Entirely Communicating by Saúl Yurkievich

My thin hair, my gray-haired fuzz communicate
My frown while stressed or relaxed communicates

My pelvis when I walk truly communicates

My nervous meninx in secret code communicate

My zits, of course, also my elbows

According to the circumstance communicate

My nails going from white to black

Growing or lessening communicate

My ostentatious hands communicate

The palm and the phalanx communicate, even the glove

As my breath, sometimes large and sometimes short, communicates

My crystalline or bloodshot eyes

Blinking or winking they communicate

The bags under my eyes and their sleepiness communicate

All of my mouth communicates

The vault, the veil, the pulsating saliva,

Any of the parcels of my porous skin,

All organs, all muscles, all membranes

The body completely communicates.

Song- When I was young I said to Sorrow, by Aubrey Thomas de Vere

I

When I was young, I said to Sorrow,
"Come, and I will play with thee"—
He is near me now all day;
And at night returns to say,
"I will come again to-morrow,
I will come and stay with thee."

II

Through the woods we walk together;
His soft footsteps rustle nigh me.
To shield an unregarded head,
He hath built a winter shed;
And all night in rainy weather,
I hear his gentle breathings by me.

Alone, by Edgar Allan Poe

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

Oh Death! by Amado Nervo

To die is a true philosophical act.

NOVALIS.

Oh death! You are the mother of philosophy.

You ennoble the life of a WHO KNOWS!

And you give flavor to our melancholy hours.

In everything that is great—pain, love— there you are.

Triumphal arc of black marble, where it passes trough,

Dignified, the soul that never ceased fighting,

like a taciturn hero; gift, shelter and home

Of someone who naked and alone trampled the hard earth…

You add value to the lives of the most void and vulgar people:

Sancho Panza agonizes, and there is majesty in him.

You draw the faces o men with singular lines,

You, marvelous sculptor of Serenity!

All the gold of silence is yours. (The silver

Of the eloquence you leave for living fooolishly.)

Your silence says more than our verbal torrent

Of millenniums, in its vain flow.

Your pallid hand shuts the door of the room,

And then we see no more, we know no more.
Does a chrysalis morph behind all this?

What portentous alchemy goes on behind it?

Oh death! Creator of mystery: you made

Inquietude fly for the first time in pursuit

Of the Ideal. Looking at your august and sad face,

Man looked up and found God.

From Elevation

The City, by Konstantinos Kavafis

You said, "I will go to another land, I will go to another sea.
Another city will be found, a better one than this.
Every effort of mine is a condemnation of fate;
and my heart is –like a corpse– buried.
How long will my mind remain in this wasteland.
Wherever I turn my eyes, wherever I may look
I see black ruins of my life here,
where I spent so many years destroying and wasting."

You will find no new lands, you will find no other seas.
The city will follow you. You will roam the same
streets. And you will age in the same neighborhoods;
and you will grow gray in these same houses.
Always you will arrive in this city. Do not hope for any other–
There is no ship for you, there is no road.
As you have destroyed your life here
in this little corner, you have ruined it in the entire world.

Translation taken from this website.

Measuring Time by Different Clocks. By the Stars. By Luis de Gongora y Argote

If I want by the stars

To know, time, where you are,

I see that you go with them

But with them you don’t come back.

Where do you imprint your fingerprints

That I cannot find your trace?

Now I realize I am wrong

if I believe you fly, run and roll;

You are, time, the one who stays,

And I am the one who goes.

Finish with Everything, by Octavio Paz

Give me, invisible flame, cold sword,

You persistent anger,

To finish with everything,

Oh dry world,

Oh bleeding world,

To finish with everything.

Burn, dismal, burn without flames,

quenched and ardent,

Ashes and living rock,

Desert without shore.

Burn in the vast heavens, sandstone and cloud,

Under the blind light that collapses

Between sterile cliffs.

Burn in the solitude that tears us apart,

Land of burning stone,

Of frozen and thirsty roots.

Burn, hidden fury,

Maddening ashes,

burn invisible, burn,

Like the impotent seas breeding clouds,

Waves like the rancor and rocky foam.

Burn between my delirious bones;

Burn inside the hollow air,

Invisible and pure kiln,

Burn like time burns,

Like time walking towards death,

With its own steps and breath;

Burn like the solitude that devours you,

Burn in yourself, burn without flame,

Solitude without an image, thirst without lips.

To finish with everything,

Oh dry world,

To finish with everything.

