Amapolas Trail

2009-10-28T09:54:00.003+01:00

Notice I'm blogging now at True and Dirty Life in Palma. Thank you for your patience!

2006-07-25T12:20:00.000+02:00

Hi everybody. This is just an announcement that this site is discontinued. I'll write elsewhere from now on. If you're interested, please email me and I'll give you the URL. Thank you very much for your visiting Amapolas all through these years; I wish you came by the other site, too, from time to time --I'd be honored by your visit.

Bye and cheers,
Eduard.

PS. You can find my email address at the right column at the bottom of the page.

2006-03-31T09:22:00.000+02:00

Mr Noone's Scattered Thoughts (L) has added a new section, Hat Off, where subjective outstanding moments of literature get marked and celebrated. Read his last one here.

It happens right now I'm reading Mark Twain's Adventures Of Huckleberry Finn and I thought Good grief — this is so damned good there's no way I can avoid writing it down in Amapolas, a la Noone... So here it goes:

(Speaking about the old woman who takes care of him)

After supper she got out of her book and learned me about Moses and the Bulrushers, and I was in a sweat to find out all about him; but by and by she let it out that Moses had been dead a considerable long time; so then I didn't care no more about him, because I don't take no stock in dead people.

Pretty soon I wanted to smoke, and asked the widow to let me. But she wouldn't. She said it was a mean practice and wasn't clean, and I must try not to do it any more. This is just the way with some people. They get down on a thing when they don't know nothing about it. Here she was a-bothering about Moses, which was no kin to her, and no use to anybody, being gone, you see, yet finding a power of fault with me for doing a thing that had some good in it. And she took snuff, too; of course that was all right, because she done it herself.

What's one to say? Apaga y vámonos...

2006-03-17T17:36:00.000+01:00

GIVE CREDIT...

There are no aliens in the Internet (my own's).

'Please don't arrange to have me sent to no asylum' (Supertramp, Asylum).

'Collecting teardrops in a paper cup' (Supertramp, A Soapbox Opera).

'Ain't nobody but me gonna lie for you, gonna die for you' (Supertramp, Ain't Nobody But Me).

'They tell you not to hang around and learn what life's about' (Supertramp, School).

'La más prohibida de todas las frutas' (Joaquín Sabina, Una canción para la Magdalena).

'Living is easy with eyes closed' (The Beatles, Strawberry Fields).

'Before you go to sleep say a little prayer' (John Lennon, Beautiful Boy).

'Apartem els núvols que ens amaguen la claror' (Lluís Llach, Cal que neixin flors a cada instant).

'Esta forma tan cobarde de no decirnos que no' (Joaquín Sabina, Cerrado por derribo).

'What crisis?' (Supertramp, Crisis, What Crisis?).

'Aprendre que en certesa res no tinc si no m'ho dónes' (Lluís Llach, Aprendre).

'Acá está lindo' (heard in the street).

This quiet corner at the shadow of the Internet (my own's)

'Dile a papá que me voy de la ciudad' (Christina y Los Subterráneos, Dile a papá).

'Aprendre per saber-se desprendre, vet aquí el vell secret' (Lluís Llach, Aprendre).

'Tidings of comfort and joy' (Simon and Garfunkel, Comfort and Joy).

'If you think the harmony is a little dark and out of key, you're correct' (The Beatles, Only a Nothern Song).

'I mentres aprenc el preu d'un anhel' (Lluís Llach, A força de nits).

'All the lonely people, where do they all come from?' (The Beatles, Eleanor Rigby).

Liberating insignificance (my own's).

'But it seems a time of sadness is a time to understand' (Supertramp, Lord is it mine?).

'El día que yo fui feliz no me di cuenta y me dormí' (Christina y Los Subterráneos, Ni una maldita florecita).

'I may be mad I may be blind I may be viciously unkind. But I can still read what you're thinking' (Annie Lennox, Why).

'Choosing my confessions' (R.E.M., Losing My Religion).

'Her name was Magil and she called herself Lil, but everyone knew her as Nancy' (The Beatles, Rocky Raccoon).

'I amb el somriure, la revolta' (Lluís Llach, I amb el somriure, la revolta).

'Mai no he sabut dir-ne lo just del nostre absurd' (Lluís Llach, Respon-me).

...WHERE CREDIT IS DUE (I)

2006-03-10T09:12:00.000+01:00

Legitimwhat?

Never thought I'd have to quote this for the benefit of a religion other than mine, but boy, times are a'changin'...

If one imagines oneself as a fully aware founder of a society, a kind of combination of Moses and Machiavelli, one could ask oneself the following question: How can the future continuation of the institutional order, now established ex nihilo, be best ensured? There is an obvious answer to the question in terms of power. But let it be assumed that all the means of power have been effectively employed - all opponents have been destroyed, all means of coercion are in one's own hands, reasonably safe provisions have been made for the transmission of power to one's designated successors. There still remains the problem of legitimation, all the more urgent because of the novelty and thus highly conscious precariousness of the new order. The problem would best be solved by applying the following recipe: Let the institutional order be so interpreted as to hide, as much as possible, its constructed character. Let that which has been stamped out of the ground ex nihilo appear as the manifestation of something that has been existent from the beginning of time, or at least from the beginning of this group. Let the people forget that this order was established by men and continues to be dependent upon the consent of men. Let them believe that, in acting out the institutional programs that have been imposed upon them, they are but realizing the deepest aspirations of their own being and putting themselves in harmony with the fundamental order of the universe. In sum: Set up religious legitimations. (Peter L. Berger, The sacred canopy, 1967).

(Thanks to Ryan for the revisiting of the old, extraordinary, admired professor's book).

Which translated into Spanish says:

Si uno se imagina un fundador de sociedades consciente de ello, algo así como una combinación entre Moisés y Maquiavelo, se podría plantear la pregunta siguiente: ¿Cómo se podría asegurar la conservación de este orden institucional establecido ex-nihilo? En términos de poder existe una respuesta obvia a esta cuestión. Pero si se imagina que todos los medios de poder han sido efectivamente empleados, todos los opositores destruidos, que todos los medios de coerción se hallan en nuestras manos y han alcanzado un resultado positivo, y que han sido tomadas todas las medidas razonables para la transmisión de poder a los sucesores designados, quedará todavía por solucionar el problema de legitimación, que resulta más urgente debido a la novedad y a la consciente precariedad del nuevo orden. La mejor solución del problema sería la siguiente:

Que el orden institucional sea interpretado de modo que oculte su carácter de algo construido.
Que aquello que ha surgido de la nada aparezca asimismo como algo que había existido desde el principio de los tiempos, o al menos desde el comienzo de este grupo.
Que la gente olvide que este nuevo orden ha sido establecido por unos hombres y que su continuación depende asimismo del consentimiento de los hombres.
Que crean que, al proceder de acuerdo con los programas institucionales que les han sido impuestos, no harán sino realizar las más hondas aspiraciones de su propio ser y ponerse en armonía con el orden fundamental del universo.

