quinta-feira, dezembro 15, 2011
Masaccio: The Expulsion From the Garden of Eden, c. 1425 (detail)
Bartleby, who prefers not to, is an absolute exile, an alien on planet Earth. Melville, who was always leaving, didn’t experience—or wasn’t adversely affected by—the chilliness of the word exile. Philip K. Dick knew better than anyone how to recognize the disturbances of exile. William Burroughs was the incarnation of every one of those disturbances.
The immigrant, the nomad, the traveler, the sleepwalker all exist, but not the exile, since every writer becomes an exile simply by venturing into literature, and every reader becomes an exile simply by opening a book.
Alex Majoli/Magnum Photos, A bookshop in Venice, 2010
At the last bookstore I visited, as I was going through a row of old French novels, the bookseller, a tall, thin man of about forty, suddenly asked whether I thought it was right for an author to recommend his own works to a man who’s been sentenced to death.
The bookseller was standing in a corner, wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and he had a prominent Adam’s apple that quivered as he spoke. I said it didn’t seem right. What condemned men are we talking about? I asked. The bookseller looked at me and said that he knew for certain of more than one novelist capable of recommending his own books to a man on the verge of death. Then he said that we were talking about desperate readers. I’m hardly qualified to judge, he said, but if I don’t, no one will.
What book would you give to a condemned man? he asked me. I don’t know, I said. I don’t know either, said the bookseller, and I think it’s terrible. What books do desperate men read? What books do they like? How do you imagine the reading room of a condemned man? he asked. I have no idea, I said. You’re young, I’m not surprised, he said. And then: it’s like Antarctica. Not like the North Pole, but like Antarctica. I was reminded of the last days of [Edgar Allan Poe’s] Arthur Gordon Pym, but I decided not to say anything. Let’s see, said the bookseller, what brave man would drop this novel on the lap of a man sentenced to death? He picked up a book that had done fairly well and then he tossed it on a pile. I paid him and left. When I turned to leave, the bookseller might have laughed or sobbed. As I stepped out I heard him say: What kind of arrogant bastard would dare to do such a thing? And then he said something else, but I couldn’t hear what it was.
e também uma referência: "dije que estaba leyendo un ensayo primordial para entender la narrativa de hoy en nuestro mundo de lengua española, Bolaño traducido: nueva literatura mundial (Escalera, 2011), y que había leído últimamente...
"Con Casanova, Benjamin, Kermode, novelistas mundiales como Borges, Vargas Llosa y John Banville, más Patti Smith y alguna estrella interpretativa, Corral se involucra tan exhaustivamente con su materia y sus avatares iberoamericanos que clasificar y juzgar cede a una franqueza analítica y a un deslumbrante apego a las majestuosas obras de Roberto Bolaño."
e + Eu Sou Bolaño O Escritor e o Mito - compilação, prólogo e edição Celina Manzoni.
É a vida.
Roberto Bolaño, Archivo revista Paula
posted by Luís Miguel Dias quinta-feira, dezembro 15, 2011