Freedom Through the Word. Poetic work (1935-1957)

Mexican Literature.

Fondo de Cultura Económica.

First reprint in Spain, 1990.

To Dream, o Lord, to Dream! by Leon Felipe

Make me dream… To dream, o Lord, to dream!...

I haven’t dream for a long time!

I dreamt that I was once –when I was still a little boy,

At the beginning of the world-

On a runaway horse by the wind,

I dreamt that I rode, runaway, in the wind…

That I myself was the wind…

Lord, make me dream again that I am the wind,

The wind under the Light, the wind trespassed by the Light,

The wind that is unmade by the Light,

The wind melted by the Light,

The wind.., made Light…

Lord, make me dream that I am the Light…

That I am yourself, part of myself…

And keep me, keep me asleep,

Dreaming, eternally dreaming,

That I am a little ray of light by your side.

Quatrain (Cuarteta), by Jorge Luis Borges

Others died, but it occurred in the past,
Which is the season (everyone knows) most propitious for death.
Is it possible that I, subject of Yaqub Almansur,
Die as roses and Aristotle had to die?

From Divan of Almotásim el Magrebi (12^th century)

Translated by Christopher Mulrooney

Jesus and Philosophy: On the Questions We Ask, by Paul Moser

Paper.

I heard about the texts of this author from a friend, of whom Moser was the assessor of his doctoral thesis.

In this document, the author shares a point of view in regard to the attitude Christian philosophers should take when they have to decide about the areas towards they wish to focus on for work and research.

Philosophy is not by default a friend of Christ, nor Christ that of philosophy, even though Christ touches on themes that directly or indirectly impact philosophy, and philosophy can boarder the themes that he talks about.

Then, philosophy can be dedicated to questioning and studying Christ without being committed to him or obey him and be applied like a ministerial tool for the building of the Church; it all depends on the attitude of the philosopher.

For where your area of research is, there your heart will be also.

Alan

To see the document of Paul Moser, click here.

To visit his web page, click here.

The Discovery of Poetry

…I’m not sure that the discovery of love would be necessarily more delicious than that of poetry.

Memoirs of Hadrian

VAIRUS MILTIPLEX MULTIFORMIS

Margerite Yourcenar

Fire and Philosophy

To study it in all it's purity, philosophers make reality suffer almost the same transformations that fire or the mortar make bodies suffer; in these crystals or in these ashes nothing seems to subsist to be or act as we know. […] It would be very difficult for me to live in a world without books, but reality is not in them, since it wouldn’t entirely fit on them.

Memoirs of Hadrian

ANIMULA VAGULA BLANDULA

Marguerite Yourcenar

Man and Horses

The relationship between Boristhenes and me was one of mathematical precision: he obeyed me as if I were his brain, not his master. Did I ever succeed in making a man do the same thing? […] My horse replaced the thousand notions related to the title, the function and the name, which turn human friendship into something complicated, by the only knowledge of my exact weight of man.

Memoirs of Hadrian
ANIMA VAGULA BLANDULA
Marguerite Yourcenar

The Unbereable Lightness of Being, by Milan Kundera

Novel. My favorite, so far.

We only live once. Or is there an eternal return?

If the latter is true, are we condemned to repeat our actions endless times, infinitely? The burden of each one of our actions would become heavy, unbearable.

On the other hand, if we live once, if all what is set inside of the flow of time only happens once, then our actions lack of relevance. What relevance can something that happens in a glimpse have; something that only happens once; something that doesn’t leave a trace? A drop of water can’t erode a rock. The rock is something incommensurable, like eternity. Then, our existence is devoid of weight. We are victims of the unbearable lightness of being.

I have four faces, like cherubim:

I am Tomáš and I have a crush on someone even if I have a desire for others.

I have felt the crumble, the jealousy, and the anxiety of Tereza.

I am a fool child like Franz, I’m only a child.

I have pursued that cursed Sabina, just to realize that her steps are mine own.

Alan

An Experiment in Criticism, by C. S. Lewis

Literary criticism.

How should a literary work be read to be most appreciated? Should we approach to it with a preconceived intention like “cultivate our spirits”, “find out answers”, “seek for help”, “know other cultures”? By all means! In this I agree with Lewis.

In this book he says that exposing ourselves to a literary work to appreciate it the most implies an abandonment of ourselves to what we read. We should renounce to preconceived ideas or personal quests so the work would speak completely by itself to us.

