I know
“It’ll show you how I’ve gotten to feel about—things. Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.”
“You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow,” she went on in a convinced way. “Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people. And I know. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.” Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom’s, and she laughed with thrilling scorn. “Sophisticated—God, I’m sophisticated!”
The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged.
from The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Ni podrá remontarla
Entonces encontraron un cuerpo flotando en el lago, boca arriba, con el ojo derecho, el único que le quedaba, abierto y sin signos de aparente agresión humana. El volumen corporal, debido al agua ingerida, a los agentes químicos en suspensión que abarrotaban el lago y a la diferente fauna y flora que había tomado forma en los intestinos y otros conductos internos del fallecido, se había multiplicado casi por 2. Cuerpo-esponja. Saco de infusión. Cuando estamos vivos absorbemos pasado y aire ; cuando morimos, química y organismos, procreación, tiempo futuro, aunque ese futuro ya de nada valga. Y no hay más. Desde la azotea se ven las partes traseras de los coches que bajan la avenida de única dirección que enfila al astillero en el borde del mar. Ninguno puede ni podrá remontarla.
de Nocilla Experience, por Agustín Fernández Mallo
Books and readers
It’s not that you expect anything in particular from this particular book. You’re the sort of person who, on principle, no longer expects anything of anything. There are plenty, younger than you or less young, who live in the expectation of extraordinary experiences: from books, from people, from journeys, from events, from what tomorrow has in store. But not you. You know that the best you can expect is to avoid the worst. This is the conclusion you have reached, in your personal life and also in general matters, even international affairs. What about books? Well, precisely because you have denied it in every other field, you believe you may still grant yourself legitimatley this youthful pleasure of expectation in a carefully circumscribed area like the field of books, where you can be lucky or unlucky, but the risk of disappointment isn’t serious.
So, then, you notice in a newspaper that If on a winter’s night a traveler has appeared, the new book by Italo Calvino, who hadn’t published for several years. You went to the bookshop and bought the volume. Good for you.
From If on a winter’s night a traveller, by Italo Calvino
A bridge grown into his body
It has been many years since Blue crossed the Brooklyn Bridge on foot. The last time was with his father when he was a boy, and the memory of that day comes back to him now. He can see himself holding his father’s hand and walking at his side, and as he hears the traffic moving along the steel bridge-road below, he can remember telling his father that the noise sounded like the buzzing of an enormous swarm of bees. To his left is the Statue of Liberty; to his right is Manhattan, the buildings so tall in the morning sun they seem to be figments. His father was a great one for facts, and he told Blue the stories of all the monuments and skyscrapers, vast litanies of detail -the architects, the dates, the political intrigues- and how at onetime the Brooklyn Bridge was the tallest structure in America.The old man was born the same year the bridge was finished, and there was always that link in Blue’s mind, as though the bridge were somehow a monument to his father. He liked the story he was told that day as he and Blue Senior walked home over the same wooden planks he was walking on now, and for some reason he never forgot it. How John Roebling, the designer of the bridge, got his foot crushed between the dock pilings and a ferry boat just days after finishing the plans and died from gangrene in less than three weeks. He didn’t have to die, Blue’s father said, but the only treatment he would accept was hydrotherapy, and that proved useless, and Blue was struck that a man who had spent his life building bridges over bodies of water so that people wouldn’t get wet should believe that the only true medicine consisted in immersing oneself in water. After John Roebling’s death, his son Washington took over as chief engineer, and that was another curious story. Washington Roebling was just thirty-one at the time, with no building experience except for the wooden bridges he designed during the Civil War, but he proved to be even more brilliant than his father. Not long after construction began on the Brooklyn Bridge, however, he was trapped for several hours during a fire in one of the underwater caissons and came out of it with a severe case of the bends, an excruciating disease in which nitrogen bubbles gather in the bloodstream. Nearly killed by the attack, he was thereafter an invalid, unable to leave the top floor room where he and his wife set up house in Brooklyn Heights. There Washington Roebling sat every day for many years, watching the progress of the bridge through a telescope, sending his wife down every morning with his instructions, drawing elaborate color pictures for the foreign workers who spoke no English so they would understand what to do next, and the remarkable thing was that the whole bridge was literally in his head: every piece of it had been memorized, down to the tiniest bits of steel and stone, and though Washington Roebling never set foot on the bridge, it was totally present inside him, as though by the end of all those years it had somehow grown into his body.
