Saturday, April 28, 2012

Nemesis

On an unpleasant and raining Saturday evening, lovely and cozy to be inside, I have finished Philip Roth's Nemesis, comfortably sitting at the sofa and drinking a cup of hot milk with honey -in hope of taming the sour throat and this sort of mild, annoying flu. I have to say that I liked it, despite being a horrible story to recount, dolorous and heart-wrenchingly, as the Sunday Times review says.

Have the critics been favorable? Somewhere I read that the dialogues are so, so -don't remember the word I read- and that the characters of Nemesis are two-dimensional. I learned early this week that the third component of a velocity field, w (third dimension, z) can be readily calculated from the continuity equation, once the first two dimensions are known for an in-compressible fluid:

(d2w / dz2) =- (d2u / dx2) - (d2v / dy2)

In a similar way, one can reflect on the latent third dimension of the characters of a story, hidden to the eyes of the reader, but nevertheless present. The grandmother, Marcia, Marcia's father, the camp directors, Arnie Mesnikoff, naturally Bucky, all the characters are profound in my view. Healthy Bucky -it is true, overwhelmed by his sense of responsibility and high-esteemed- did not want to leave his grandmother alone in Newark, when going to Indian Hills to take over as a director of the waterfront and meet there his girl, Marcia, but this little old woman, suffering from a tremendous chest pain, proved that a physically weaken heart can be the stronger prove of God  Love and Tenderness: sick Bucky was taken care and nursed by her for years.

Throughout the pages, lots of details are revealed and I could not but whispered "o, yes, o, yes"; permeated deep and got them straight. Almost everything seemed natural and profound to me at the same time. For example, the first night in Indian Hills, after making love to Marcia in a secret place across the river that she made cleaning and gathering leaves with her own hands the night before, Bucky is distraught by the rage of guilt and feels the urgency to leave in the middle of a strong summer storm, but cools down to the opposite extreme as soon as the sun warm the daylight the very next morning... Who has not sense that sort of blindness and confusion, staggering between two extreme and unreasonable choices to just remain irresolute at the end? Who has not... At the age of 23... Or 33?

The scene that Arnie finally pulled up out of Bucky chest during their weekly lunches in 1971 concerning how he and Marcia broke up is a tearer, so painful and heart-breaking. The end of Bucky started there. But, still, one can understand (I can understand): the virus of poliomyelitis has swept across the spine and nerves of Bucky (he, the one-time, just yesterday, invincible athlete! -invincible is the last word of the novel: a synonym of Nemesis, but opposed to it in the context) and he is stuck to a wheel chair. Marcia shows up gorgeous, looking like a woman, with longer hair than the last time he saw her, petite and pretty, wearing a pair of lovely gloves, and she is smart and only 22... Oh! Who man has not suffered from the realization -or the unreasonable delusion- that the woman you love seems to be a different person and that you have not track the metamorphosis?!

However, Marcia is in love with Bucky. The scene is true as the real life is. He is just deluded and relinquish her wrong. Many Buckys are out there, men with an unbeatable and common Nemesis: themselves. It can be pride or arrogance, who cares, it is the same. Just imagine this electrifying scene. Marcia cannot be more charming, pretty and teared apart in sorrow and she is weeping and crying and letting herself out: "I'm not trying to be anything other than the person who loves you and wants to marry you and be your wife", "Bucky, it's not complicated (...) We'll do it perfectly", "You make me happy. You always have". And more cry: "Stop this, please. I've seen your arm and I don't care", "Stop, I beg you! You think it's your body that's deformed, but what's truly deformed is your mind!". Bucky has made up his mind already and the argument escalates: "Just because you got polio doesn't give you the right to say ridiculous things. You have no idea what God is!", "You were never crazy.You were perfectly sane. Sane and sound and strong and smart. But this! Spurning my love for you, spurning my family -I refuse to be a party to such insanity". Here it is when Marcia collapse and starts crying inconsolably: "Can't you believe that it's you I love, whether or not you had polio? Can't you understand that the worst possible outcome for both of us is for you to take away from me? I cannot bear to lose you -is there no getting that through to you? Bucky, your life can be so much easier if only you'll let it be. How do I convince you that we have to go on together? Don't save me, for God's sake. Do what we planned -marry me!"...

Ah!... Don't save me, a golden lesson for men. Marcia Steinberg is the train that us men should never let go. And you did, Bucky.