En resumen: que se establezcan legitimaciones religiosas. (Peter L. Berger, Para una teoría sociológica de la religión).

Now go and burn.

2006-03-08T10:56:00.000+01:00

Pistas: Estadísticas para el día internacional de la mujer

Thanks, Wonka, for counter-thinking
(and counter-statisticsing) :-)

2006-03-06T21:08:00.000+01:00

Epitafi

Take a look at:

ST Lite: Epitaph - 11

That's superb —Mr. Noone at his best.

Mine is no big deal indeed, but here it comes anyway:

Conte contat, conte acabat.

That is to say: Story told, story finished.

(Catalan-speaking parents with young boys will like it a bit better, I hope).

2006-03-03T09:48:00.000+01:00

Speaking about friendship, Ravi Mohan writes:

One Man Hacking: The Importance of Having Friends Who Disagree

...and it's difficult not to agree.

I'd just add two notes of caution... Remember being not too loud either about

1. Politics, because, in your friends' view, you're as good a person as you're so leftist or rightist as them, or about

2. The entertainment business, aka The Arts (literature, film-making, music, paintwork, etc.) because you'll be as intelligent a person as you conform to their tastes (which, not incidentally, they don't usually regard as tastes, but as statements of culture).

And never, ever, think of giving them your sincere opinion when they've asked you explicitly for it.

2006-02-21T09:26:00.000+01:00

El historiador David Irving es condenado en Viena a tres años de cárcel por negar el Holocausto | elmundo.es

M'avergonyeix ser ciutadà d'un estat on també ser ignorant, imbècil o malintencionat és delicte. Mal defensam les nostres llibertats si les anorream. Si contra l'estupidesa malèvola no ens basta la ignomínia, i per contra ens cal recórrer a l'eliminació física de la seva expressió i dels seus expressors, és que hem començat a recórrer, perillosament i lamentablement, el camí de la tirania.

Que se veu que ens ataca des de fora i des de dins, i ni ens n'adonam.

Al contrari, la celebram com a progressista.

UPDATE 17:29

PS. Addendum:

Marginal Revolution: Holocaust denial and hypocrisy

Alex Tabarrok on the same topic.

2006-02-14T17:37:00.000+01:00

Explica Pere Quintana Seguí a bitsenblocs perquè s’ha d’enllaçar i s’ha d’ésser enllaçat, i me convenç:

La meva experiència em diu que molts blocaires no són prou conscients de la importància que tenen els enllaços en aquest món. No són poc els blocs que escriuen articles sense enllaçar a ningú i esperen amb els braços creuats que els lectors arribin.

De motivacions per escriure blocs n’hi ha moltes, d’això en podríem parlar en un altre fil, però, siguin quines siguin, en general ens interessa que el que hem escrit sigui llegit pel màxim nombre de gent possible, encara que no sigui el nostre bjectiu principal.

[...]

L’única manera d’aconseguir això és ser actiu i participar a les converses de la xarxa. Si un troba en un bloc un article interessant que mereix ser comentat, és millor escriure un comentari elaborat en el teu propi bloc, en el qual enllaçarem l’article original, que deixar un comentari ràpid al bloc. És probable que l’autor el primer article detecti el teu article mitjançant serveis com Technorati.com, o gràcies a un missatge de correu electrònic queli hauràs enviat, i que et contesti des del seu bloc, tot enllaçant el teu article. Així, no només hauràs guanyat un enllaç, amb l’augment de puntuació als cercadors i de visites que això comporta, si no que també hauràs participat en una reflexió col·lectiva que sol ser sempre més interessant que els curts i, en general, ànomis comentaris al peu dels articles.

Gràcies Pere, tens raó. Anem per feina, idò.

Marta Contreras, la catalana del món, thinks aloud about friendship here and asks what she should do about a (not so concreted) situation. She graciously let my reply in, which went as follows:

>What should I do?

Stop thinking other people mustn't disappoint you. That's not saying people should disappoint you, either :-) I mean it's a common but erroneous assumption to think friends should never let you down; and that if they do, they're not friends of yours anymore. Friends are not out there to please you or satisfy you; you shouldn't force them to act the way you think they ought to act in order to gain your favour...

Having said that :-) my take on your entry is that if you're in doubt about that particular friend of yours, the friendship is over. You know who your friends are, and friendship doesn't depend on phone calls or frequent contact...

So start coming, links. And you Google guys, upgrade my pagerank, now! And you my dear hasty visitors, my statcounter is telling me seventy five percent of you spend less than five seconds in this place... Five seconds? Five secs when you could do it in three and have a coffee on the remaining two? Please begin considering not so lamely wasting your time here...

2006-02-09T20:39:00.000+01:00

La Fundació Catalunya Oberta diu:

Aquesta darrera setmana, arran de les protestes en el món musulmà per la publicació la passada tardor d’unes caricatures de Mahoma en un diari danès, ha semblat que es feia realitat la famosa teoria del xoc de civilitzacions. La reacció del món musulmà, dels seus sectors més integristes, dels seus règims més dictatorials, ha posat en relleu les resistències a acceptar les normes bàsiques que configuren les societats democràtiques occidentals. La resistència a acceptar la llibertat d’expressió, sense la qual no hi hauria societats lliures i obertes. La reacció d’aquest sectors musulmans no pot ser una sorpresa per a ningú. Han aprofitat una excusa qualsevol per defensar el que sempre han defensat: la lluita contra “els infidels”.

El que sí que sorprèn, i preocupa, és la reacció del món occidental. Des de la Unió Europea fins als Estats Units, els màxims dirigents occidentals han cridat a la “prudència” i al “respecte”. La prudència i el respecte mai no sobren, però Occident no pot autolimitar la seva llibertat perquè un determinat grup de persones se sentin ofeses. La prudència no ens pot dur a la submissió als desitjos d’un grup religiós. Les bases de les nostres societats democràtiques es van construir al llarg de segles de tensió entre l’àmbit religiós i l’àmbit civil. La preeminència de l’àmbit civil i de les seves lleis sobre l’àmbit religiós i les seves lleis és una conquesta irrenunciable. Ho és quan es parla del cristianisme però ho ha de ser també davant qualsevol altra religió. La llei, civil, ha de ser igual per a tots els ciutadans. Siguin quines siguin les seves creences. Igual per a totes les comunitats religioses.

No pot ser que ara, quan l’amenaça de la intolerància ens arriba des de l’islam, cedim el terreny llargament guanyat quan l’amenaça intolerant venia del cristianisme. Cal mantenir-se ferm siguin quines siguin les pressions. De res no valen els reiterats discursos del president del govern espanyol sobre l’Aliança de Civilitzacions si aquesta aliança s’ha de basar en la claudicació de la civilització occidental, en la renúncia a la llibertat que tants segles ha costat de guanyar. Davant els intolerants, davant aquells que volen fixar-nos unilateralment el que és lícit i el que no és lícit, no hi ha altra resposta que la defensa de la democràcia i la llibertat. No hi ha altra resposta que la tolerància zero amb la intolerància.