From The New York Trilogy (Ghosts), by Paul Auster.
Ampliación del campo de batalla
Definitivamente, me decía, no hay duda de que en nuestra sociedad el sexo representa un segundo sistema de diferenciación, con completa independencia del dinero; y se comporta como un sistema de diferenciación tan implacable, al menos, como éste. Por otra parte, los efectos de ambos sistemas son estrictamente equivalentes. Igual que el liberalismo económico desenfrenado, y por motivos análogos, el liberalismo sexual produce fenómenos de empobrecimiento absoluto. Algunos hacen el amor todos los días; otros cinco o seis veces en su vida, o nunca. Algunos hacen el amor con docenas de mujeres; otros con ninguna. Es lo que se llama la “ley del mercado”. En un sistema económico que prohibe el despido libre, cada cual consigue, más o menos, encontrar su hueco. En un sistema sexual que prohibe el adulterio, cada cual se las arregla, más o menos, para encontrar su compañero de cama. En un sistema económico perfectamente liberal, algunos acumulan considerables fortunas; otros se hunden en el paro y la miseria. En un sistema sexual perfectamente liberal, algunos tienen una vida erótica variada y excitante; otros se ven reducidos a la masturbación y a la soledad. El liberalismo económico es la ampliación del campo de batalla, su extensión a todas las edades de la vida y a todas las clases de la sociedad. A nivel económico, Raphaël Tisserand está en el campo de los vencedores; a nivel sexual, en el de los vencidos. Algunos ganan en ambos tableros; otros pierden en los dos. Las empresas se pelean por algunos jóvenes diplomados; las mujeres se pelean por algunos jóvenes; los hombres se pelean por algunas jóvenes; hay mucha confusión, mucha agitación.
de Ampliación del campo de batalla (Extension du domaine de la lutte), por Michel Houellebecq.
reverse life
Is it just me, or is this a weird way to carry on? All life, for instance, all sustenance, all meaning (and a good deal of money) issue from a single household appliance: the toilet handle. At the end of the day, before my coffee, in I go. And there it is already: that humiliating warm smell. I lower my pants and make with the magic handle. Suddenly it’s all there, complete with toilet paper, which you use and then deftly wind back on the roll. Later, you pull up your pants and wait for the pain to go away. The pain, perhaps, of the whole transaction, the whole dependency. No wonder we cry when we do it. Quick glance down at the clear water in the bowl. I don’t know, but it seems to me like a hell of a way to live. Then the two cups of decaf before you hit the sack.
Eating is unattractive too. First I stack the clean plates in the dishwasher, which works okay, I guess, like all my other labour-saving devices, until some fat bastard shows up in his jumpsuit and traumatizes them with his tools. So far so good: then you select a soiled dish, collect some scraps from the garbage, and settle down for a short wait. Various items get gulped up into my mouth, and after skilful massage with tongue and teeth I transfer them to the plate for additional sculpture with knife and fork and spoon. That bit’s quite therapeutic at least, unless you’re having soup or something, which can be a real sentence. Next you face the laborious business of cooling, of reassembly, of storage, before the return of these foodstuffs to the Superette, where, admittedly, I am promptly and generously reimbursed for my pains. Then you tool down the aisles, with trolley or basket, returning each can and packet to its rightful place.
