escalera. Era Miranda. Ella tampoco podía quedarse dormida. Se sentó a mi lado y me pidió un cigarrillo. AI principio hablamos de su viaje, de Girona (llevaban todo el día en la ciudad, no Ie pregunté por qué habían llegado tan tarde a mi casa), de las ciudades que pensaban visitar en Italia. Después hablamos de su padre y de su hermano. Según Miranda, Sensini nunca se repuso de la muerte de Gregorio. Volvió para buscarlo, aunque todos sabíamos que estaba muerto. ¿Carmela también?, pregunté. Todos, dijo Miranda, menos él. Le pregunté cómo Ie había ido en Argentina. Igual que aquí, dijo Miranda, igual que en Madrid, igual que en todas partes. Pero en Argentina lo querían, dije yo. Igual que aquí, dijo Miranda. Saqué una botella de coñac de la cocina y Ie ofrecí un trago. Estás llorando, dijo Miranda. Cuando la mire ella desvió la mirada. ¿Estabas escribiendo?, dijo. No, miraba la tele. Ouiero decir cuando Sebastián y yo llegamos, dijo Miranda, ¿estabas escribiendo? Sí, dije. ¿Relatos? No, poemas. Ah, dijo Miranda. Bebimos largo rato en silencio, contemplando las imágenes en blanco y negro del televisor. Dime una cosa, Ie dije, ¿por qué Ie puso tu padre Gregorio a Gregorio? Por Kafka, claro, dijo Miranda. ¿Por Gregorio Samsa? Claro, dijo Miranda. Ya, me lo suponía, dije yo. Después Miranda me contó a grandes trazos los últimos meses de Sensini en Buenos Aires. Se había marchado de Madrid ya enfermo y contra la opinión de varios médicos argentinos que lo trataban gratis y que incluso Ie habían conseguido un par de internamientos en hospitales de la Seguridad Social. El reencuentro con Buenos Aires fue doloroso y feliz. Desde la primera semana se puso a hacer gestiones para averiguar el paradero de Gregorio. Ouiso volver a la universidad, pero entre trámites burocráticos y envidias y rencores de los que no faltan el acceso Ie fue vedado y se tuvo que conformar con hacer traducciones para un par de editoriales. Carmela, por el contrario, consiguió trabajo como profesora y durante los útimos tiempos vivieron exclusivamente de lo que ella ganaba. Cada semana Sensini Ie escribía a Miranda. Según ésta, su padre se daba cuenta de que Ie quedaba poca vida e incluso en ocasiones parecía ansioso de apurar de una vez por todas las últimas reservas y enfrentarse a la muerte. En lo que respecta a Gregorio, ninguna noticia fue concluyente. Según algunos forenses, su cuerpo podía estar entre el montón de huesos exhumados de aquel cementerio clandestino, pero para mayor seguridad debía hacerse una prueba de ADN, pero el gobiemo no tenía fondos o no tenía ganas de que se hiciera la prueba y esta se iba cada día retrasando un poco más. También se dedicó a buscar a una chica, una probable compañera que Goyo posiblemente tuvo en la clandestinidad, pero la chica tampoco apareció. Luego su salud se agravó y tuvo que ser hospitalizado. Ya ni siquiera escribía, dijo Miranda. Para él era muy importante escribir cada día, en cualquier condición. Sí, Ie dije, creo que así era. Después Ie pregunté si en Buenos Aires alcanzó a participar en algún concurso. Miranda me miró y se sonrió. Claro, tú eras el que participaba en los concursos con él, a ti te conoció en un concurso. Pensé que tenía mi dirección por la simple razón de que tenía todas las direcciones de su padre, pero que solo en ese momento me había reconocido. Yo soy el de los concursos, dije. Miranda se sirvió mas coñac y dijo que durante un año su padre había hablado bastante de mí. Noté que me miraba de otra manera. Debí importunarlo bastante, dije. Qué va, dijo ella, de importunarlo nada, Ie encantaban tus cartas, siempre nos las leía a mi madre y a mí. Espero que fueran divertidas, dije sin demasiada conviccion. Eran divertidísimas, dijo Miranda, mi madre incluso hasta os puso un nombre. ¿Un nombre?, ¿a quiénes? A mi padre y a ti, os llamaba los pistoleros o los cazarrecompensas, ya no me acuerdo, algo así, los cazadores de cabelleras. Me imagino por qué, dije, aunque creo que el verdadero cazarrecompensas era tu padre, yo solo Ie pasaba uno que otro dato. Sí, él era un profesional, dijo Miranda de pronto seria. ¿Cuántos premios llegó a ganar?, Ie pregunté. Unos quince, dijo ella con aire ausente. ¿Y tú? Yo por el momento solo uno, dije. Un accésit en AIcoy, por el que conocí a tu padre. ¿Sabes que Borges Ie escribió una vez una carta, a Madrid, en donde Ie ponderaba uno de sus cuentos?, dijo ella mirando su coñac. No, no lo sabía, dije yo. Y Cortázar también escribió sobre él, y también Mujica Lainez. Es que el era un escritor muy bueno, dije yo. Joder, dijo Miranda y se levantó y salió al patio, como si yo hubiera dicho algo que la hubiera ofendido. Dejé pasar unos segundos, cogí la botella de coñac y la seguí. Miranda estaba acodada en la barda mirando las luces de Girona. Tienes una buena vista desde aquí, me dijo. Le Ilené su vaso, me Ilené el mío, y nos quedamos durante un rato mirando la ciudad iluminada por la luna. De pronto me di cuenta de que ya estábamos en paz, que por alguna razón misteriosa habíamos llegado juntos a estar en paz y que de ahí en adelante las cosas imperceptiblemente comenzarían a cambiar. Como si el mundo, de verdad, se moviera. Le pregunté que edad tenía. Veintidós, dijo. Entonces yo debo tener mas de treinta, dije, y hasta mi voz sonó extrafia.
"Este cuento obtuvo el Premio de Narración Ciudad de San Sebastian, patrocinado por la Fundación Kutxa".
© Roberto Bolaño.

Reproducido gracias a la cortesía de "The Barcelona Review".

Cuentos del Norte, Historias del Sur

2009-05-08T14:26:00.001-07:00

Mi gran amigo el escritor y periodista Hemil García Linares está a punto de publicar su flamante libro de cuentos,"Cuentos del Norte, Historias del Sur." Años atrás Hemil decidió emigrar a los Estados Unidos, nación que lo acogió y en donde fue testigo del azaroso, competente y multicultural universo de los inmigrantes. Fruto de aquellas experiencias, Hemil compuso este libro con un rigor objetivo, pero en el fondo, muy humano. Sus historias nos retratan la ardua lucha de muchos inmigrantes por alcanzar el sueño americano, un sueño cuyos sacrificios, victorias y conflictos conforman un vasto material que Hemil, haciendo gala de su lograda prosa, explora con profundidad y lucidez.
El libro saldrá a la venta próximamente en Lima. El gran maestro Oswaldo Reynoso será el encargado de presentar el libro.
Aquí la nota de prensa:

