'Cuidaet a l'eixir', my grandfather used to say to me every time I rushed with the bike to the gates; 'El meu xiquet', with a big smile, whenever he greeted me. He was a tender, grumpy, kind-hearted man. I managed to have all my elementary school' arts and crafts' assignments made by him —while my brother did my paintings— and so they made a good-for-nothing anti-handyman of me, but what the hell? They saved me a lot of trouble back then, and I'm thankful. I remember with special fondness what at the moment and many years from then I saw as an incredible feat. The teacher had ordered to have all and each of our 'regletes' marked with our names. There were hundreds, thousands, millions of regletes in the box —my abatement was great, I was sure I wouldn't be able to ever complete the task; and then, when come back from school the following day, I found my name marked in all and each of them — God, grandfather! Thanks for that, and for all your love, too.

I don't rush anymore

to answer the phone in dismay, if Júlia and Mika are at home at night.

Wonderful first day of beach yesterday evening at Peguera. I was joyous to see how Mika's grown up —in size as well as in ways of doing— since the previous summer.

Lately, it seems as if having children learn to swim the early the better (at one, two, or three years-old) is the parents' mission number one —swimming pools crowd with toddlers. But one figure I'd like to know — the ratio of swimmers versus not swimmers who drown every year. I'd venture the ratio be greater than one — that people who can swim drown more often than those who cannot, just because they take far greater risks.

If my guess is true, and you add to that how many infections children get at swimming pools; the horrible whiff of hot air when you go inside covered pools; the disgust and dangers of filthy shower floors; and how far away, as a rule, swimming pools are from home, I think my son will learn to swim from me, at the beach, when he'll be seven or eight years old. Surely he'll swim as clumsily as I do... Good enough, though, to survive a mere capsizing and bad enough to dare chance those silly red flags...

Què hi ha a la base del desordre? La peresa.

No agobiar escolarmente a los hijos

[Addendum 07-06-2005 Nota aclaratòria:

Fernando Savater, com a part final del seu llibre 'El valor de educar', presenta una tria de textos d'altres autors. D'aquests textos, jo n'he re-triat tres per publicar ací. El que present ara, de na Natalia Ginzburg, és el tercer. Els altres dos se poden trobar en entrades anteriors.]

El darrer fragment del llibre de Savater (el títol d'aquesta entrada és seu, com també ho eren els altres citats) em va produir una mena de shock:

Al rendimiento escolar de nuestros hijos solemos darle una importancia que es del todo infundada. Y esto no se debe más que al respeto por la pequeña virtud del éxito. Debería bastarnos que no se quedaran demasiado detrás de los otros, que no se hicieran suspender en los exámenes; pero no nos contentamos con esto; queremos de ellos el éxito, queremos que den satisfacciones a nuestro orgullo. Si van mal en la escuela, o sencillamente no tan bien como nosotros pretendemos, alzamos de inmediato entre ellos y nosotros la barrera del descontento constante; adoptamos con ellos el tono de voz irritado y quejumbroso de quien lamenta una ofensa. Entonces nuestros hijos, hastiados, se alejan de nosotros. O quizá les secundamos en sus protestas contra los maestros que no les han comprendido, los declaramos, al unísono con ellos, víctimas de una injusticia. Y todos los días les corregimos los deberes, nos sentamos a su lado cuando hacen los deberes, estudiamos con ellos las lecciones. En verdad la escuela debería ser desde el principio, para un muchacho, la primera batalla que tiene que afrontar solo, sin nosotros; desde el principio debería estar claro que ése es su campo de batalla propio, donde no podríamos darle más que una ayuda del todo ocasional e irrisoria. Y si ahí padece injusticias y resulta incomprendido, es necesario dejarle entender que eso no tiene nada de raro, porque en la vida debemos esperar ser continuamente incomprendidos y entendidos mal, y ser víctimas de la injusticia: lo único que importa es no cometer las injusticias nosotros mismos.

Los éxitos o fracasos de nuestros hijos los compartimos con ellos porque les queremos mucho, pero del mismo modo y en igual medida que ellos compartirán, a medida que vayan creciendo, nuestros éxitos y nuestros fracasos, nuestros contentos o preocupaciones. Es falso que tengan el deber para con nosotros de ser aplicados en la escuela y de dar en ella lo mejor de su talento. Su deber para con nosotros, ya que les hemos proporcionado estudios, no es más que seguir adelante. Si lo mejor de su talento no quieren dedicarlo a la escuela, sino emplearlo en otra cosa que les apasione, sea su colección de coleópteros o el estudio de la lengua turca, es asunto suyo y no tenemos ningún derecho a reprochárselo, ni mostrarnos ofendidos en nuestro orgullo o frustrados en nuestra satisfacción. Si lo mejor de su talento no parece que por el momento tengan deseo de emplearlo en nada, y se pasan los días en el pupitre mordiendo el lápiz, ni siquiera en tal caso tenemos derecho a regañarles mucho: quién sabe, quizá lo que a nosotros nos parece ocio son en realidad fantasías y reflexiones que mañana darán fruto. Si lo mejor de energía y de su talento parecen desperdiciarlo, tumbados en un sillón leyendo novelas estúpidas o frenéticos en el campo jugando al fútbol, tampoco esta vez podemos saber si verdaderamente se trata de un desperdicio de energía y de talento, o si también esto, mañana, en alguna forma que ahora ignoramos, dará sus frutos. Porque las posibilidades del espíritu son infinitas. Pero no debemos dejarnos atrapar, nosotros los padres, por el pánico del fracaso. Nuestros enfados deben ser como ráfagas de viento o de temporal: violentos pero pronto olvidados; nada que pueda oscurecer la naturaleza de nuestras relaciones con los hijos, enturbiando su limpidez y su paz. Estamos aquí para consolar a nuestros hijos, si un fracaso les ha entristecido; estamos aquí para consolarles, si un fracaso les ha mortificado. También estamos aquí para bajarles los humos, si un éxito les ha ensoberbecido. Estamos aquí para reducir la escuela a sus humildes y angostos límites; nada que pueda hipotecar el futuro; un simple ofrecimiento de herramientas, entre los cuales es posible elegir uno del que disfrutar mañana.