I això està ben dit i per això ho reproduesc, i perquè la sang em bull i no vull dir-ho de manera més visceral.

Siguem conscients —en aquestes coses ens jugam el ser o no ser. I siguem valents, també.

Que quan saps que te poden fer explotar per no pensar com ells, no deixa de tenir el seu mèrit.

2006-02-07T12:01:00.000+01:00

Llegit a Libertad Digital:

Los jugadores de la selección española de fútbol cobrarán 540.000 euros cada uno si ganan el Mundial de Alemania.

Una raó més perquè no el guanyin, vet aquí...

2006-01-27T10:36:00.000+01:00

AMBROSIES' LAST

A selection of fables from Ambrose Bierce, Fantastic Fables

The Faithful Cashier

THE Cashier of a bank having defaulted was asked by the Directors
what he had done with the money taken.

"I am greatly surprised by such a question," said the Cashier; "it
sounds as if you suspected me of selfishness. Gentlemen, I applied
that money to the purpose for which I took it; I paid it as an
initiation fee and one year's dues in advance to the Treasurer of
the Cashiers' Mutual Defence Association."

"What is the object of that organisation?" the Directors inquired.

"When any one of its members is under suspicion," replied the
Cashier, "the Association undertakes to clear his character by
submitting evidence that he was never a prominent member of any
church, nor foremost in Sunday-school work."

Recognising the value to the bank of a spotless reputation for its
officers, the President drew his check for the amount of the
shortage and the Cashier was restored to favour.

The Devoted Widow

A WIDOW weeping on her husband's grave was approached by an
Engaging Gentleman who, in a respectful manner, assured her that he
had long entertained for her the most tender feelings.

"Wretch!" cried the Widow. "Leave me this instant! Is this a time
to talk to me of love?"

"I assure you, madam, that I had not intended to disclose my
affection," the Engaging Gentleman humbly explained, "but the power
of your beauty has overcome my discretion."

"You should see me when I have not been crying," said the Widow.

A Forfeited Right

THE Chief of the Weather Bureau having predicted a fine day, a
Thrifty Person hastened to lay in a large stock of umbrellas, which
he exposed for sale on the sidewalk; but the weather remained
clear, and nobody would buy. Thereupon the Thrifty Person brought
an action against the Chief of the Weather Bureau for the cost of
the umbrellas.

"Your Honour," said the defendant's attorney, when the case was
called, "I move that this astonishing action be dismissed. Not
only is my client in no way responsible for the loss, but he
distinctly foreshadowed the very thing that caused it."

"That is just it, your Honour," replied the counsel for the
plaintiff; "the defendant by making a correct forecast fooled my
client in the only way that he could do so. He has lied so much
and so notoriously that he has neither the legal nor moral right to
tell the truth."

Judgment for the plaintiff.

Dame Fortune and the Traveller

A WEARY Traveller who had lain down and fallen asleep on the brink
of a deep well was discovered by Dame Fortune.

"If this fool," she said, "should have an uneasy dream and roll
into the well men would say that I did it. It is painful to me to
be unjustly accused, and I shall see that I am not."

So saying she rolled the man into the well.

The Man and the Viper

A MAN finding a frozen Viper put it into his bosom.

"The coldness of the human heart," he said, with a grin, "will keep
the creature in his present condition until I can reach home and
revive him on the coals."

But the pleasures of hope so fired his heart that the Viper thawed,
and sliding to the ground thanked the Man civilly for his
hospitality and glided away.

The Lion and the Mouse

A JUDGE was awakened by the noise of a lawyer prosecuting a Thief.
Rising in wrath he was about to sentence the Thief to life
imprisonment when the latter said:

"I beg that you will set me free, and I will some day requite your
kindness."

Pleased and flattered to be bribed, although by nothing but an
empty promise, the Judge let him go. Soon afterward he found that
it was more than an empty promise, for, having become a Thief, he
was himself set free by the other, who had become a Judge.

2006-01-13T10:58:00.000+01:00

All this fearful event of the fast-spreading avian flu has reminded me of this short story by Patricia Highsmith. It would have graciously fit in her collection of stories about animals-turned-revengers, The Animal-Lover's Book of Beastly Murder, but for one reason or the other it wasn't included and was shamefully left unpublished for life. Fortunately, Highsmith's editors rescued it from their papers and published it after her death in Nothing That Meets The Eye. Although it's an outstanding story, you're warned to read it at your own risk.

Two Disagreeable Pigeons, by Patricia Highsmith.

2006-01-13T10:07:00.000+01:00

One goes around doing his chores in an ordinary way in an ordinary day while some music's being played at the computer, and sometimes, just a few, precious times, one has to give up broom, brush and paint to stop, breathe and hear, because something extraordinary, unexpectedly, has managed to break the dull routine, and in so doing, find a way through your skin down to there where weakness is kept. This is one of those songs, and that's happened to me just a few minutes ago.

Powered by Castpost

Life is bigger
It’s bigger than you
And you are not me
The lengths that I will go to
The distance in your eyes
Oh no I’ve said too much
I set it up
That’s me in the corner
That’s me in the spotlight
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don’t know if I can do it
Oh no I’ve said too much
I haven’t said enough
I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try
Every whisper
Of every waking hour I’m
Choosing my confessions
Trying to keep an eye on you
Like a hurt lost and blinded fool
Oh no I’ve said too much
I set it up
Consider this
The hint of the century
Consider this
The slip that brought me
To my knees failed
What if all these fantasies
Come flailing around
Now I’ve said too much
I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try
But that was just a dream
That was just a dream

2006-01-13T09:55:00.000+01:00

Nothing That Meets The Eye

Patricia Highsmith

Read on December 20, 2003

Es curiós comprovar com les narracions més antigues que són bones (The Mightiest Mornings; Where the Door Is Always Open and the Welcome Mat Is Out; In the Plaza; The Still Point of the Turning World) no es llegeixen amb tanta suavitat i facilitat com les bones més recents (Man's Best Friend; Born Failure; The Returnees; Two Disagreeable Pigeons; It's a Deal; The Trouble with Mrs Blynn, the Trouble with the World). Segurament Highsmith va anar agafant la tècnica i el seu estil propi amb el temps.

2005-12-08T14:20:00.000+01:00

Ambrosies for everybody!

A Matter of Method

A PHILOSOPHER seeing a Fool beating his Donkey, said:

"Abstain, my son, abstain, I implore. Those who resort to violence
shall suffer from violence."

"That," said the Fool, diligently belabouring the animal, "is what
I'm trying to teach this beast - which has kicked me."