I am writing this because I think I will enjoy reading me back two or three years from now -wherever I am by then-, and I want to mention a final comment about the role that God and Religion might play in the novel. It is true that Bucky's vision of God can be referred as childish and that of Marcia or Arnie as a much more elaborated and sensible. However, it is not uncommon that perfectly reasonable and educated parents compose a raging and out-of-senses discourse against God if they, for example, suffers the painful experience of losing a child. I have a couple of examples close to me. I can venture the ambitious suspicion that Roth's message might be that God, in general sense, at least at moments stricken by tragedy, can also become the Nemesis of any men.

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Tuesday, April 17, 2012

The nightingale and the rose

The Eastern, warming sun of London dawn bless these days the cursed who falls asleep in the couch. Oh! How lovely this big, burning orange of the Gods, pushing its way up at 6! The blessed who sleep properly will miss it. Before, around 4, the dark dwells outside... Is that bird singing a nightingale? It looks too many, but it can be just one: an unpaired, tireless little bird, singing in a score of sounds that "Love is like an ocean without a shore" (Raba'a). Listen, you! You, withered rose who wants to give up: Love is like an ocean without a shore.

Sunday, April 15, 2012

50 years

In 1960, a young lady from Southern Alabama, Harper Lee, 34, won the Pulitzer Prize with To Kill a Mockingbird. She had quit her job at the ticket office of an Airline to write the novel, it was her first and her last, because she never published anything else since then. In 1962, 50 years ago, the book-based movie was shot, with Atticus Finch becoming the hero of the time. I watched the movie when in Huntsville, AL, one Sunday afternoon, and it jerked tears from me. The great Robert Duvall, Boo, if I remember right, brings the boy home after the attack; the little girl is shocked. I can see now -while I cook in my kitchen- Atticus and the girl sitting down the stairs of the front porch, the former asking for an explanation: why things like that happen? And the good Atticus giving the best answer, ever: you live here, in this beautiful place -the South is lovely!-, but in this life there is also ugly stuff.

The year Harper Lee was born, the great Spanish bullfighter, Juan Belmonte, was 34. Belmonte has dropped out school at the age of 8, but became a voracious reader during his life. He was a revolutionary bullfighter. Gerardo Diego, only a few years younger than him, wrote about him:


Yo canto al varón pleno,
al triunfador del mundo y de sí mismo
que al borde —un día y otro— del abismo
supo asomarse impávido y sereno.



I guess nobody could expect that Belmonte will end his days contravening the expected -a bull goring- and the verses. He was obsess with loneliness and the horrible -and unfair- pains of the vanishing senescence, and became more and more despaired with life and its glimmering and deceitful light. He ended up committing suicide in April 1962, 50 years ago; he shot himself in Utrera (South Seville).

100 years

It is less than 3 hours to the Centennial now. Tonight was the night to show Titanic to the n power. Titanic, the movie! No TV network is doing it. No one seems interested, why? Channel 4 is showing Walk the Line. Nice, init? Superb interpretation of Joaquin Phoenix. It is the love story of Johnny Cash and June Carter. I once knew a June, a woman working at one of the packaging lines of a pharmaceutical manufacturing facility. Her husband left her; she was over 50, but she thought it was a good thing for her. June Carter gave a book to Johnny in  the beginning of times, in the hotel of a cheap motel, in the middle of the night, Gibran's The Prophet. A lovely book, deep, deep shit. My father bought it for me in the month of August, 20 years ago or so. Lovely book, the eye of wisdom. I read part of it for my cousin I.'s wedding. She is separated now. Still, I am fascinating by the tragedy of Titanic. The temperature dropped from 12 degrees to 1 C in a very short span of time that evening of 14 of April, somewhere in the North Atlantic. Jack and Rose, another lovely love story. June died in May 2003 due to complications after heart surgery; Johnny survived her 4 months hardly. Sickness got them first together. Sickness.... Got them finally together.

Saturday, April 14, 2012

Julio YPF

The very true voyage of discovery is that you take to old places with new eyes, says the saying, and it is never too late, I guess, to come to appreciate, and know, old people. It was already a shocking and pleasant discovery to unveil Julio Iglesias singing Charles Trenet's La Mer, as part of the soundtrack of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. And it is a nice surprise to hear him in El Club de la Tarde, in Radio Mitre, Argentina, talking about work, women and expressing openly his opinion about the YPF expropriation plans by the Argentinian authorities.

It took me a while to find the audio. Several sources deliver the news, "Julio Iglesias defends Repsol", but they did not link to the original track or are mere copies of secondary sources. The information of Libertad Digital, for example, is not original in this case, and poor to my view. Besides, I don't think Julio Iglesias got upset at all because of the question: only when Ernesto Tenembaum is pushing him to answer: "have you being faithful to your wife during this 22 years?", Julio sounds a little more uncomfortable.