“Cuentos del norte, historias del sur”
Primera entrega del escritor peruano Hemil García Linares
El sueño americano no siempre realizado es el leit motiv de esta lograda colección de cuentos que Hemil García Linares nos entrega en su primer libro. El autor, quien radica en Virgina, Estados Unidos, desde hace una década, nos muestra una radiografía radical y descarnada de los insospechados destinos que sus personajes encuentran día a día. El hijo que espera el retorno de la madre y que cada cumpleaños recibe un obsequio “norteamericano”; la mujer que abre la puerta a extraños para poder juntar el dinero que su familia necesita para ser feliz; los recuerdos de una niñez desbocada en las calles de Surquillo; las luchas por el amor y el desazón que produce la derrota; la añoranza de la tierra y la lucha por sobrevivir en una tierra que les ofrece la ilusión del éxito, son algunas de las historias que se tejen en Cuentos del norte, historias del sur.
Como un gran ejecutor, García Linares guía hábilmente al lector por los enrevesados caminos que el destino, en su caprichosa voluntad, ha preparado para cada historia, y da luz verde a la incursión literaria de un autor que vive su tiempo y que es testigo de una realidad que muchos conocen pero que pocos quieren aceptar.
Escritos con una prosa limpia e intensa, Cuentos del norte, historias del sur, mantendrá en vilo al lector por lo vital, directo, crudo y descarnado que cada historia entrega en esta estupenda colección de cuentos.
Hemil García Linares (Lima, 1971) Periodista y escritor. Egresado de la Universidad Jaime Bausate Y Mesa de Publicó artículos en el diario El Comercio (Perú) y en periódicos latinos de Estados Unidos. Editor de la revista Raíces Latinas (USA).Sus cuentos han sido antologados en México, Estados Unidos, y Argentina. Finalista del Concurso Internacional de Cuentos Junín País 2008 (Argentina). Actualmente toma clases de literatura en Northern Virginia Community College.
Cuentos del norte, historias del sur, se presentará este martes 26 de mayo a las 6:00 pm en el Centro Cultural de España. Los comentarios estarán a cargo de los escritores Oswaldo Reynoso, Rodolfo Ybarra, Gabriel Rimachi Sialer (Ed.), y contará con la presencia del autor.
El ingreso es libre. Vino de honor.
Agradecemos el apoyo de su difusión,
Editorial Casatomada
www.rcasatomada.blogspot.com
Teléfonos: 433 – 1352 / 99195 – 1159
Contacto: Gabriel Rimachi Sialer (Ed.)

Beauty and the Beast (1946), a film by Jean Cocteau

2009-05-07T17:13:00.000-07:00

This film directed by the poet Jean Cocteau, is the first in a series of movie adaptations of the fairy tale “Beauty and the Beast.”
If we consider the source, we could have predicted this was a children’s film. However, it seems Jean Cocteau intended to make it for a broader audience. He tried and succeeded (for the most part).
The story in itself is a very complex one. The romantic relationship between the Belle and the Beast can produce many philosophical interpretations and God knows how many times this film has been reviewed, and how many critics have analyzed it and linked it with odd themes like Freud and the Unconscious or the morality of post-war France. However, I’m not interested in disserting about these topics.
Even though the script was good, it could have been better. The dialogues rarely showed flashes of insight. The theme of the movie was rich, but it was not used in a smart way. It could have been used to explore deeper meanings, considering the director was also a writer. However, it seemed the director put too much emphasis in following the plot of the story and that restrained the film in an unpleasant way.
On the other side the visual effects of "Beauty and the Beast" were really astonishing. It seems that Cocteau reinvindicated himself in his development of the scenery and the mise en scene in which, besides being absolutely spectacular, also enhanced the complexity the script failed to depict. Arms holding candlelight’s in the darkness, the statues moving and blowing steam from their noses, the magical tricks the Beast performed, the steam coming out of the Beast’s body, and all the other effects were groundbreaking, even for today’s viewers.
Mortimer Adler once pointed out that mankind, with all their modern technological advances, had not become any wiser or better than the first primitive humans that inhabited this world. With a little twist, this reflection could also be used for filmmaking. Considering the year it was filmed, Jean Cocteau’s Beauty and the Beast is a slap on the face for today’s filmmakers, who depend on moviemaking software and special effects to (poorly) make their no longer surprising scenes. By watching this film, any filmmaker would understand that a lack of resources enhances creativity and that all he needs is a little common sense and ability on the craft to make an enduring film. The release of Beauty and the Beast opened a new door and broadened the road for future filmmakers. Anything is possible.

Roberto Bolaño

2009-05-03T07:16:00.000-07:00

Most of you serious readers must feel overwhelmed of hearing so much about Roberto Bolano. It is impossible not to find him in the currents issues of magazines, newspapers and literary journals. Six years has passed since Bolano's death and his popularity has reached the level of a myth.In an exhilarating pace Bolano has gone from the status of a respected writer in the Hispanic circle to become, as most critics agree, "the greatest of Latin American writers".
Bolano always talked about the miserable curse of being a writer. He claimed that literature is a dangerous calling. From his bizarre perspective, literature meant the idiocy of risking everything you have, your reputation, your future, and your whole life for something vain and uncertain. "El oficio de la literatura es un oficio poblado de canallas, pero sobre todo de tontos", he said once. He later affirmed he did everything possible to avoid being a writer, reassuring that if he would not have pursued literature, he would have been a lucid, respectable man.
Taking a look at his latest interviews, one would detect in Bolano's opinions a tendency towards inventive, acidity and humor. It is obvious that Bolano said these boutades in a mocking spirit, the same as Borges did in his time.
However, Bolano's views on the tragedy of the literary calling seemed authentic. He must have endured many trials in order to become a writer. Let's take a quick glance to his life. Bolano was born in Chile, but spent most of his youth in Mexico City. Backed by comrade poet Mario Santiago, Bolano founded "The Infrarrealista Movement" which, as he said, did not even have a valid set of principles but that it was solely created with the purpose of "joder" the Mexican literary establishment. His followers attended numerous recitals of poetry in order to arise confrontations and duels. The Infrarrealistas were soon hated by most Mexican literary circles. With this resentful spirit, one of their detractors wrote: "Que Bolano se vaya a Santiago, y que Santiago tambien".
During his residence in Mexico, Bolano had an aimless life. He looked forward to nothing but to keep on writing. He was unemployed and soon turned himself into a hopeless vagabond, wandering the streets of Mexico, smoking and selling marijuana. Apparently he was also addicted to heroin but this information has only been treated as a rumor.
In his late twenties all his attempts to become a writer failed. He was lonely, penniless, his permit of residence expired, and he suffered a period of depression. He resided in his sister's house and he said that "it was the proper place for his suicide." Fortunately Bolano then began a short but productive correspondence with Chilean poet Enrique Lihn. Lihn read Bolano's poetry in Chile and even invented a fictitious literary prize that served to boost Bolano's morale. Bolano said: "at that terrible period of my life, Enrique was the only one who listened to me. Enrique basically saved my life".
Bolano emigrated to Europe, where he had a series of low paying jobs. He worked as a security guard, cook, salesman and garbage man. Roberto recognized these jobs kept him in poverty but he was able to meet extraordinary people, acquire life experience. He learned so much in those jobs that years later he told Javier Cercas:"Tener esos trabajos fue como hacer un doctorado."
The mexican writer Juan Villoro pointed out that Bolano, besides trying to convey his art into literature, unconsciously, as a young vagabond in Mexico, transformed his life into a true work of art. Living as a "true poet", on the verge of madness,danger and loneliness, Bolano built his greatest work of art as he was living it.
Bolano was foremost an avid reader of poetry. In relation to the tragedy of the literary path, Bolano also talked about the modus vivendi of the real poets (los verdaderos poetas, as he called them). Bolano considered that los verdaderos poetas were able to endure absolutely everything:poverty, abandonment, failure, criticism, hopelessness, humbly accepting his fate as an endowment from the Muses. He often mentioned Rimbaud, as the best prototype of the "adolescent poet".
In one of his letters, Rimbaud set his own personal principles for being a poet. Rimbaud's credo abides a close affinity with Bolano's.
Rimbaud wrote:
...Mais il s'agit de faire l'ame monstrueuse: a l'instar des comprachicos, quoi! Imaginez un homme s'implantant et se cultivant des verrues sur le visage.
Je dis que'il faut etre voyant, se faire voyant.
Le poete se fait voyant par un long immense et raisonne dereglement de tous les sens. Toutes les formes d'amour, de souffrance, de folie; il cherche lui-meme, il epuise en lui tous les poisons, pour n'en garder que les quintessences. Ineffable torture ou il a besoin de toute la foi, de toute la force surhumaine, ou il devient entre tous le grand malade, le grand criminel, le grand maudit,-et le supreme Savant!- Car il arrive a l'inconnu! Puisqu'il a cultive son ame, deja riche, plus qu'aucun! Il arrive a l'inconnu, et quand, affole, il finirait par prende l'intelligente de ses visions, il les a vues! Qu'il creve dans son bondissement par les choses innommables: viendront d'autres horribles travailleurs;ils commenceront par les horizons ou l'autre s'est affaisse!!