"Doubtless," said the Philosopher to himself, as he walked away,
"the wisdom of fools is no deeper nor truer than ours, but they
really do seem to have a more impressive way of imparting it."

The Conscientious Official

WHILE a Division Superintendent of a railway was attending closely
to his business of placing obstructions on the track and tampering
with the switches he received word that the President of the road
was about to discharge him for incompetency.

"Good Heavens!" he cried; "there are more accidents on my division
than on all the rest of the line."

"The President is very particular," said the Man who brought him
the news; "he thinks the same loss of life might be effected with
less damage to the company's property."

"Does he expect me to shoot passengers through the car windows?"
exclaimed the indignant official, spiking a loose tie across the
rails. "Does he take me for an assassin?"

The Kangaroo and the Zebra

A KANGAROO hopping awkwardly along with some bulky object concealed
in her pouch met a Zebra, and desirous of keeping his attention
upon himself, said:

"Your costume looks as if you might have come out of the
penitentiary."

"Appearances are deceitful," replied the Zebra, smiling in the
consciousness of a more insupportable wit, "or I should have to
think that you had come out of the Legislature."

A Causeway

A RICH Woman having returned from abroad disembarked at the foot of
Knee-deep Street, and was about to walk to her hotel through the
mud.

"Madam," said a Policeman, "I cannot permit you to do that; you
would soil your shoes and stockings."

"Oh, that is of no importance, really," replied the Rich Woman,
with a cheerful smile.

"But, madam, it is needless; from the wharf to the hotel, as you
observe, extends an unbroken line of prostrate newspaper men who
crave the honour of having you walk upon them."

"In that case," she said, seating herself in a doorway and unlocking her satchel, "I shall have to put on my rubber boots."

Alarm and Pride

"GOOD-MORNING, my friend," said Alarm to Pride; "how are you this
morning?"

"Very tired," replied Pride, seating himself on a stone by the
wayside and mopping his steaming brow. "The politicians are
wearing me out by pointing to their dirty records with ME, when
they could as well use a stick."

Alarm sighed sympathetically, and said:
"It is pretty much the same way here. Instead of using an opera-
glass they view the acts of their opponents with ME!"

As these patient drudges were mingling their tears, they were
notified that they must go on duty again, for one of the political
parties had nominated a thief and was about to hold a gratification
meeting.

The Witch's Steed

A BROOMSTICK which had long served a witch as a steed complained of
the nature of its employment, which it thought degrading.

"Very well," said the Witch, "I will give you work in which you
will be associated with intellect - you will come in contact with brains. I shall present you to a housewife."

"What!" said the Broomstick, "do you consider the hands of a
housewife intellectual?"

"I referred," said the Witch, "to the head of her good man."

Ambrose Bierce, Fantastic Fables

2005-12-06T21:30:00.000+01:00

The Discontented Malefactor

A JUDGE having sentenced a Malefactor to the penitentiary was proceeding to point out to him the disadvantages of crime and the profit of reformation.

"Your Honour," said the Malefactor, interrupting, "would you be kind enough to alter my punishment to ten years in the penitentiary and nothing else?"

"Why," said the Judge, surprised, "I have given you only three years!"

"Yes, I know," assented the Malefactor - "three years' imprisonment and the preaching. If you please, I should like to commute the preaching."

Ambrose Bierce, Fantastic Fables.

(Yeah... A good piece of advice for us conscientous
parents)

2005-11-15T11:54:00.000+01:00

Once in a lifetime...

...these things happen :-)

I was about to leave for work when Mika said he wanted to drop by, later in the afternoon. He's fond of coming to see me at work on Fridays since the place is nice and there are some playground attractions nearby, but especially because I usually have a cheap, little new toy for him in stock for when he comes by. That day, though, I hadn't any —I felt the whole thing was going to become awkward so I tried to convince him not to come, but to no avail. At last, I agreed at his dropping by, but warned I had no toy to give him. If you're not a parent and aren't used to offspring's disdain and secular ungratefulness you won't fully appreciate the sheer elation I felt when he said it's alright dad, I won't ask you for anything, we'll just play around with the old hen-shaped rolling-stick and the balls, you and me, you with one ball, me with the other...

2005-10-14T11:45:00.000+02:00

Hi ha dies que, no en sé el motiu, aconseguesc llevar-me les ulleres del donar les coses per descomptat; aquests dies, que en són ben pocs, m'agraden i em meravellen, i em fan caut i alhora orgullós de pertànyer a una gran civilització, la que ha fet possible això mateix: que les ulleres de la cotidianeïtat no ens deixin veure com és d'anormal que el meu fill sigui ara mateix a escola, on uns estranys se'n cuiden i l'eduquen; que surti aigua de l'aixeta i que la pugui beure; que obri la gelera i que estigui plena; que si perd la feina o em pos malalt sàpiga que no em trobaré desemparat.

Es tan extraordinari, tot això, tan històricament excepcional, que podríem i deuríem pensar, o saber, que no és l'estat natural de les coses; que la veritat no està en l'ordre, sinó en el caos; no en l'abundància, sinó en la misèria; no en la pau, sinó en la guerra. Que, com diu la lletra petita, rendibilitats passades no garanteixen rendibilitats futures, i que, per tant, més ens val no badar i perdre-ho. I en comptes d'això, de sentir-nos orgullosos, ben conscients d'allò que hem fet, i sabedors de com ho hem fet i de com ho haurem de seguir fent perquè no se'ns vagi en orris, negligim el passat, ens avergonyim del present i renunciem, cada cop més, a reconèixer i assumir la responsabilitat dels actes propis; comprometem el futur, tot lastrant-lo amb els grans errors de la peresa, l'abús, la indolència i la pusil.lanimitat.

2005-09-30T09:35:00.000+02:00

He vist i disfrutat l'entrevista que Joaquín Soler Serrano va fer a Josep Pla l'any 76 dins la sèrie 'A fondo' de Televisió espanyola. Més enllà de comprovar que és ver tot allò que Pla va escriure d'ell mateix —la timidesa, la manca d'eloqüència, l'escassa fe en la humanitat—, i de constatar-ne l'humilitat i la lúcida sinceritat amb què Pla s'hi descriu, allò que realment copsa i admira —i que, potser paradoxalment, se fa evident veient-lo i escoltant-lo més que no llegint-lo— és que es tracta d'un home, d’una banda, profundament lliure; i de l’altra, desacomplexadament, naturalment, exclusivament català.

2005-09-11T21:00:00.000+02:00

Mika comença l'escola dijous. La setmana passada, la mestra ens reuní per explicar-nos com aniria tot i donar-nos les instruccions pertinents. També ens va passar un petit qüestionari amb preguntes referents al caràcter, aficions i altres aspectes semblants dels nostres fills. Una de les qüestions incloses era la següent:

Quin aspecte li preocupa més de l'educació del seu fill/a?