Lo único que debemos tener en cuenta en la educación es que en nuestros hijos nunca disminuya el amor a la vida. Eso puede revestir diversas formas, y a menudo un muchacho desarrollado, solitario y esquivo no carece de amor por la vida, ni está oprimido por el pánico de vivir, sino sencillamente en estado de espera, atento a prepararse a sí mismo para su propia vocación. Y ¿qué otra cosa es la vocación de un ser humano, sino la más alta expresión de su amor por la vida?

(NATALIA GINZBURG, Las pequeñas virtudes)

Això és saviesa.

I com que tanta saviesa no podia ser producte de la casualitat o de l'atzar, vaig pensar que em convenia fer una ullada al llibre d'aquesta autora, per mi desconeguda. Per fortuna el vaig trobar i l'he llegit. Es italiana i té un talent per l'escriptura formidable, escandalós. I escric a la manera de Pla perquè a Pla em recorda —i a Highsmith, i a Somerset Maugham. Stay tuned.

Innocència: no pensar més enllà d'uns minuts del present.

About the French and Dutch rejection to the so-called EU Constitution:

It's the elitism, stupid!

Signs I'm growing old

I'll rather remove from my playlist a high-pitched song I'm fond of, just because of its stridency, than an ordinary song I don't specially like, just because it's not loud.


Signs I've become a father

Now I find myself in the other side of the lyrics, and find them a little bit unfair. Because, Roger, we're in fact old; and because we're wise, too, we'll let them criticize, but not hanging around too much, won't we? And if teachers tell our sons to stop their play and get on with their work, isn't that right? Making good boys of them, isn't that fine?


I can see you in the morning when you go to school
Don't forget your books, you know you've got to learn the golden rule,
Teacher tells you stop your play and get on with your work
And be like Johnnie. too-good, well don't you know he never shirks
- he's coming along!

After School is over you're playing in the park
Don't be out too late, don't let it get too dark
They tell you not to hang around and learn what life's about
And grow up just like them. Won't you let it work it out
- and you're full of doubt

Don't do this and don't do that
What are they trying to do?- Make a good boy of you
Do they know where it's at?
Don't criticize, they're old and wise
Do as they tell you to
Don't want the devil to
Come out and put your eyes

Maybe I'm mistaken expecting you to fight
Or maybe I'm just crazy, I don't know wrong from right
But while I am still living, I've just got this to say
It's always up to you if you want to be that
want to see that
want to see that way
- you're coming along!

(Supertramp, School)

And then there is the girl leaving home. I had always been fond of her —her determination and courage. Not anymore. Yes, Paul manages to depict their parents as nasty, shallow, and materialist, but he disdains they had never a thought for themselves, sacrificed most of their lives. And she... far away, meeting a man from a motor trade, isn't that really scary?


Wednesday morning at five o'clock as the day begins
Silently closing her bedroom door
Leaving the note that she hope would say more
She goes downstairs to the kitchen clutching her handkerchief
Quietly turning the backdoor key
Stepping outside she is free

She (We gave her most of our lives)
Is leaving (Sacrificed most of our lives)
Home (We gave her everything money could buy)
She's leaving home after living alone for so many years. Bye, bye

Father snores as his wife gets into the dressing gown
Picks up the letter that's lying there
Standing alone at the top of the stairs
She breaks down and cries to her husband
Daddy, our baby's gone
Why would she treat us so thoughtlessly
How could she do this to me

She (We never thought of ourselves)
is leaving (Never a thought for ourselves)
home (We gave her everything money could buy)
She's leaving home after living alone for so many years. Bye, bye

Friday morning at nine o'clock she is far away
Waiting to keep the appointment she made
Meeting a man from a motor trade

She (What did we do that was wrong)
Is having (We didn't know it was wrong)
Fun (Fun is the one thing that money can't buy)

Something inside that was always denied for so many years
She's leaving home, bye, bye.

(The Beatles, She's leaving home)

I wonder, who will write the songs for us lonely, neglected, despised parents?