Another central idea of this work is that books should be judged according of the kind of reading they invite us to. This is what separates genuine readers from the other ones.

Alan

Metamorphosis, by Franz Kafka

Mom, dad: I’m afraid of not being loved by you someday.

When we are ashamed of someone or something, do we simply stay away from that person or situation, or do we just go out for a walk until the unpleasant thing simply disappears?

If someday I stop being myself and become a different being among my neighbors, would they notice my absence?

Who cares why things happen? We are just victims of causation.

I feel cold.

Helarte de Amar (You Freeze from Loving: 69), by Fernando Iwasaki

Stories.

A boy who who falls in love with his teacher tells us how he feels according to what he watches on TV. These are the times of Batman and Guilligan’s Island.

A young man messes with his friend and her mother. A cold current runs through this story.

A story of prostitutes in a bar of the Bronx. How many views are there to tell us what happened?

A guy who likes getting involved in his girlfriend’s jobs: one was a cook, another studied medicine, and another worked as a secretary. He learned something of each one, but… what was Luciana’s job?

A spatial voyage. The cooperation of two countries is needed to achieve an important mission: make a couple of astronauts become the first spacefuckers. For Commander Kimberley Most things don’t happen as planned…

With these and other stories (or science-fiction narrative, or sexual nonsense, as the author calls them), Fernando Iwasaki shows us that he is an excellent narrator. His prose is charged with humor and an clever and fresh use of language.

I found this book as a compulsory reading for one of Espido Freire’s workshops on literary creation. She considers Iwasaki as one of the best story writers in Spanish language of our time. I’d like to read his Trousseau Funeral now.

Oedipus Rex; Sophocle

Greek tragedy.

Besides the well-known argument of Oedipus falling in love with his mother and killing his father (all of this without him knowing it), this tragedy can tell us something else…

With this work Sophocles made the Greeks’ religious thought shake. With the pass of time and with the coming of other men, the gods went back to their cradle: the abyss, the chaos, the night….

Certainly the plots of the gods are terrible. They cannot be changed. If we dance under their whim music, it is easy to understand why we would want to stop believing in those gods.

The Art of War, by Sun Tzu (or Sun Zi)

Treatise.

Have you ever had to fight someone? This was Sun Tzu’s daily bread, since he was a Chinese General of the 5th century B.C.

In this book, Sun Tzu shares with us his knowledge in the art of war, conflicts, and how can we overcome in them. The book was written as a practical war manual for ancient times. It tells us about considering geography, ground, how to use fire and spies against our enemies, if we should position ourselves standing in the wind and sun’s direction, or if we should do the opposite, among other things. However, these advices could be translated and applied to any situation in which we have to struggle against something. This is the essence of war, after all.

We could say that if Sun Tzu could come back to life in our times he could be something of the following at least: CEO of a multinational company, professor of a Business School, philosopher, economist, chess champion, coach, statesman, or even General again. The list follows…

Here is a portion of the book which shows its elegant prose:

The combination of direct and indirect tactical methods are like:

(1) Inexhaustible haven and earth.

(2) Endless flow of rivers.

(3) Endless sun and moon rises and falls each day.

(4) Four seasons repeated endlessly.

(5) Five musical notes with their different combinations could produce melodies that one has never heard before.

(6) Five primary colors with the different combinations will produce endless hues.

(7) Five basic tastes such as sweet, sour, bitter, chili and salty with different combinations to create endless flavors.

Chapter five (Posture of Army), a fragment.

Bestiary, by Juan José Arreola

Prose.

Arreola is magnificent. In this Bestiary he introduces to us different kinds of animals with his immaculate prose. The description is exquisite. Sometimes it becomes anthropomorphic, but this is done with a brilliant subtlety. We find out that we, humans, are the animals that he describes. Or, is it that we have at least part of their nature and behavior?

I like The Owl, epistemologist par excellence.

Alan

Pedro Páramo, by Juan Rulfo

Novel.

A classic among the classics. This is one of the best of Mexican literature (I don’t know if fortunately or unfortunately, but I personally appreciate it anyway).

Some foreigners (especially Americans and Europeans) still believe that most of Mexico is still believing and living like in the marvelous scenes and environments that this novel displays.

The story begins with a man who goes to a town looking for Pedro Páramo, his father. As the argument develops we notice that Pedro Páramo and the town are something out of the ordinary.

