dilluns, de gener 28, 2008
No recordo si ho va dir un o ho va dir l'altre, per això deixeu-me dir que ho va dir Mae West (o Keira Knightley), que referint-se especialment a la novel·la i responent a una pregunta sobre la realitat i la ficció, va respondre que la literatura no s'ocupa de la realitat, s'ocupa del sentit.
Posted by Aldo Costa a 21:31
dissabte, de gener 26, 2008
Havia de fer altres coses, però això em sembla més important. Hauria volgut aprofitar aquests pocs dies de visita a Barcelona per d'altres coses. La meva germana em maleirà per no haver anat a dinar amb ella. Però hi estic decidit. Un amic és un amic. Tinc un company que necessita ajuda. Ahir al sopar la demanava a crits, encara que no ho confessés. Ha de deixar la seva obsessió pels blocs, abans d'acabar malament. Doncs, ja està, agafo la moto i me'n vaig a Granollers. Espero no perdrem, perquè fa temps que... Que surto per la Ronda de Dalt, Nus de la Trinitat? En tot cas, un cop allà, segur que pels voltants de la trobada de blogaires hi ha algú repartint propaganda de productes i serveis relacionats. Mousepads, software, gadgets, formacions polítiques, etc. Segur que n'hi haurà algun amb prospectes d'una clínica de rehabilitació, no?
divendres, de gener 25, 2008
"Finally he said, 'Cee, it was a mistake.'
Voices reached him across the hallway through the open door of the drawing room. He heard Leon's voice, then Marshall's. It may have been fear of interruption that caused her to step back and open the door wider for him. He followed her across the hall into the library which was in darkness, and waited by the door while she searched for the switch of a desk lamp. When it came on he pushed the door closed behind him. He guessed that in a few minutes he would be walking across the park towards the bungalow.
'It wasn't the version I intended to send.'
'I put the wrong one in the envelope.'
He could gauge nothing by these terse replies and he was still unable to see her expression clearly. She moved beyond the light, down past the shelves. He stepped further into the room, not quite following her, but unwilling to let her out of close range. She could have sent him packing from the front door and now there was a chance of giving an explanation before he left.
She said, 'Briony read it.'
'Oh God. I'm sorry.'
He had been about to conjure for her a private moment of exuberance, a passing impatience with convention, a memory of reading the Orioli edition of Lady Chatterley's Lover, which he had bought under the counter in Soho. But this new element ─the innocent child─ put his lapse beyond mitigation. It would have been frivolous to go on. He could only repeat himself, this time in a whisper.
'I’m sorry ... '
She was moving further away, towards the corner, into deeper shadow. Even though he thought she was recoiling from him, he took another couple of steps in her direction.
'It was a stupid thing. You were never meant to read it. No one was.'
Still she shrank away. One elbow was resting on the shelves, and she seemed to slide along them, as though about to disappear between the books. He heard a soft, wet sound, the kind that is made when one is about to speak and the tongue unglues from the roof of the mouth. But she said nothing. It was only then that it occurred to him that she might not be shrinking from him, but drawing him with her deeper into the gloom. From the moment he had pressed the bell he had nothing to lose. So he walked towards her slowly as she slipped back, until she was in the comer where she stopped and watched him approach. He too stopped, less than four feet away. He was close enough now, and there was just enough light, to see she was tearful and trying to speak. For the moment it was not possible and she shook her head to indicate that he should wait. She turned aside and made a steeple of her hands to enclose her nose and mouth and pressed her fingers into the corners of her eyes."
Ian McEwan, Atonement, London, Vintage, 2002, pp.132-33 .
dijous, de gener 24, 2008
Ahir vaig completar una il·luminació en dos temps, gràcies a l'alquímia del somriure i del camel del poeta de Juneda. Vaig veure clar que si el poeta de Las Vegas hagués mai d'escriure o dir un pròleg per a l'obra in progress del jove senienc, diria una cosa així com "Jo he llegit i adorat John Donne, sí. Però encara hi ha un poeta més gran que el John Donne, i aquest és el
Joan ToDo". I el prescriptor entrant dins el somni per la porta del darrera hauria dit, que sí, que el senienc és precursor de Donne, com Quevedo ho és de Kafka". Una nit a l'òpera, al carrer Ferlandina.
dissabte, de gener 12, 2008
dijous, de gener 10, 2008
Havent oblidat puntualment, però fatal, la precaució,
fa massa que vaig amb genolleres i casc integral.
El segon terç del segon període, però,
s'ha llevat amb peu segur, la neu qualla i no gela.
El vector, si no m'erro, apunta enlaire, decidit;
no amaga desig de sabotatge, ni és miratge malèvol
de precampanya. Sembla que a poc a poc, la passa
guanya fermesa, els monzons no s'enduen ja el castor
i el ranger sap llegir els mapes, sap on té les claus.
En Bruno i en Tilmann somriuen i diuen que sí, que sí.
dilluns, de gener 07, 2008
He snatched the book from me and replaced it hastily on its shelf muttering that if one brick was removed the whole library was able to collapse. 'Who brought you?' he demanded.
'Or did you just come? I was brought. Most people were brought.' Jordan looked at him alertly, cheerfully, without answering.
'I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt,' he continued. 'Mrs Claud Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her somewhere last night. I've been drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit in a library.'
'A little bit, I think. I can't tell yet. I've only been here an hour. Did I tell you about the books? They're real. They're -'
'You told us.'
We shook hands with him gravely and went back outdoors.
There was dancing now on the canvas in the garden (…)
[F.Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby, Penguin, p.52, chapter III]