Another thing that seriously disappoints me about this life I’m living through: the reading. I drag myself out of bed each night to start the day—and with what? Not with a book. Not even with the Gazette. No. Two or three hours with a yelping tabloid. I begin at the foot of the column and toil my way up the page to find each story unedifyingly summarized in inch-high type. MAN GIVES BIRTH TO DOG. Or STARLET RAPED BY PTERODACTYL. Greta Garbo, I read, has been reborn as a cat. All this stuff about twins. A Nordic superrace will shortly descend from the cosmic ice clouds; they will rule the earth for a thousand years. All this stuff about Atlantis. Appropriately, it is the garbage people who bring me my reading matter. I haul in the bags— which emanate, it would seem, from the monstrous jaws, the industrial violence, of the garbage truck. And so I sit here gurgling into my glass and soaking up all that moronic dreck. I can’t help it. I’m at Tod’s mercy. What’s going on— in the world, I mean? I wouldn’t know about that either. Except when Tod’s eye strays from the Kwik Crossword in the Gazette. Most of the time I’m staring fixedly at stuff like Opposite of small (3) or Not dirty (5). There is a bookcase in the living room. Beyond its dusty glass, the dusty spines, all standing to attention. But no. Instead, LOVE LIFE ON PLUTO. I AM ZSA ZSA GABOR SAYS MONKEY. SIAMESE QUINS!
From Time’s Arrow, by Martin Amis.
the girl of the cafe
A girl came in the café and sat by herself at a table near the window. She was very pretty with a face fresh as a newly minted coin if they minted coins in smooth flesh with rain-freshened skin, and her hair black as a crow’s wing and cut sharply and diagonally across her cheek.
I looked at her and she disturbed me and made me very excited. I wished I could put her in the story, or anywhere, but she had placed herself so she could watch the street and the entry and I knew she was waiting for someone. So I went on writing.
The story was writing itself and I was having a hard time keeping up with it. I ordered another rum St. James and I watched the girl whenever I looked up, or when I sharpened the pencil with a pencil sharpener with the shavings curling into the saucer under my drink.
I’ve seen you, beauty, and you belong to me now, whoever you are waiting for and if I never see you again, I thought. You belong to me and all Paris belongs to me and I belong to this notebook and this pencil.
Then I went back to writing and I entered far into the story and was lost in it. I was writing it now and it was not writing itself and I did not look up nor know anything about the time nor think where I was nor order any more rum St. James. I was tired of rum St. James without thinking about it. Then the story was finished and I was very tired. I read the last paragraph and then I looked up and looked for the girl and she had gone. I hope she’s gone with a good man, I thought. But I felt sad.
From A Moveable Feast, by Ernest Hemingway.
the blind man
This blind man, an old friend of my wife’s, he was on his way to spend the night. His wife had died. So he was visiting the dead wife’s relatives in Connecticut. He called my wife from his inlaw’s. Arrangements were made. He would come by train,a five-hour trip, and my wife would meet him at the station. She hadn’t seen him since she worked for him one summer in Seattle ten years ago. But she and the blind man had kept in touch. They made tapes and mailed them back and forth. I wasn’t enthusiastic about his visit. He was no one I knew. And his being blind bothered me. My idea of blindness came from the movies. In the movies, the blind moved slowly and never laughed. Sometimes they were led by seeing-eye dogs. A blind man in my house was not something I looked forward to.
That summer in Seattle she had needed a job. She didn’t have any money. The man she was going to marry at the end of the summer was in officers’ training school. He didn’t have any money, either. But she was in love with the guy, and he was in love with her, etc. She’d seen something in the paper: HELP WANTED—Reading to Blind Man, and a telephone number. She phoned and went over, was hired on the spot. She worked with this blind man all summer. She read stuff to him, case studies, reports, that sort of thing. She helped him organize his little office in the county social-service department. They’d become good friends, my wife and the blind man. On her last day in the office, the blind man asked if he could touch her face. She agreed to this. She told me he touched his fingers to every part of her face, her nose—even her neck! She never forgot it. She even tried to write a poem about it. She was always trying to write a poem. She wrote a poem or two every year, usually after something really important had happened to her.
When we first started going out together, she showed me the poem. In the poem, she recalled his fingers and the way they had moved around over her face. In the poem, she talked about what she had felt at the time, about what went through her mind when the blind man touched her nose and lips. I can remember I didn’t think much of the poem. Of course, I didn’t tell her that. Maybe I just don’t understand poetry. I admit it’s not the first thing I reach for when I pick up something to read.
From Cathedral, by Raymond Carver.