¡I HATE COSTUMBRISMO (literature of local customs and manners)! However, Rulfo doesn’t fit in it. He overpasses this kind of writing.

Alan

The Tunnel, by Ernesto Sábato

Novel.

A short and interesting book. This is the story of an obsessive, almost a schizophrenic, painter. In one word: a stalker. He begins to feel an attraction to María Ibarne, a girl who apparently was the only one who could understand one of his paintings. He does everything possible to follow and meet her. He is so obsessed with her that he finally assassinates her.

The narration begins with the painter in prison and as it evolves he tells us how he met María and why he killed her.

I felt attracted by the story because I think sometimes I’m as obsessive as the painter (I want to make it clear, this is just in some aspects of my life, I’m not an stalker). Sometimes I take a situation to the limit of analysis to consider courses of action or just to infer in a detailed way why things happen…

Anyway, I have come to think that everyone is like this, at least in one of the soul’s deep corners. If that is not the case… then I have just exposed myself.

Alan

Lazarillo de Tormes

Frank Loveland, a professor of a short certified course in Ibero-American literature that I am taking, said to the class that the only thing one should achieve if he wants to become famous or that his name could be remembered for ages in the literature world is to establish, without any doubt, who was the author of this work.

Any volunteers?

Even though we don’t know the answer yet, we can enjoy and talk about Lazarillo here.

This is the story of Lázaro, a poor boy who needs to work as the servant of different masters to survive. From each of his masters he learns valuable lessons for living, lessons about the moral values of his society, and at the same time, he amuses us. Well, I have to admit this is done with a very simple humor, like a Tom and Jerry’s cartoon. But it amuses, anyway.

From those who have read the book… who doesn’t remember the tricks the Lazarillo played to the blind man?

Alan

Long Sentences and Commas Rock my Socks!

Hey!

Here are a few quick translator's comments.

The Spanish language is really cool because it is perfectly acceptable and even considered good writing to have really long sentences. (Of course in English, long sentences are looked upon as being wordy and are difficult to follow.) In an attempt to be closer to the original language, I have tried to keep as many long sentences as possible. Be patient and learn to enjoy the longer sentences when you encounter them.

Another interesting language difference: commas are used more sparsely in Spanish. I have added a few for clarity, but I have not put in as many as would be typical for English writing, so that may take a bit to adjust to.

I just wanted to let the grammar-conscience readers know that these common little "errors" are intentional to stay closer to the original Spanish writing.

Also, I will try to include poetry or quotes in English as a translation, as well as in the original language.

Thanks! Adrienne

Wide Sargasso Sea; Jean Rhys

Novel.

This book is a head spinner. Something like a gothic novel but in a Carribean atmosphere. It’s about a little girl of European descent who lives in Jamaica with her mother, father, and her black servents. The life goes in circles, the little girl grows, they arrange a marriage with a proud man for her, and that’s as far as I’ll tell you. THIS IS NOT A TYPICAL STORY ABOUT A POOR LITTLE PRINCESS, it has profundity and psychology. Jean Rhys writes very well and gives it a sling, sophisticated and evolving atmosphere. The end is very well worked.

A friend promised that she was going to loan me the book, and she kept promising to loan it to me, and nothing… I ended up having to buy it online. Anyways, I’m thankful because if she had loaned it to me, I would have never given it back, which usually happens with books.

If you want, you can comment here.

Lethal Story of Fragility; Rebecca Arroyo Rodriguez “DaRIa DecoN”

This is a book of poetry.

I came to know this book and its’ author practically by accident. One summer that I decided to spend in San Miguel de Allende, I attended in a workshop about creative literature shared by Victor Sahuatoba.

The people in the workshop were very participative and at the end of the course a girl who was sitting next to me said that she had a surprise to share, but that since it was only one, we would have to decide randomly who would end up with it. The luck fell on me and the prize was her book. It was strange because I don’t remember winning another thing that way in my life.

The theme in the entire book is somewhat dark, making illusion to misanthropy, hypocrisy, death, vampires, drugs, and everything else associated with the darkness or Goth.

Since I had never liked this genre, I considered that it was a type of pretext to get attention and just a simple stereotype. I confess that some of her poems brought me pleasure when I read them. After all, shouldn’t literature get the attention of the reader, and doesn’t it use stereotypes, even when trying to rebel against them?

In the internet it’s possible to get examples of her work. If someone wants to comment something about them, it can be done in this space. I leave you with one of my favorite fragments of one of her poems…

Fairy Tale (fragment)

People make fun of me,

my last cent is on the hand of a drunk man,

a drug addict gives me pleasure

and the love of my life is on his honeymoon.