Literary Criticism?

2009-04-26T06:13:00.001-07:00

The other day Roberto came to see me.
Roberto is a young Colombian poet I met in my French class. When we first met Roberto was very thrilled because, as he claimed, I was the only "literature fan" he ever met so far. Poetry is his passion and he talks about it with ardent enthusiasm. Roberto frequently visits me to browse into my library and discuss about new authors. He constantly seeks my advice. The only advice I can give him is: just write.
This time Roberto came to me for help. The editorial board of his college was recruiting young writers. This new editorial team was assigned to prepare the upcoming college newspaper. Roberto was interested in applying for the job which consisted in writing reviews, columns, report pieces, etc. Roberto intended to write book reviews and he asked me to teach him how to. He was paralyzed when I informed him I didn't really know how to do a review. He's always regarded me as a literary tutor and I supposed he was disappointed.
The truth is that I never wrote a review. Years ago I was proposed to work for a literary magazine but I refused the offer:I'm not interested in criticism. Roberto looked gloomy now and I told him that, if he was a good reader, literary criticism was a piece of cake. It's simple common sense. You don't need to be an expert. All you need is a trained eye. That is,if you read any piece thoroughly you can quickly detect its flaws.The only piece of advice would be to express all the ideas in an orderly and coherent manner.
I told Roberto about something that happened to me. One day I was reading Paul Auster's "Oracle Night". As most of you know, Auster is a revered star in the firmament of American Letters. I won't attempt to belittle his work. He is an excellent writer. No doubt about that. But I honestly think he can be unbearably tedious sometimes. He revolves around the same idea, over and over and over and the reader feels he is reading the same paragraph throughout the whole book. And when you read him you feel exhausted of his pointless descriptions of things. Descriptions are good when useful. But I just didn't see a point in going through a two page description of a store, or a notebook. Literature is a futile thing. But futility has also its limits. I would assert that Auster is great at hiding his lack of ideas with a good prose. At times I sensed he was trying to write an intellectual narrative with one simple idea. Almost impossible.
In other words, I believe Auster is a good writer but he was not "all that great" as the critics considered him to be.Then I thought,"I must be wrong." If most of the professional critics agree that Auster is great then I must be wrong. But then I realized that criticism has nothing to do with that. Criticism is personal, is your own view, your own perception of an author. Most of Auster's fans might say my opinions are foolish. But it's just my opinion. A reader's opinion. Besides, you don't need to be an expert to have "the opinion." Sometimes the most interesting opinions come from the "non experts."
There's one literary critic who I look up to. He is not that popular and he doesn't publish too often. But he is very violent in his reviews. The kind of critic I always wanted to read: intelligent, polemic, bluntly honest, harsh and unforgiving. His name is Brian Reynolds Myers, author of A reader's Manifesto, a polemic essay focused on attacking "the growing pretentiousness of American literary prose."
I definitely don't agree with his polemic attitude. Sometimes he is too harsh in his reviews. But the minute I read his manifesto I was attracted to him, because we seemed to agree concerning Auster's novels..:

*It's always risky to identify a novelist's thoughts with his characters', but the prevalence of these free-associative parlor games in Auster's fiction suggests that he finds them either amusing or profound.

This is from Moon Palace (1989).
"One thought kept giving way to another, spiraling into ever larger masses of connectedness. The idea of voyaging into the unknown, for example, and the parallels between Columbus and the astronauts. The discovery of America as a failure to reach China; Chinese food and my empty stomach; thought, as in food for thought, and the head as a palace of dreams. I would think: the Apollo Project; Apollo, the god of music ... It went on and on like that, and the more I opened myself to these secret correspondences, the closer I felt to understanding some fundamental truth about the world. I was going mad, perhaps, but I nevertheless felt a tremendous power surging through me, a gnostic joy that penetrated deep into the heart of things. Then, very suddenly, as suddenly as I had gained this power, I lost it."

That talk of secret correspondences and gnostic joy appears aimed at making trusting readers think there must be some insight here that they are too dim to grasp. For the rest of us the narrator includes a disclaimer: "I was going mad, perhaps." Like DeLillo, Auster knows the prime rule of pseudo-intellectual writing: the harder it is to be pinned down on any idea, the easier it is to conceal that one has no ideas at all....What gives Auster away is his weakness for facetious displays of erudition."

B.R.Myers is definitely "different" from most American critics. I hope that Myers never changes his style. Because people always tend to be more forgiving with age and favorable circumstances. As one character in a Woody Allen movie said(concerning a film critic): He used to write cruel reviews of every movie he saw, he used to hate every movie!. But then he married a blond voluptuous woman who adores him, and now he loves every movie...

*Excerpt taken from "A reader's Manifesto" by B.R.Myers.

I despise myself

2009-04-21T13:04:00.000-07:00

Years,libraries, friends, and a endless parade of memories come before my eyes. I have spent most of my(now lost)youth reading books. When I lost my faith in the Higher Power,I sought refuge in literature. I thought books could provide the answers I was searching for. But this vain philosophy only destroyed me. My slight uncertainties increased in size and depth. Now I'm at the bottom of this pit, waiting for God or any sort of Divinity to rescue me.
When I was 19 I thought books could make me smarter. What a pitiful fool I was. Trying to be sharper, or more intellectual. Now, eleven years later I can assert that books are only useful as a hobby, a craft, a passion. But never, never to fulfill your emptiness. Do you need to purify your soul? Read the Bible, the Koran, the Bhagavad gita, etc, etc. Don't read philosophy. I discovered that the most relevant truths will never be found in books, but only in the inner soul. That true "spiritual experience", that connection between you and the Divinity, is the only relief. Anyway, I might be wrong. This is just my opinion.
This librarian has a terrible enemy: himself. I truly despise myself. My perception must be failing. I tend to regard intellectualism as something vain and (often)empty.
This is what Tolstoy and Joseph the Maistre had to say about intellectuals:

*"Both speak of intellectuals with scorn and hostility. Maistre regards them as being not merely grotesque casualties of the historical process, but as beings dangerous to society, a pestilential sect of questioners and corrupters of youth against whose corrosive activity all prudent rulers must take measures. Tolstoy treat them with contempt rather than hatred, and represent them as poor, misguided, feeble-witted creatures with delusion of grandeur...clever fools, spinner of empty subtleties, blind and deaf to the realities which simpler hearts can grasp..."