Què dimonis, vaig pensar. Per què pregunten. I vaig contestar:

Que pares exorbitats, juntament amb professors desmotivats, en escoles imprudentment infradotades, d'idearis romànticament disfuncionals, en un marasme de lleis frívolament enactades i derogades, acabin aixecant un mur de mediocritat que deixi, en una banda, el meu fill; i en l'altra, inexplorat, el saber humà i la joia d'acostar-s'hi.

Però Júlia no m'hi va deixar presentar-lo. Així que vaig escriure:

Que li peguin i no se torni

:-)

Ahir vaig sentir una bona definició de solitud —que ningú no pensi en tu.

2005-07-22T10:52:00.000+02:00

Criatura dolcíssima... Es ben coneguda la història del poema; com Llach, involuntàriament, en transcriure'l per musicar-lo transposà te per ve i transformà així per sempre el 'jo t'inventava noms i altres carícies' pel colpidor 'jo t'intentava noms'. Això i la tremenda força lírica dels versos, i el fet, preciós per com indica humana complexitat, de ser-ne Fuster l'autor —murri, malcarat, punyent, malsofrit, monstre de la raó— fan d'aquests uns dels més bonics versos que mai s'han escrit en llengua catalana.

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He sentit pena i alegria per Mika aquests dies... Alegria per veure com creix, com madura el seu cervell. Pena perquè, a poc a poc, i per aquest mateix motiu, va abandonant la felicitat sui generis de la infància i perquè això crea un sofriment nou, que arriba per quedar-s'hi. Abans era desgraciat i plorava o era feliç i reia, però això era tot —eren sentiments instantanis, actuals, producte de situacions reals i concretes, singulars. Ara, per contra, és capaç d'anticipar els esdeveniments, de situar-los en el futur i contemplar-los des d'aquesta perspectiva; i clar, també d'experimentar potencialment, respecte a ells, sentiments de por i d' inquietud, de recança. Benvingut a la vida, fill meu, aquesta contínua ansietat...

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Diu Savater a 'El valor de educar':

'A lo largo de la historia los moralistas han concentrado unánimamente su mensaje en tres virtudes esenciales de las que se deducen con más o menos facilidad todas las demás: el coraje para vivir frente a la muerte, la generosidad para convivir con los semejantes y la prudencia para sobrevivir entre necesidades que no podemos abolir'.

Estic molt d'acord amb les virtuts esmentades; tan sols alteraria l'ordre de les dues primeres —generositat davant el fet de la mort (que evita que ens repleguem completament dins de nosaltres mateixos, i que fa que, malgrat saber-nos limitats absolutament en el temps, en donem als altres) i coratge per conviure en societat, que això sí que té mèrit...

2005-06-28T10:57:00.000+02:00

'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.

2005-06-23T12:18:00.000+02:00

I don't rush anymore

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

2005-06-20T09:50:00.000+02:00

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...

2005-06-15T11:38:00.000+02:00

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

2005-06-05T22:20:00.000+02:00

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.

2005-06-04T10:34:00.000+02:00

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

2005-06-03T23:20:00.000+02:00

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

It's the elitism, stupid!

2005-06-02T10:17:00.000+02:00

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?

2005-05-29T19:10:00.000+02:00

Objetivos de la instrucción pública

The second excerpt I'll reproduce from among the ones Savater kindly shares with the reader comes from Condorcet. It's obvious what is superb about the text —its extraordinary precision, succinctness, and lucidity. I'm sure X66M will enjoy it as much as I do, regardless of our small discrepancies on public education.

Ofrecer a todos los individuos de la especie humana los medios de proveer a sus necesidades, de asegurar su bienestar, de conocer y ejercer sus derechos, de entender y cumplir sus deberes; asegurar a cada uno de ellos la facilidad de perfeccionar su industria, de capacitarse para las funciones sociales a las cuales tiene derecho a ser llamado, de desarrollar en toda su extensión los talentos que ha recibido de la naturaleza, y de este modo establecer entre los ciudadanos una igualdad de hecho, y hacer real la igualdad política reconocida por la ley: tal debe ser el primer objetivo de una instrucción nacional y, desde este punto de vista, constituye para el poder público un deber de justicia.

(CONDORCET, Informe y proyecto de decreto sobre la organización general de la instrucción pública, 1792)

2005-05-26T10:35:00.000+02:00

Listen to this little, harmless, laughable, almost poetical instance of parental frustrated aspiration projected onto the offspring, of mine:

In due time, my son will discover the almost-hidden small collection of unused but beautiful math books I got some years ago, before I gave up any hopes of majoring in Mathematics. He'll be fascinated and will read them up through sleepless nights, and that will be the starting gun in his way to become the genius mathematician of the century.

N.B. Mika, if you ever read this, and you happen to be a healthy, happy woodcutter, have no doubt I'll be the proudest and merriest of parents ;-)

2005-05-22T21:15:00.000+02:00

Hay que razonar con los niños

Fernando Savater's El valor de educar is a very good essay (with the only exception perhaps of the epilog, not so for its contents but for the patronising tone). At the end, Savater includes a selection of excerpts --and three of them are exceptional. The first one belongs to Locke (Header, above, to Savater):

Quizá pueda asombrar que recomiende razonar con los niños y sin embargo no puedo dejar de pensar que es la verdadera manera en que hay que comportarse con ellos. Entienden las razones desde que saben hablar y, si no me equivoco, gustan de ser tratados como criaturas razonables desde mucho antes de lo que suele imaginarse. Se trata de una especie de orgullo que hay que desarrollar en ellos y del que hay que servirse tanto como sea posible, a modo de poderoso instrumento para conducirles.

Pero cuando hablo de razonamientos entiendo solamente los que se refieren a la inteligencia y están al alcance del espíritu del niño. Nadie supone que pueda argumentarse con un niño de tres o ni siquiera de siete años como con un hombre maduro. Los largos discursos y los razonamientos filosóficos asombran todo lo más y confunden el espíritu del niño, pero no lo instruyen. Cuando digo que hay que tratarlos como a criaturas razonables, entiendo pues que debéis hacerles comprender por la suavidad de vuestros modales y por el aire tranquilo que conservaréis hasta en vuestras reprimendas que lo que hacéis es razonable en sí mismo, al mismo tiempo que útil y necesario para ellos; que no es por capricho, por pasión o por fantasía por lo que les ordenáis o les prohibís esto o aquello. Eso están perfectamente capacitados para comprenderlo y no hay virtud ni vicio de los que no puedan entender por qué la una se les recomienda y el otro se les prohibe: lo único que hace falta es elegir las razones apropiadas para su edad y para su inteligencia, y exponérselas siempre claramente y con pocas palabras. Los principios sobre los que reposan la mayoría de los deberes y las fuentes del bien y del mal del que brotan tales principios no siempre es fácil explicarlos ni siquiera a hombres hechos y derechos, cuando no están acostumbrados a abstraer sus pensamientos de las opiniones comúnmente recibidas. Con mayor razón todavía los niños son incapaces de razonar sobre principios un poco elevados. No sienten la fuerza de una larga deducción. Las razones que les convencen son razones familiares, al nivel de sus pensamientos, razones sensibles y palpables, si puedo expresarme así. Pero si se tiene consideración de su edad, de su temperamento y de sus gustos, nunca se dejará de encontrar motivos de ese tipo que puedan persuadirles. Y si no se encontrase otra razón más pertinente, lo que siempre comprenderán y bastará para apartarles de una falta de las que pueden cometer es que esa falta les desacredita y les deshonra, que os disgusta.