*And here is the original poem fragment in Spanish, the original language.

Cuento de Hadas (fragmento)

La gente se burla de mí,

mi último centavo está en la mano de un borracho,

un drogadicto me da placer

y el amor de mi vida está en su luna de miel.

"DaRla DecóN"

The Bible

What can I say, if you want to comment something about the Bible, you can do it here with complete confidence. I like the interchange of opinions, discussion, and debate in regard to it, in whatever type of environment or tone.

I’m a Bible teacher in my church, so I will be enchanted to receive comments and questions and put forth my own opinions and doubts before you all.

Resemblance

This short story was already posted in the blog of Mediterrania:

http://mediterrania.bloc.cat/post/2741/176377, now I’m posting it here.

Resemblance

The sunset had penetrated with force the partially ajar door of the improvised bedroom. The orange walls of the tent projected in the interior the shapes of the bodies that outside happened to be closest. From the roof and also from the same wall hung the inanimate figures of men and animals of wood, fabric, and cardboard.

A wave of warm colors overflowed without any patron the silence of the tent. The worn and dirty blue sheet that covered a cot for sleeping almost made on the edge of the circular bedroom contrasted with them. On the wrinkled fabric lay an open book. On the last lines of page 78 it could be read:

With relief, with humiliation, with terror, he understood that he also was an illusion, that someone else was dreaming him.*

On the opposite side from where the cot was, a clown puppeteer looked at himself in total stillness in the mirror. His left arm held up the puppet…

__________________________________

*Jorge Luis Borges. The Circular Ruins.

Poltergeist

heresy of emptiness n-bodies
cold firefly paper of the stork
scimitar of the water-breaking voice
bluish flame that transports to another world

a reflection of Alice eats and drinks
a philosopher the axis of his finger
a low-tone de profundis for the hyacinths
a box of curses without the pianist’s hand

world above and below near and together
the ordering of things with any measure
the architecture of unfinished towers
in which we live we move we don’t exist

How I will Publish

I will try to write at least one entry per month. Your comments are welcome.

First Message from the Author (in the Spanish blog)

Hello to everyone.

Finally after a long time, I was inspired to start a blog. I don't know why, but here I am.

In this place, I will write whatever thing that comes to mind. I don't have a specific goal in mind. By how it looks, my entries will be according to my interests and preferences, and I believe the blog will take shape as it comes along. It is my commitment to respond to comments or discussions that you post. Aside of that, I think there's nothing else, although thinking through everything well... there can always be exceptions.

First Message from the Translator

Greetings.

Just a head's up here. This blog is a translation of a Spanish blog "Caballo de Letras" by Alan Elías. The translation is done at the request of the author. To check out the origional Spanish blog, go to

http://caballodeletras.blogspot.com/

Thanks - Adrienne

Caballo de Letras becomes The Horse Writer

That’s it, dear readers. Caballo de Letras will also be known as The Horse Writer, which will be a translation of the original blog to English. This will be to reach a larger number of readers.

It wasn’t easy to choose this name, since translating Caballo de Letras as The Horse of Letters would bring to our minds a horse of the former mail service instead of associating it with the meaning of the word letters as it is most understood in Spanish.

Traduttore, traditore... the translator is a traitor. And yes, I have in mind that it is not easy translating to another language a blog of this kind due to the nature of its content but also to the fact that even the original blog is not completely in Spanish.

Being this the case, I apologize before some readers. I know it is not pleasant to find out in the middle of reading a language which is not well known when we supposed that the full text should be in our own language. This often happens in literature, for we cannot always find a published translation of a work to our language. On the other hand, when I quote a certain text I prefer to do this in the language I read it out.

It is sure that my own comments will be translated from Spanish to English here. We will take advantage of this opportunity to reclassify the content of both blogs: if there is a fragment in a language other than Spanish or English and if it is possible to get a professional and already published translation of it we will place the proper translation for each blog. If that’s not the case we could take two courses of action: we could leave the contents in the original language, or which is less probable and less suggested, since we know that translating is an art (this being more notorious in poetry), the collaborators of this blog (I and Adrienne Saur) will try to translate the fragment of the post placed.

There’s only one thing we would like to ask from you and that is patience, since it is difficult that in this blog posts appear at the same amount of time as they do in the Spanish blog.

Alan