I am not an intellectual, but I'm definitely "blind and deaf to the realities which simpler hearts can grasp". This is why I despise myself.

*Paragraph taken from "The Hedgehog and the Fox" by Isaiah Berlin.

Is God within me?

2009-04-11T08:58:00.000-07:00

The priests in my Catholic School always told me: My son, God is with you.
I value the old days when I never questioned the existence of God. My childish ignorance was a bliss I now regret having lost. I believe anybody in late adulthood can assert that he who increased knowledge,increased also sorrow.
Some days I wish I could recover all that happy stupidity I enjoyed in my childhood. I never worried about all those calamitous doubts of existence. Nowadays I'm plagued with doubts. But I can say I still know one truth:If God is with everybody, He must also be with me.
The problem is that He must reside so deep into my soul, that I'm still unable to find Him. Maybe He is hiding because my sinful soul is so unworthy of Him. If He is hiding then I don't blame Him. I only blame myself. I would hide of my own self if that were possible.
During a long period I enjoyed the safe consolation of philosophy. But I just turned 30 years old and I must admit that philosophy is not enough. I recall Eugene O'Neill said once that we're sank in a ocean of darkness and God is the only safeguard we have. Maybe O'Neill was right.
This huge problem began during my youth, when I discovered an uncomfortable truth. I could not control my life. It was MY life but I couldn't control it. Deep inside I knew that God was the only one who controlled it. I had nothing to do with it.
This harsh reality was difficult for me to accept and I became a sort of agnostic. It was my way of protesting. But this rebellion only made things worse. I did terrible things just with the sole purpose of offendind Him. God is very severe with insurgent souls and, of course, He punished me. I would dare to say now that God did not punish me, that I only punished myself.
Back then I enjoyed reading the novelist Cees Nooteboom who, in his novel "Rituals",wrote these paragraphs that mocked the Divinity:
"He saw her only when she came forward to take communion, all the way from the back of the church. When she turned from the communion rail, he caught a brief glimpse of the host on her tongue...the dry, light substance fleeting clung to the soft, moist flesh of his tongue. Then he swallowed and God began to seek His way down his intestines where-this now seemed inevitable-He would be transformed into seed. And not into anything else."
I don't know what kind of literary taste God has. But I'm pretty sure He wouldn't want to read this stuff.
I consider all my sufferings as Good things sent from Him. Todas las desgracias son en realidad grandes golpes de suerte. His punishments have taught me to be humble. To accept that I'm nothing, nothing, nothing. With this in mind,I'm willing to obey Him with submission. The most important lesson He's taught me is that obedience is the mother of all virtues. That's the most basic lesson of the Bible but it took me thirty years to learn it.What a shame.
Now I can reread the writings of the old classics in his real dimension: with more understanding, more clarity, and a better attitude. God,if I ever offended you, please forgive me, soy un Canalla con Mayusculas. Gracias por mi vida, gracias por absolutamente todo.
And to conclude, I open a volume of Milarepa, who, out of his evil ways, later in life conceived an incredible wisdom. I read:

All worldly pursuits have but one unavoidable and inevitable end, which is sorrow: acquisitions end in dispersion; buildings, in destruction; meetings, in separation; births, in death. Knowing this, one should, from the very first, renounce acquisition and heaping-up, and building, and meeting; and, faithful to the commands of an eminent guru, set about realizing the truth.

Un poema de Constantino

2009-04-02T06:46:00.000-07:00

An Old Man

At the noisy end of the cafe, head bent
over the table, an old man sits alone,
a newspaper in front of him.

And in the miserable banality of old age
he thinks how little he enjoyed the years
when he had strength, eloquence, and looks.

He knows he's aged a lot: he sees it, feels it.
Yet it seems he was young just yesterday.
So brief an interval, so brief.

And he thinks of Prudence, how it fooled him,
how he always believed - what madness -
that cheat who said: "Tomorrow. You have plenty of time."

He remembers impulses bridled, the joy
he sacrificed. Every chance he lost
now mocks his senseless caution.

But so much thinking, so much remembering
makes the old man dizzy. He falls asleep,
his head resting on the cafe table.

Constantine P. Cavafy

Edna

2009-03-29T11:11:00.000-07:00

Willy Desiderio Cutipa Paricahua is undoubtedly the greatest person I ever met. Our friendship lasted such a short time, but I'll bet a week hasn't gone by since that I haven't thought of him.
He had a flamboyant personality: he was young, unemployed, passionate and he lived life to the fullest. He was gifted and possessed all the talents any man could desire, but he never cared about the future. He basically never cared much about anything, only the enjoyment of the present day.
It seemed to me that Willy had read everything. Philosophy, literature, History, Theology, etc,etc. He basically knew everything about everything.
I was only 21 when I met him and I worshipped him like a hero. He had great counsel for the confused youngster that I was. He was also wise, but he never used his wisdom for his own benefit. We could say that Willy was blinded by the light of his own genius. And I don't exaggerate when I say genius. He was a true genius, the only one I've met so far.
One day, while we were passing by Avenida Abancay, Willy recited:
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--
It gives a lovely light!
That day I rejoiced to listen to that poem. Willy later told me that verse was written by the American poet Edna Millay. He said Edna was brilliant and her personal life was a true statement of that. She was bisexual and never remained entirely faithful to anybody. Even when she married, Edna had many lovers on the side.
Willy love Edna. I learned to love Edna. Edna loved everybody. Edna loved poetry.

Ashes of life

Love has gone and left me, and the days are all alike.
Eat I must, and sleep I will - and would that night were here!
But ah, to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike!
Would that it were day again, with twilight near!

Love has gone and left me, and I don't know what to do;
This or that or what you will is all the same to me;
But all the things that I begin I leave before I'm through -
There's little use in anything as far as I can see.

Love has gone and left me, and the neighbors knock and borrow,
And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse.
And to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow
There's this little street and this little house.

Llévame ya

2009-03-20T13:47:00.000-07:00

I've always been afraid of Death. I don't know why. It's not that I don't wanna die, I just don't want to be there when it happens.
It's not that I hate Death. Ok, I will admit it: I hate Death. And I hate it because she has taken away from me the people I loved most. My grandma, for example. It seemed like it was yesterday when I was huggin' her, feeling her hands, and telling her how much I adored her. She was smiling, telling me that she loved me too. Now she is gone and all I have is her memory.
I remember the day when I found out she died. I was going through a rough time in my life. Hearing the bad news made me feel worse. I needed to write. And this is what I wrote in my notebook that day:
...Duele, duele, duele, pero asi es la vida. Nacimos en este mundo para gozar,pero también para sufrir. Sufre y acepta el sufrimiento con humildad. El sufrimiento es tan necesario como el agua que bebemos diariamente. Sólo a través del sufrimiento podemos purificar nuestra alma. Así que acéptalo...12- 23-06
My friend Noemí told me once: "Pedro, don't be afraid of Death, you have to learn to love both Life and Death, they are both your friends and you must embrace them whenever it's their time..."
I don't wish to have a grave when I die. I don't need my bones to putrefy in a cemetery. I just want to be incinerated as soon as it happens, so that they can place my ashes right where they belong: the gutter or the trash can.
Basically, I'm just suffering ahead of time. I'm well aware that, every second, Death is taking a step towards me. She will come to snatch me eventually. It's time to find comfort on my best friends: the old classics. Here is one idea from Seneca:

Plus dolet quam necesse est, qui ante dolet, quam necesse est.
Translation: Sufren innecesariamente, aquellos que sufren antes de tiempo.