(JOHN LOCKE, Algunos pensamientos sobre educación, sec. VIII)

2005-05-15T21:02:00.000+02:00

I asked my friend J890 to start a blog. He replied he considered it many times in the past but never made his mind up about it... Well, read what he has to say about it and judge, first, if I should have let his thoughts only known to him and me:

He estado pensando un poco sobre ello y tengo algunas ideas iniciales, pero aún están inmaduras.

Por una parte, un blog tiene (o puede tener) una componente de diario personal, algo que ya de entrada siempre he sido reticente a comenzar, aún no sé por qué. Un diario personal, así como cualquier escrito que uno se guarda para sí mismo, es (o puede ser) un espacio íntimo y libre de creación, muchas veces de reflexión, en mi caso también de estructuración y maduración de ideas, o incluso lo más lejos que pueden llegar algunos pensamientos o sentimientos íntimos. Así, un diario personal tiene como atractivos, por una parte, el puro placer de la creación (porque escribir es crear), por otra, el beneficio del ejercicio de reflexión al que te obliga, y finalmente, un incalculable valor documental para uno mismo. A menudo me he sentido incapaz de recordar cómo me sentía o qué pensaba en cierta época de mi vida, y eso puede ser muchas veces una gran pérdida (o quizá no) para el desarrollo o la autoconsciencia de uno. O simplemente para recordar en qué año fue uno a Argentina y que vio/sintió cuando allí estuvo, o que errores cometió en cada momento de su vida y que lecciones aprendió de ellos. Guardo los mensajes que envío y las cartas que escribo, pero no siempre lo he hecho, y tampoco queda almacenado de una forma cómoda de recuperar o buscar, y siempre hay grandes lagunas. Un diario personal bien estructurado en un blog puede cubrir todo eso.

Por otro lado, un blog es público, lo cual añade a todo lo anterior el morbo, la incertidumbre y la inquietud del potencial de éxito y de fracaso, así como una mezcla de orgullo y humildad. Añade nuevos objetivos potenciales: el de ser útil o placentero para otros, lo que puede traducirse en beneficios adicionales: el placer de ayudar o gustar, el del reconocimiento, o simplemente mejorar la comunicación con las personas próximas al dejar a la luz detalles de uno mismo que en el día a día quedan ocultos, algo que tanto temo como deseo, etc...

Invitar a otros a conocer mi blog me incomoda: me resulta al mismo tiempo un acto de humildad y una falta de modestia. Es una de esas cosas que uno quisiera que sucedieran pero sin propiciarlas activamente. Un blog me hace sentir más vulnerable, igual que al principio de mi relación con KB35 me sentí vulnerable porque podía ver como ella empezaba a saber más de mí que nadie, cosa que por otra parte deseaba. Y si lo pienso con detenimiento sigue siendo así: soy más vulnerable porque KB35 podría hacerme más daño que nadie, aunque seguramente también me siento aliviado por haber compartido ciertas cosas con ella.

En fin, para los que, como yo, son tímidos, introvertidos y encuentran en la escritura un espacio olvidado, anárquico y personal de placer, creación, destape y crecimiento interior... un blog es un "ni contigo ni sin ti" ;-).

The second question you should decide: can the world afford such a loss of talent? Please vote via comments whether he should immediately start his blog or go on depriving humanity of his genius...

And alas! What I say of J890 I could say as well of T422...

PS. J890's words reproduced with permission. First names real ;-)

2005-05-08T19:35:00.000+02:00

Rousseau exposa la seua gran màxima de moral. I ho fa convincement, perquè hi va arribar gràcies a, o per culpa de, son pare. La cosa va així:

Mon pare no solament era un home d'honor, era un home d'una probitat segura, i tenia una d'aquelles ànimes fortes que generen gran virtuts; a més, era bon pare, sobretot per a mi. M'estimava amb tendresa; però estimava també els seus plaers, i altres gustos havien refredat una mica l'afecte paternal, d'ençà que vivia lluny d'ell. A Nyon s'havia tornat a casar [...] Mon pare envellia i no tenia cap bé per a sostenir la seva vellesa. Teníem, mon germà i jo, alguns béns de ma mare, la renda dels quals va anar a parar a mon pare durant el nostre allunyament. [...] Aquesta és també la raó per la qual, tot i anar-lo a veure sovint, després de la meva fugida, vaig rebre d'ell sempre carícies de pare, però sense gaires esforços per retenir-me.

I continua per arribar a on volia:

Aquest comportament d'un pare, la tendresa i la virtut del qual he conegut molt bé, m'ha fet fer unes reflexions sobre mi mateix que han contribuït força a mantenir-me amb el cor sa. N'he tret aquesta gran màxima de moral, l'única potser d'ús pràctic, la d'evitar les situacions que posen els nostres deures en oposició als nostres interessos i que ens mostren el nostre bé en el mal d'altri [...]

Si. Em declar rousseaunià en aquest punt. De fet, sempre m'ha causat una certa confusió moral l'actitud d'aquells, per exemple, que després d'una tragèdia familiar (la mort d'un fill, posem por cas) s'hi dediquen amb cor i ànima a l'obtenció d'una indemnització milionària. La mateixa incomoditat que em produeix, també per exemple, sentir la coneguda cançó d'en Clapton, Tears in heaven.

2005-05-03T12:00:00.000+02:00

Last evening I saw The Ring. Please don't go on reading if you plan to see it since this entry is a complete spoiler for the film.

And good grief, I got scared! The film isn't perfect at all —the middle part, where the story develops, it's lame and unimaginative; the recourse to an undisclosed dream, cheap; and they don't know what to do with the (already archetypical) paranormal child in the end. But the movie's beginning is indeed terrifying, due to two remarkable facts. First, the simplicity of the plot —you see a particular video tape, get a phone call the very moment it ends announcing you're done... and you die in seven days, period. Second, while they're looking at the tape, you're seeing it, too, full screen... And you can't avoid some perspiration at the thought of the phone ringing, right then, by your side...

And then, when everything seems to indicate they're going to resort to the expected presumedly-unexpected big end fright, they don't... Instead, they manage to get to a more refined, startling, and funny finale, where the tape itself is, how could I put it, a kind of forgiving meme with those who get it copied... and a ring indeed.