And my dear Lucretius. Wherever you are, my noble poet, I will always be grateful for this:

Usque adeo, mortis formidine, vitae,
Percipit humanus odium, lucisque videndae
Ut sibi consciscant moerenti pectore lethum,
Obliti fontem curarum hunc esse timorem..
Lucretius, iii, 79.

Translation: El miedo a la muerte atormenta tanto a los hombres,
arruina sus vidas, y las hace detestarla,
ignorando que no es la muerte en sí la causante de sus tormentos,
sino el mismo miedo que aquella les produce...

Pedro El Ampuloso Part V

2009-03-12T08:49:00.000-07:00

I think it's time to go back to the section of Pedro El Ampuloso. And I need to remind you again of the meaning of Ampuloso.
Ampuloso: Hinchado y redundante:lenguaje ampuloso. Sinónimos: inflado, pomposo, grandilocuente, declamatorio, sonoro, ridículo.
I should emphasize that I don't suscribe the opinions in this letter,even though I wrote it. I wrote this letter years ago and I have changed my views in certain topics. I know that some of my opinions stink. Here you will find some pestiferous ones.
Once again, the following letter is full of stupid ideas. Back in 2003 I was very immature and I didn't know much about anything. Ignoraba hasta lo mas elemental. Sigo siendo un ignorante, por supuesto.
X, as I said before, was an important person in my world. I used to write to her very often. Now I have definitely lost her and I miss her very much. Here is one of those letters.

But we must not forget that only a very few people are artists in life, that the art of life is the most distinguished and rarest of all arts. Carl Jung

Querida X:
Esta mañana, antes de irme a trabajar, se me ocurrio visitar Mc Donalds para comprar un cafecito. Grande fue mi sorpresa al toparme con un par de señores de avanzada edad quienes conversaban a viva voz. Ambos eran peruanos. Los peruanos escasean mucho por el distrito donde vivo. Escuche que uno de ellos alababa la dictadura de Velasco. Decía: cuando el general Velasco gobernaba no habian partidos políticos, los peruanos respetabamos mucho su gobierno, pues no habian divisiones como ahora, etc...
Oir esas palabras me hicieron recordar cuando el año pasado me fui al concierto de Agua Marina. Recuerdo con alegría que aquella noche, tratando de evadir a una chica (quien en esa ocasion trato por todos los medios de besarme) me escapé un rato al baño. Ahí me tope con otro de nuestros compatriotas, que le decia a la demas gente que uno de los aciertos de Fujimori fue acabar con el terrorismo, que las masacres perpetradas tuvieron buenos frutos, etc,etc,.....Recuerdo que, con mis tragos encima, no soporte escuchar tantas insensateces y me puse a discutir con este señor. La discusion duro varios minutos. Al final yo salí perdiendo la discusión por supuesto. Alguna gente tiene una peculiar manera de cerrarse hermeticamente con sus ideas. Y yo me incluyo como el mejor ejemplo: soy el hombre mas terco que puede haber en la tierra.
He escuchado muchas veces a los demas latinoamericanos decir que a los peruanos nos gusta la mano dura. Cada vez que escucho esos comentarios, yo siempre he defendido al Peru, argumentando que esos son solo "lugares comunes" . Comentarios que estan totalmente disociados de la realidad. A pesar que hay todavia gente que apoya a Fujimori, y a pesar que Ollanta Humala tuvo ocasion de ganar las pasadas elecciones, estoy convencido que no somos tan ingenuos como aquellos que apoyan a Castro, Chavez, Evo Morales, y al nuevo aprendiz de dictador, el ecuatoriano Correa. No señor, en el Peru estamos avanzando. A paso lento pero seguro.Yo toda mi vida he criticado al Peru con ferocidad. Pero ahora no dejo que otra gente lo critique.
Recuerdo una frase del filosofo Isaiah Berlin, quien afirmaba que un ciudadano del primer mundo no sabe apreciar las grandes ventajas que posee, y que tampoco entiende por que los habitantes del tercer mundo hacen lo posible por emigrar a los paises desarrollados. Es verdad que la gente pobre del mundo haria hasta lo imposible por poseer las comodidades de un americano de clase media. Pero tambien es cierto que aquellas personas pobres poseen cosas que un americano de clase media anhelaria tener. Me explico. Y para ser mas claro voy a generalizar las cosas. Se que las generalizaciones son absurdas pero lo haré de todas formas. Los filosofos liberales siempre se encargaron de resaltar las ventajas de la sociedad capitalista. En la sociedad liberal hay trabajo, oportunidades para estudiar, progresar, desarrollarse como individuo. En la sociedad liberal no hay machismo, no existen los prejuicios, y existe libertad de opinion. Pero la sociedad liberal, al centrarse en alcanzar las ventajas economicas e individuales, pierde inevitablemente otras ventajas tambien vitales. Una de las reglas de la naturaleza, es que si nos esforzamos por adquirir un beneficio, perdemos automaticamente otro beneficio que es casi tan fundamental como el primero. No hay victoria que no traiga consigo una derrota camuflada. ¿Y cuales son las derrotas de la sociedad capitalista? Las mas notables son: la gente es demasiado individualista y por eso ciertas instituciones comunitarias pierden vigor, la vida tiende a ser demasiado pacífica y monótona, y existe mucha soledad.
Lo ideal sería que la civilización girara en torno a los valores humanos y la moral. Que la compasión y humanidad sean la energía central, o sea, el gran motor de la civilización. Pero esta sociedad solo tiene una energia poderosa, y todas las cosas giran en torno a ella: el dinero y el interés personal. En la sociedad capitalista se practica el culto a la economía y al dinero, y esto a la vez tiende a debilitar los valores humanos. El dinero tiende a deshumanizar a la gente, en incentivarlos a hacer lo imposible por conseguir dinero, y por ende va perdiendo el respeto a ciertos valores humanos. Todos los criticos del capitalismo siempre han criticado este gran defecto, y han puesto el dedo en la llaga. Y por ello ningun filosofo liberal se ha atrevido a defenderla. Es una verdad que no admite refutación. Pero los pensadores liberales sabian que esto sucederia tarde o temprano, que la sociedad capitalista tambien poseia sus propias fuentes de desdicha. Debido a eso los pensadores liberales han enfatizado hasta la impertinencia que los ciudadanos liberales debian poner enfasis a la vida espiritual, en promover cualquier tipo de religión o secta, en construir templos y parroquias por doquier, para asi poder contrarrestar las fuerzas deshumanizadoras que el capitalismo ejerce sobre el individuo. Logicamente existen ciertas excepciones, estamos hablando en terminos generales.
Recuerdo que Goethe dijo una vez que no hay nada mas insoportable que una sucesion de dias felices. Que cuando en la vida no existen los riesgos, las incertidumbres, los peligros, las miserias, la vida se puede convertir en algo monótono. En su opinión aquellas caidas y sufrimientos le brindaban "el sabor" a la vida. Partiendo de esta idea, he leido muchas veces que cuando una sociedad alcanza la modernidad, acogen ademas a un enemigo de la felicidad humana: la monotonía. Frecuentemente mencionan a Suiza como el mayor ejemplo. Suiza, la democracia mas moderna del mundo. Pues en este pais, la vida es tan ordenada, tan apacible, tan civilizada y culta, tan libre de problemas sociales, que el aburrimiento es el pan de cada dia. Este ha sido un argumento que no me ha convencido del todo. Pienso que no importa cuan apacible sea una ciudad, uno puede ir en busca de aventuras. ¿Pero aventuras de que tipo? El pasatiempo por excelencia de los suizos es encerrarse en sus casas y pasarse la vida leyendo. Quizás los suizos tratan de contrarrestar la monotonía a traves de las lecturas, de la historia, de la literatura, pues ellas les brindan las aventuras, las pasiones, que son una necesidad primordial del ser humano. Todas estas reflexiones me recuerdan a Tolstoy, cuando dijo que todas las personas, sean estas ricas, pobres, inteligentes, mediocres, ignorantes, etc, etc....tenemos nuestra propia fuente de insatisfaccion. Todos tenemos nuestra propia manera de ser infelices.
Es interesante reflexionar esto. Reconocer que las sociedades poderosas son incapaces de ofrecer todas las vías de felicidad que una persona necesita. Pero no seria justo culpar enteramente a las sociedades. Nuestra propia naturaleza forma gran parte del problema. Nada nos llena, nada nos conforma, nada nos satisface. Cuando logramos una meta, siempre estamos apuntando mas alto. Quizas esto sea bueno por un lado, por que eso le brinda un próposito a nuestras vidas. Pero por el otro lado es malo, por que a veces deseamos cosas que son dificiles de lograr. Y no hay peor desgracia que estar en constante busqueda de lo inalcanzable, pues eso nos impide valorar la infinidad de cosas buenas que tenemos alrededor. Las personas siempre aspiramos a cosas que van mas alla de nuestra capacidad. Y para comprobarlo, le preguntaria a cualquier anciano:¿Cuantos de tus deseos mas intimos lograste hacer realidad en tu vida? La mayoria responderia que los deseos sobrepasaron en cantidad a los logros. Bien lo dijo el doctor Johnson: "La vida no es una sucesion de logros y metas alcanzadas. La vida es solo una sucesion de deseos, planes y mas deseos" Las personas somos vulnerables ante la insatisfacción, y es ahi donde entra en juego el arte de vivir.
El psicologo Carl Jung tenia razon cuando escribio que el arte de vivir es uno de los artes mas valiosos pero a la vez mas raros que existen. El arte de vivir es universal y funciona para todo mundo, desde las naciones victimas de la tirania, hasta los paises mas modernos. Muchos piensan que el arte de vivir consiste en un conjunto de sabias enseñanzas, cuando en realidad consiste en las cosas mas simples. La anecdota mas aleccionadora del arte de vivir lo encontre en un libro de cuentos. Era la historia de un rey tirano llamado Sefi, quien tenia la mania de asesinar a sus subditos reales. Es decir, ser asignado como subdito del rey Sefi era como recibir una sentencia de muerte. Luego de matar a su ultimo consejero, el rey Sefi asignó a un nuevo subdito, un hombre llamado Ibrahim, quien era muy sabio y generoso. Cuentan que cada noche, cuando Ibrahim abandonaba el palacio real, este se alegraba inmensamente de todavia seguir con vida. Pues aunque Ibrahim tenia la certeza que lo matarían muy pronto, tambien era cierto que era humano, y que podria morir en cualquier momento por un imprevisto, como un accidente, la mordedura de una serpiente, un derrame cerebral, o por un rayo caido del cielo, etc. Y por eso no habia sentido en enfocarse en las calamidades inevitables de la vida, sino que su deber era disfrutarla al maximo mientras esta dure. Aunque quizas moriría mañana, Ibrahim se sentia un hombre dichoso, por que Dios le daba la gracia de volver a caminar por el desierto, de respirar el aire fresco de la noche, y de cenar una vez mas al lado de su esposa.
Muchas personas centran su felicidad en un objetivo a largo plazo. Piensan que para ser feliz uno debe conseguir sus objetivos pase lo que pase. No hay falacia mas nociva que esta. Prueba de ello es que cuando finalmente logramos la tan anhelada meta, nos percatamos que no era tan maravilloso como lo imaginamos, que aquel objetivo no nos brinda la felicidad que deseabamos. Y por eso enfocamos en metas mas lejanas. Nuestro error esta en pensar que la felicidad reside en una meta, cuando la felicidad esta en el dia a dia, en las cosas simples de la vida, en la misma travesía por concretar nuestros sueños. Solo somos felices cuando soñamos con la futura felicidad. La cacería es mas dulce que lo cazado.
El arte de vivir se basa en disfrutar de las cosas mas insignificantes, como caminar por un parque, conversar con un amigo, comerse una galleta, o en darle un beso a tu madre. En contentarse con un simple vaso de agua cuando no se puede conseguir un whiskey ....jejejeje ¡¡Al final, esas cosas tan pequeñas valen tanto!! Son como pequeñas gotitas que en el dia a dia van llenando la fuente de la felicidad. Para vivir bien uno no debe enfocarse mucho en los problemas diarios. Por que cuando uno les pone mucha atencion, estos problemas toman grandes proporciones, tienden a agigantarse, cuando en realidad esos problemas no significan nada.
Esta cientificamente comprobado que cuando uno se deprime, las defensas del cuerpo se reducen y las posibilidades que te enfermes aumentan. La salud mental es muy importante para poder vivir. Somos lo que pensamos. Dime como son tus thought patterns, y yo te dire que tan feliz eres, y que tan lejos puedes llegar. Nuestra vida esta llena de ajetreos y nos olvidamos cuan importante es nuestro estado mental. No tomamos en cuenta que cada uno de nuestros pensamientos mas insignificantes tendrán un efecto en nuestro organismo, en nuestra salud. Se feliz X, no te dejes vencer por la melancolía, mata a todas tus penas con las dos armas mas poderosas que tenemos: la inteligencia y el sentido comun. Y por favor, ríete, ríete mucho, ríete a carcajadas de la vida, por que no importa cuan justos y generosos seamos, la vida siempre se encargará de hacernos llorar eventualmente. Te quiero mucho, X.

Pedro.

Washington, July 12 2003.

La Lezione di Niccolo

2009-03-11T18:33:00.000-07:00

In my last year of high school, I took a class called "Geopolítica." I dont quite recall the name of my teacher. I only remember that he was a tall, dark-skinned man, with a grey moustache. He was an ardent "Fujimorista" and he often interrupted his lectures to talk about "El chino". It was 1995 and Fujimori was at the height of his popularity.
I mention this teacher because he was the first one that talked to me about Machiavelli. My teacher said Machiavelli wrote that "el fin justifica los medios" and quickly he made an allusion to his hero Fujimori. He tried to justify all the cruelties Fujimori perpetrated to achieve success at the end.
(I don't think Fujimori ever read Machiavelli. Some personal accounts I have read portray Fujimori as a man totally ignorant of Politics and History. His deeds verify that those accounts were true.)
What really annoys me is that Machiavelli has often been linked with tyranny and cruelty. His book "Il principe" has been referred as a manual for tyrants. And also the adjective "Maquiavélico" relates to evil, cruelty, morally wrong, etc. It irritates me because I have always believed Machiavelli was a great man. I dont think God could grant such wisdom to a cruel person. Machiavelli was good and wise.
A book I recommend is the biography "The Life of Niccolo Machiavelli, by Roberto Ridolfi". It contains some letters with deep insight about Machiavelli the man, his worries, his suffering...
The writings of a man reflect the true nature of his soul. I always believed that. And I learned that years ago, when I started reading the preface of Il principe: "E se Vostra Magnificenzia dallo apice della sua altezza qualche volta volgera, gli occhi in questi luoghi bassi, conoscera quanto io indegnamente sopporti una grande e continua malignita di fortuna"