I'll see part two tonight. I'll let you know...

2005-05-02T17:13:00.000+02:00

Al final del llibre primer, tot fent referència al mestre gravador que, per mor del seu comportament tirànic, va desviar Rousseau de practicar la professió per sempre més, Jean-Jacques se lamenta, profundament, així:

Abans d'abandonar-me a la fatalitat del meu destí, permeteu-me que giri un moment els ulls sobre el que m'esperava de natural si hagués caigut a mans d'un mestre millor. No hi havia res més convenient per al meu humor, ni més adient per fer-me feliç que l'estat tranquil i gris d'un bon artesà, en certes classes, sobretot, tal com és a Ginebra la dels gravadors. Aquest estat, prou lucratiu per a donar-me una subsistència còmoda, i no el suficient per a fer una fortuna, hauria limitat la meva ambició per a la resta de la meva vida i, tot deixant-me un oci honest per a conrear gustos moderats, m'hauria fet restar a la meva esfera, sense donar-me mitjans per a sortir-ne. Amb una imaginació prou rica per adornar amb les seves quimeres tots els estats, prou potent per a transportar-me, per dir-ho així, al meu grat de l'un a l'altre, no m'importava gaire de debò en quin fos. No hi podia haver gaire distància entre el lloc on era i el primer castell a Espanya que no pogués saltar amb la imaginació. D'això se'n dedueix que l'estat que més em convenia era el més senzill, aquell que provocava menys maldecaps i menys cura, aquell que deixava l'esperit més lliure; i aquest era precisament el meu. Hauria passat al si de la meva religió, de la meva pàtria, de la meva família i dels meus amics una vida tranquil·la i dolça, la que convenia al meu caràcter, en la uniformitat d'una feina del meu gust i d'una societat d'acord amb el meu tarannà. Hauria estat un bon cristià, un bon ciutadà, un bon pare de família, un bon amic, un bon obrer, un bon home en tots els sentits. Hauria estimat la meva condició, l'hauria honorada potser, i després d'haver passat una vida obscura i senzilla, però igual i dolça, hauria mort possiblement al costat dels meus. Aviat oblidat, sens dubte, això no obstant, m'haurien plorat tant de temps com s'haurien recordat de mi.

En lloc d'això... Quin quadre he de presentar? Ah!, no anticipem les misèries de la meva vida; ja ocuparé a bastament els meus lectors amb aquest tema tan trist.

Això és commovedor, o almenys així ho sent jo, i em fa pensar en mi mateix, no pas perquè em vulgui comparar amb en Rousseau, és clar, sinó perquè vivint jo la vida modesta i ordenada, de felicitat casolana per la qual ell se'n delia, la inquietud, el petit desassossec, guaiten per la finestra oposada, la de l'excel·lència intel·lectual no aconseguida, la del reconeixement públic, la de l'estatus social que no he gosat perseguir...

2005-04-30T21:16:00.000+02:00

Patrimonio. Una historia verdadera ('Patrimony. A true story', 1991), d'en Philip Roth no és una novel.la extraordinària, però el seu caràcter biogràfic, amb una remarcable, obscena sinceritat (a l'estil d'Experiència, d'en Martin Amis, que és molt superior), i la intel·ligència clara del seu autor la fan interessant, i de vegades, estimable.

Camí de casa de son pare per comunicar-li la seva (de son pare) malaltia fatal, Philip agafa la sortida d'autopista equivocada —en una equivocació que no sap si atribuir enterament a la casualitat— i arriba al cementeri on hi ha enterrada sa mare:

Lo que demuestran los cementerios, al menos a las personas como yo, no es que los muertos estén presentes, sino que ya se han ido. Ellos se han ido y nosotros, por el momento, aquí estamos. Esto es fundamental y, por inaceptable que resulte, muy fácil de entender.

Analitzant el comportament de son pare l'endemà mateix de la mort de la seva dona, Philip observa que:

Fue el primitivismo de mi padre lo que más sorprendido me dejó. Allí solo, vaciando los cajones y los armarios de mi madre, parecía impulsado por un instinto que quizá pudiera considerarse natural en una fiera o en un salvaje, pero que iba en contra de todos o casi todos los ritos mortuorios que la sociedad ha ido creando para mitigar la sensación de pérdida en quienes sobreviven a la muerte de un ser querido. Y sin embargo, también había algo casi admirable en esta resolución despiadadamente realista de admitir, al instante, que ahora ya era un viejo que vivía solo y que las reliquias simbólicas en modo alguno podían sustituir a quien había sido su auténtica compañera durante cincuenta y cinco años. No me pareció que fuera por miedo al poder espectral que pudieran poseer las cosas de mi madre por lo que quería desembarazar de ellas su casa, sin dilación —enterrarlas ya—, sino más bien porque se negaba a eludir el más brutal de todos los hechos.

Ja mort Herman Roth, Philip té un somni, jo diria que profund:

El sueño me decía que —ya que no en mis libros ni en mi vida—, al menos en mis sueños yo seguiría siendo para siempre el hijo niño de mi padre, con la conciencia de un hijo niño, y que él seguiría vivo no sólo como padre mío, sino como PADRE, en permanente juicio de todas mis acciones.

Llegiré altres coses d'en Philip Roth. He sentit a dir que la seva millor novel·la és Portnoy's Complaint, 'El lamento de Portnoy'. No cal dir que agrairé qualsevol recomanació o comentari que, a través del botó de 'Comments', qualcú tengui l'amabilitat de fer.

2005-04-28T11:40:00.000+02:00

Estic llegint (encara) les Confessions d'en Rousseau. Diu:

Els diners que es tenen són l'instrument de la llibertat; els que es persegueixen ho són de la servitud. Heus aquí per què estalvio i no desitjo res.

També diu, parlant d'un cosí amb el qual va passar bona part de l'infantesa, en un comentari que reproduesc perquè copsa una realitat singular i íntima que sé del cert que també trobaríem, si cercàvem, en qualque moment del nostre passat:

No ens hem tornat ni a escriure ni a veure mai més. Es una llàstima: era d'un caràcter essencialment bo: estàvem fets per a estimar-nos.

2005-04-23T17:20:00.000+02:00

About tramps, two stories.

It's not unusual here for homeless people in winter to take refuge and spend the night at one or another of the roomy, covered, weather-isolated sundry downtown cash dispensers. They get there and spread their rugs and blankets all over the place, making themselves at ease, frightening away with their mere presence any unsuspected bank client who happens to get there.

In my way back home from work I usually go past one of the tramps' favourites spots, that of La Caixa. I was in the point of hardly noticing them anymore when one evening I had to step back to check whether what my side vision had perceived was true or not... and to my amused commotion, I found out my senses hadn't betrayed me —there he was, the guy, comfortably lying over his cardboards, cushioned in blankets and reclined upon the wall, while having an obvious agreeable conversation... through his mobile phone!