Here I copy a fragment of Il Principe:

E'non mi e incognito come molti hanno avuto e hanno opinione che le cose del mondo sieno in modo governate dalla fortuna e da Dio, che gli uomini con la prudenzia loro non possino correggerle, anzi non vi abbino remedio alcuno; e per questo potrebbono iudicare che non fussi da insudare molto nelle cose, ma lasciarsi governare alla sorte. Questa opinione e suta piu creduta ne' nostri tempi, per la variazione grande delle cose che si sono viste e veggonsi ogni di, fuora di ogni umana coniettura. A che pensando, io, qualche volta, mi sono in qualche parte inclinato nella opinione loro. Nondimanco, perche il nostro libero arbitrio non sia spento, iudico potere essere vero che la fortuna sia arbitra della meta delle azioni nostre, ma che etiam lei ne lasci governare l'altra meta, o presso, a noi. E assomiglio quella a uno di questi fiumi rovinosi, che, quando s'adirano, allagano e'piani, ruinano gli alberi egli edifizii, lievono da questa parte terreno, pongono da quell'altra; ciascuno fugge loro dinanzi, ognuno cede allo impeto loro, sanza potervi in alcuna parte obstare. E benche sieno cosi fatti, non resta pero che gli uomini, quando sono tempi quieti, non vi potessino fare provvedimenti, e con ripari e argini, in modo che, crescendo poi, o egli andrebbano per uno canale, o l'impeto loro non sarebbe ne si licenzioso ne si dannoso.Similmente interviene della fortuna; la quale dimostra la sua potenzia dove non e ordinata virtu a resisterle; e quivi volta li sua impeti dove la sa che non sono fatti gli argini e li ripari a tenerla.

Translation *: Es común recalcar cuanta gente opina que los sucesos del mundo estan sabiamente regidos por la Fortuna y por Dios, y que la sabiduría de los hombres es inútil, y por ello nos hacen creer que no es necesario governar con diligencia, sino dejar que la Fortuna se encargue de ello. Esta opinión es vigente en esta época de cambios trascendentales, que se pueden ver, cada día, y que van mas allá de toda conjetura humana. A veces, meditando sobre esto, tiendo a pensar que esta opinión es cierta. Sin embargo, para no menospreciar nuestra capacidad, yo creo que la Fortuna rige la mitad de nuestras acciones, y que nos permite controlar la otra mitad, o tal vez un poco menos.
Y yo la comparo con esos ríos caudalosos, que en las inundaciones acaparan los campos, arrasando con árboles y otras edificaciones, llevándose consigo la tierra y que, inmunes a su poderío, todo se rinda ante su violencia; pero, aunque la naturaleza sea así, los hombres deberían, en las épocas de clima apacible, prepararse con defensas y barricadas de manera que, cuando el peligro regrese, el caudal pueda ser canalizado y su fuerza doblegada. Pues así sucede con la Fortuna, la fortuna es muy cruel con aquellos que carecen de la voluntad de resistirla, y por ello prefiere atacar a los ingenuos que no se prepararon para enfrentarla.

* This translation was made in a hurry. My bad. Es una traducción al puro champazo, a la diabla, y de seguro hay errores.

Consuélame

2009-03-04T14:01:00.000-08:00

For the past weeks I have been immersed in a personal project. This serious task is exhausting and I literally don't have time to do anything else. I thought about closing this blog but some friends told me not to. So I made a decision. In the coming weeks I'm just gonna copy paragraphs of my favorite books. It's gonna be a way to recall the authors and the ideas that keep me going. I love books, especially the classics. One day I told a good friend of mine that I worship the old classics. My dear friend replied: ¡ah ya, o sea que te gustan los escritores de colegio!.
Exactly. Adoro los escritores de colegio. And that's why I'm gonna start with the roman Lucius Seneca. Here is an extract from his De Tranquillitate Animi: "Nullo melius nomine de nobis natura meruit, quae cum sciret quibus aerumnis nasceremur, calamitatum mollimentum consuetudinem invenit, cito in familiaritatem gravissima adducens. Nihil tam acerbum est, in quo non aequus animus solacium inveniat".
Translation: "On no score has Nature more deserved our thanks, who, since she knew to what sorrows we were born, invented habit as an alleviation for disasters, and thus quickly accustoms us to the most serious ills. No state is so bitter that a calm mind cannot find in it some consolation".

César Bedón y Un sol que en invierno

2009-02-24T14:33:00.000-08:00

La primera vez que escuché acerca de César Bedón fue en el 2004. Una tarde leía la revista Caretas y allí encontré un cuento escrito por César, titulado "Cosas Adentro". Dicho cuento había obtenido el tercer puesto en el certamen "El cuento de las dos mil palabras". Tiempo después me enteré que el buen César había ganado una beca de la Unesco, con la cual tuvo el privilegio de visitar la India. Después, por desgracia, no volví a saber mas de él.
La semana pasada me enteré, a través del blog de Katya Adaui, que César acababa de publicar su primer libro. "Un sol que en invierno", su ópera prima, es un híbrido de diario, poesía y crónica personal.
César nos dice: "Un sol que en invierno" es el recuento arbitrario, desordenado, de mis días durante 2003 e inicios de 2004. Si se quiere, es una crónica muy libre acerca de las cosas que pasaban por la cabeza de un chico de veintitantos años que se encerraba en su cuarto, cuyas ventanas estaban pintadas de negro, para escribir y enviar e-mails. Hay aquí amor y oscuridad, ternura y también alguna risa.
El libro tiene una estructura anárquica y retrata fielmente las angustias, esperanzas y sueños del autor. César incluso se tomó la libertad de incluir fragmentos de mensajes escritos por sus amigos: un homenaje a las personas en quienes encontró su propio reflejo espiritual.
"Mi ambición es que este libro cumpla, a su manera desacompasada, con aquella única función importante de la literatura tal y como la siento hoy: acompañar. Y si alguien llega a sentirse acompañado por este libro, me gustaría tomar una cerveza con ese alguien. Aquí hay textos garabateados, intentos de poemas, anotaciones que hice para recordar algo que consideré importante en su momento. Mensajes enviados por mis amigos: incluirlos aquí es, supongo, una manera torcida de declararles mi amor. La poesía está en otra parte", agrega César.
El libro ha sido editado por "Borrador Editores" y está a la venta en las siguientes librerías:Ibero de Larco, Ibero de Diagonal, Crisol del Jockey, Crisol del Óvalo Gutierrez, Virrey de Dasso, Contracultura, Librosperuanos.com
Y ahora viene el detalle. Sospecho que César es el primer autor que publica y regala su libro a todos sus lectores. En efecto, el libro de César puede ser leído o descargado a través del siguiente link: http://www.myspace.com/unsolqueeninvierno
Dos días atrás visité dicha página para darle un vistazo rápido al libro. Debo confesar que me hechizó desde el inicio y lo leí en estado de trance. Hoy día lo volví a leer. Me considero un lector exigente y siento la obligación de recomendar este bellísimo libro. De paso, agradecer a César por la hidalguía de obsequiarlo y darnos la oportunidad de explorar su mundo.