One gets so used to the humble, low-headed, sometimes mutilated, politically correct beggar you invariably find at the gates or the stairs of every Catholic church in town that when you find one, as I did yesterday, who specifically asked for two euros, and when ignored retorted not loudly but perfectly audible, 'i si no que te fotin pes cul', cannot avoid feeling quite an appreciation for him...

2005-04-22T10:20:00.000+02:00

Just for the sake of recording: Mika made today his first complex grammatical mistake --the typical one resulting from transposition of function between parts of the sentence. He was playing with a stick in the manner of a fishing rod when he spoke out he had just caught a big fish with the 'pesca de canyar'!

Next landmark will be when he'll first get socially embarrassed for future instances of that same mistake. Hope I'll be reporting it here as well.

2005-04-20T11:56:00.000+02:00

Oh my god, today's just one of these days, when you can't avoid thinking you're a failure and that your life's a waste... And your music sounds awful, the computer crashes and the good spirits of the day before seem lost forever, till the next day or next hour when everything's fine again...

2004-09-15T21:02:00.000+02:00

Aside from the anxiety about his health, I'm having the greatest of times with my boy. He was all I needed to be happy, now I know. It's real fun to be with him and watch him grow older, by the day. I'm excited about the future; I wouldn't like to die today.

2004-01-09T10:50:00.000+01:00

After the clock had finished announcing the new year's entry, and after she had complied with the rituals attached to the occasion, I noticed Julia discreetly slipped off to the room Mika was placidly sleeping in, to kiss him happy new year. Nobody else realized she was absent while she was; she said nothing when she came back to the party --that's Julia's way. But it was so tender an act, so basic and intimate a celebration, that I got moved. No doubt hers are the true colors of love.

2002-09-12T09:19:00.000+02:00

A dear friend of mine says he needs time to assess our friendship, which he calls 'slippery'. In the meantime, he doesn't want to communicate with me. I wonder if he's aware of the fact that our friendship is our communication, mainly computer-mediated --take away email, and little is left, other than the good will and the good remembrances. What he must be assessing, I wonder as well. Our friendship is not very demanding, in the ordinary way: we don't see each other very much, we live very independent lives, and we seldom ask favours each other... It can't be that he thinks that by putting an end to our friendship he'll be liberated from many obligations he doesn't want to bear anymore. I might think that his main concern is about confidence. First: Am I worthwhile the trouble of speaking to me about him? And second: Am I trustworthy enough not to take advantage of whatever he tells me? Well, that could be. But I'm more inclined to locate the problem elsewhere: that he's fed up with me, actually, and has no interest whatsoever in keeping on knowing about me.

His last email was so astoundingly childlike and humourless that I think there's an underlying cause for his dislike about me he's not fully aware of, so that he needs a putative motive to refer his discontent to. What it is the real problem, I don't know. Why the hate element in the love-hate pair every friendship is inevitably made of has taken now the lead, I don't know. I feel that from some time now he's been a little uncomfortable with my being around (virtually). Well, it happens sometimes: you simply get tired of people you formerly liked. Perhaps that's what he needs time to discover: whether he's happier without my being around, virtually and eventually physically.

And that's very unfortunate for me. I miss him, already. Things which would go all the way from my mind to his and would come back enriched to me, must remain unsaid now. I lose, but does he gain?

2002-05-29T12:29:00.000+02:00

This morning I've taken Mika to a very nice square here in Palma. I love the place because of its placidness and its rather lonely character, notwithstanding the fact that it's located right at downtown. It's an ample but cosy space, with a remarkable double line of low trees forming a way which reminds me of an agora's stoa. At one side of the square there is a large piece of empty ground. Such spaces have always caught my attention in such a way that I actively search for them when walking the streets of a city --they stand out as a wild challenge to the usually rational vulgarity of the buildings surrounding them. Closing the square by the south there is the back side of Palma's oldest grammar school --very much looking like the one I went to in my hometown.

Sat in a bench while reading the last pages of Somerset Maugham's The Narrow Corner, with Mika placidly slept in his buggy by my side, wheels blocked, I've thought about how simple my life has become since my son was born —mornings I take care of him, afternoons I go to work. Anything else is unimportant. Two months ago I wouldn't have allowed myself to idle around like this. Today I rejoice while doing it. The pleasure of reading a good book in a beautiful place with your son by your side, the sun shining, and no further assignments.

My cousin Eva María, a very recent mother too, told me some days ago that she wanted her son Román to learn how to make his own life easy, as that was the only way for him to get to understand life in full complexity.

2002-04-30T14:41:00.000+02:00

He finally came out, alas, on April the fourth in very rough weather. Alike unpleasant days followed that very one, making it frustrating not being able to take the baby out to the street for a walk.

I don't know any popular children songs like the ones my mother used to sing to me when I was a child. That's a problem now, because I don't know what to sing to my son when trying to appease him or when playing around with him.

But then one day we woke up and the sun was there! The song came to my lips almost instinctively, and with Mika in my arms while dancing around I began to sing it aloud to him...

Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,
and I say it's all right

Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter
Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
and I say it's all right

To my delight and surprise, Mika was responsive to the song --he seemed to like it. Did that mean my problem was solved? I tried some other beautiful Beatles songs, and again the response was good --they're so melodic, have such a clear sound, are so apparently easy and unpretentious, that I think they're completely suitable for babies. I played him on the computer Blackbird, Hey Jude, Cry Baby Cry (this one I didn't mean him to take it verbatim), Golden Slumbers, I Wanna Hold Your Hand...

Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces
Little darling, it seems like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
and I say it's all right

Now the song's become a classic also, and above all, between us. And while he'll grow up unaware of all this, I'll grow older happier with the memory of his little head over my shoulder whenever he happens to fall asleep to the voice of old Harrison celebrating, well, life in itself.

2002-03-28T14:10:00.000+01:00

Waiting for my son to be born. He should have been born by now, but there are no signs of delivery yet. I'm eager, dull, low-spirited and pessimistic. I know I shouldn't worry, but I do. My mother taught me to worry --incessantly, dramatically, rather absurdly. Not that she wanted to or that I resent her... But I was with her as a child all the long evenings when my father hadn't come back yet and we were there just waiting for him to arrive. He earned his living as a sales representative, and as such he spent most of his time in the road, in a time (the mid-seventies) when no mobile phones were known. My mother was very much distressed when half past nine PM had struck and he wasn't back home yet. But she didn't suffer either silently or expressionlessly, and I was there by her side, soaking up all her restlessness positively silent and expressionless. I grew up constantly worrying about my father's delays, worrying as a child worries --with terror, in solitude. Anxiety is now a key component of my personality. I only hope being intelligent enough not to pass it on my son, when it comes out, if it comes out.