Good Advice

2009-02-16T06:35:00.001-08:00

I woke up at six this morning. I felt the inspiration to write. I can only write when I feel like it. So I decide to spend my morning writing. I prepare my mind to do it. I organize my thoughts and memories.
I go to the kitchen and make some coffee. I fried some eggs. I get my breakfast ready on the table. I take out my notebook and a pen. Everything is set up so I can write.
While I drink my coffee, I get online for a few minutes. I find an interview made to a great Argentine writer: Cesar Aira. I read:

De cada diez libros que se piensan uno se escribe.
De cada diez libros que se escriben uno se publica.
De cada diez libros que se publican uno se vende.
De cada diez libros que se venden uno se lee.
De cada diez libros que se leen uno se recuerda.
De cada diez libros que se recuerdan todos se olvidan,
por obra de la memoria y de la muerte.
Por lo tanto, sigan escribiendo con tezón, queridos colegas.

Edward Gibbon and his illustrious apologist

2009-02-07T14:38:00.000-08:00

I first heard about Edward Gibbon five years ago. Back then I was obsessed with literature and History. My curiosity aimed at various directions and I discovered a terrible truth. There were many interesting fields to explore and our life was too short to cover all of them.
Edward Gibbon was born in 1737. He was feeble and spent most of his childhood days on bed. Unable to play with other children, he spent his time reading. He studied many languages and read poetry, history and literature in a voracious manner.
In his youth Gibbon wrote his first book Essais sur l'Étude de la Littérature, which was written in french. The fame that this book brought him enabled him to access many intellectual and political circles.
He resided in London and participated in the legendary Johnson’s literary club. During this time he was searching for a topic for his next book. He visited Rome. In that city he conceived the idea to write about “The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire”. He assumed the task seriously and performed an extensive research, focused in the revision of original sources. After seven years of strenuous labor he completed the first volume. The release of this book made him widely known across Europe. In the coming years he published the remaining five volumes.
“The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire” is now considered a monumental work of History. Five years ago I attempted to read this “mastodonte” of over a thousand pages. It was an exhausting undertaking.
At first I had to make use of a dictionary to decipher its intricate language. Surprisingly, two weeks later I laid the dictionary aside and read it all the way through. If I tried to describe the many lessons of history, philosophy, politics and economy this book contains, I’m sure this post would never end. This is the sort of book that one can read over and over and learn something new every time. It is truly a classic.
This book was written in an ironic tone and it directs some harsh criticism towards Roman Catholicism and Christianism. And, of course, these attacks were gratuitous. Gibbon regarded Voltaire as one of his personal heroes. The historian devoured Voltaire’s works and was heavily influenced by the satiricism and atheism of the latter.
I came to the knowledge of Gibbon by reading Jorge Luis Borges. Borges’ narrative includes references to Edward Gibbon, specifically in “La historia del Guerrero y la Cautiva.”
Jorge Luis Borges often referred to Gibbon in his interviews. Borges declared that he owned an English Edition of “The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire” in his personal library and that he frequently picked up any volume and read a few chapters. “I always found an interesting topic for my own meditation”, he said.
Some modern historians had discovered inaccuracies and blunt mistakes in Gibbon’s account of the decline of Rome. Borges defended his beloved historian saying: No me interesa si las cosas que Gibbon escribió fueron falsas. Yo siempre las consideraré grandes verdades.

Pedro Moreno-Vasquez.

Andre Gidé and the Friendship

2009-02-02T15:12:00.000-08:00

Two weeks ago, Noemí and I had an interesting discussion about friendship. We both agreed that friendship plays a meaningful role in our lives. No matter how far away our friends are, we always try to keep in touch with them. Let them know how valuable they are for us.
Time and circumstances have an effect in judging the true value of a friend. In my case I had friends that, over the course of time, turned out to be essential. I deeply regret that, back when I had them, I didn't appreciate them enough. I did not give them what they truly deserved. But at least the few times I encountered them I reminded them how extraordinary they are. That's my only consolation.
I realize that, whether we want it or not, we keep our friendships in constant motion. Over the years Life gives us friends, but also takes some of them away.
Noemí said she loved her friends in a such a way that she was incapable to prefer one. They are all important to her. She could not choose one. We concluded that, concerning relationships, choosing is the worst injustice of our kind. However, we are doomed to choose eventually.
These thoughts came to me this morning, while I was reading Andre Gide's L'Immoraliste. I transcribe a passage that caught my attention:

J'aimais quelques amis (vous en futes), mais plutot l'amitié qu'eux-memes; mon dévouement pour eux était grand, mais c'était besoin de noblesse; je chérissais en moi chaque beau sentiment. Au demeaurant, j'ignorais mes amis, comme je m'ignorais moi-meme.

mais plutot l'amitié qu'eux-memes? This idea really shocked me. I wonder if the quality and comfort of friendship is far more relevant than whom our friends are. That's a question I'm unable to answer. All I say is that I value my friends for who they are rather than what they give to me. But then I ask myself. Don't I regard them essential because of the things they provide to me?
Michael de Montaigne argued that friendship has nothing to do with giving or taking, but with the "spiritual connection" that exists between two souls. Montaigne claimed that the only force responsible for that connection is destiny, meaning God. I guess I have to be satisfied with that answer.

Eric Rohmer and Le signe du Lion

2009-01-27T15:36:00.000-08:00

Mea Culpa. I must confess I don't know much about filmmaker Eric Rohmer. I knew something about the nouvelle vague and Truffaut, Godard, and Chabrol. The reason I never heard about Rohmer is because he is not popular. Nobody knows much about his personal life. He has lived a sort of hermit's life concerning public recognition. He is an artist who is not interested in publicity. Last night I saw a film of his, titled :"Le signe du Lion."(1959) I admit I'm impressed.
Rohmer was the editor of the film magazine Cahiers du Cinema for quite some time. He was a fan of Hitchcock, Rosellini and Murnau, filmmakers whose greatness was not quite acknowledged back then.
Rohmer was a late bloomer. When his colleagues were getting recognition, he was still an unknown. At first he focused on literature and wrote a novel. Years later he turned to filmmaking. He started making shorts. Many of them are pretty interesting. All of his characters are educated people. They discuss, in long dialogues, about philosophy, literature, moral, values, etc.
Apparently, Rohmer struggled to produce "Le signe du Lion", his first feature film. Le signe du Lion is the story of an American named Pierre, a poor music student living in Paris. He receives a telegram with the news that he has received an inheritance from his late relative. After he celebrated with his friends, he learns that in fact he did not inherit any money. This is where the movie turns interesting. We watch the slow decay of Pierre. From being a poor student, he soon becomes a bum. This is the part of the movie that impressed me. We see poor Pierre wandering the streets, trying to survive, stealing and picking food from garbage cans. I believe this film is greatly indebted to Vittorio de Sica's "Umberto D." Especially in their portrayal of hopelesness, misery and the constant presence of death. In certain scenes one perceives the invisible thin line that divides faith and madness, well being and tragedy.
The movie was a commercial failure. Most critics did not pay any attention to it. This film is actually hard to watch. But in my opinion this was an extraordinary debut for this Giant Director.
I always liked to watch dramas because they represent life as it is. I have a masochistic side. That's why I'm a hermit.
Rohmer's most representative work is a collection of films called: Contes moraux(Six Moral Tales):
1963 #1 La Boulangère de Monceau (The Bakery Girl of Monceau) — short, not released theatrically
1963 #2 La Carrière de Suzanne (Suzanne's Career) — short, not released theatrically
1967 #4 La Collectionneuse (The Collector)
1969 #3 Ma nuit chez Maud (My Night at Maud's) It was released after the fourth tale.
1970 #5 Le Genou de Claire (Claire's Knee)
1972 #6 L'Amour l'après-midi (Love in the Afternoon/Chloe in the Afternoon)

Here, you can watch a clip of one of Rohmer's films. This one is from "L'amour l'apres-midi"