The brief portrait of Julio Iglesias from the audio is that of a gentleman, that of a Don Juan, more faithful and less frivolous with age. Perhaps, the lesson to extract from the audio is that of learning to say what you think like a gentleman, precisely but rude-less, cordially and politely, a skill to learn. Lo cordial no quita lo valiente, our grandpas used to say.

Fernando Diaz Plaja wrote The Spanish and the Seven Capital Sins, and underlined Envy as the prominent pitfall. Perhaps it is not an unique feature of the Spanish people, but it shines brilliantly in the case of Julio Iglesias and us, his fellow countrymen, I am afraid. He is completely successful, to the point of obscenity, speaks languages, have had more women that all James Bonds together, have traveled almost as much as John Paul did, has been everywhere, man, with everyone, man, and is loved worldwide... . But not that much in Spain. The contrast with South America, for example, is appalling. Years ago, a guy of my age from Ecuador -who liked Julio Iglesias songs- used to tell the story of corrupted Abdala Bucaram returning to the polical scene after his run-away to Panama with millions of dollars in garbage bags. Bucaram showed up in a helicopter, leaning forward and holding a mic in one hand and singing a Julio Iglesias' song: "y volveraaaaa".

Julio Iglesias: a courageous old Spaniard.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

The strange case of Royalist England

About 2 years ago, while cleaning my apartment in Madrid, I discovered a British band called The Kinks singing like crazy that "Victooooooria, Victooooooria, Victoooria was my Queen". I said to myself: "Self, that's interesting". The discovery surprised me: what's with the Royalty in England? The questioning is not new.

And so on, what other country has produced an author so into the lives of his country's kings? Ten historical plays Shakespeare wrote on the Kings of England, setting aside his Tragedies. Why? Another example of strong Royalist support is the recent success of the King's speech. Another example: can you count how many pubs in London alone are named after kings, queens, princes, princesses or any of their attributes? Another one: is it not the Change of Guards at Buckingham one of the international attractions of London? And another one: King's Cross station, how big; and Victoria, how lovely!

There is a rhyme in English to help memorizing all the kings and it is a pity the Spaniards do not have any -or, if does exist, nobody knows about-, at least from the Catholic Kings on. Listen to this (as hint, the first verse contains the 4 Norman Kings, from William I The Conqueror); each verse is 7 sounds and the rhyme is in couples and if there are any more details, I just missed them:

1. Willie, Willie, Harry, Steve,
2. Harry, Dick, John, Harry Three.
3. Edward One, Two, Three, Dick Two,
4. Henry Four, Five, Six then who?
5. Edward Four, Five, Dick the bad,
6. Harry's twain and Ned the lad.
7. Mary, Lizzie, James the vain,
8. Charlie, Charlie, James again.
9. William and Mary, Anne O'Gloria,
10. Four Georges, William and Victoria,
11. Edward Seven, Georgie Five,
12. Edward, George and Liz (alive).

The fact that the rhyme calls Elizabeth I (a black beast for the Spaniards), Lizzie, is... Interesting. And they call James, the vain... What's not him the one of The Bible of Saint James? The end is great: Liz... Alive.

From the visit to the Ham House on the river Thames in Richmond I saved an amazing aristocratic house from the 17th (I loved the basement: the kitchen, the cellar and all), very well-conserved. It was the site of Royalist supporters to the Stuart House, and you can see that from the motto that salutes you at the entrance door (Vivat Rex) to the paintings of Van Dyck (faithful supporter of Charles I).

Self-portrait of Anthony Van Dyck (1633), showing his loyalty to Charles I:
the golden chain (King's chain) and the sunflower (symbol of the King)

The figure of Elizabeth Dysart, the eldest daughter of William Murray (third owner of the house until his exile during the Civil War) and Katherine Bruce is that of a woman to remember. Elizabeth had to be quite a character, steering the house after his father left and against the rule of Oliver Cromwell and the Parliamentary forces: the house had been a center for courtiers of Charles I, executed in 1649.

Elizabeth Murray-Dysart, c. 1652

Very womanly and independent Elizabeth, I guess, and apparently she liked to bath regularly, a quite unusual habit at the time. This portrait in the Long Gallery of the House (don't remember if the painting is by Van Dyck) seems to me unique: what is a black guy doing there?

Nice... Elizabeth!... Would the character come with the name?

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Serendipity reloaded and a communist in Mayfair

I have mentioned here in several occasions that I often come across with a name, event or character twice or thrice in the very same day, being the name, event or character unknown for me the day before. I call such happenings -casual or random, whatever, but mysterious- serendipities. I have also stated that I know that serendipity is a word with a different meaning.

Among the handful of peculiar location names around the lovely Richmond Hill and Park, is that of Twickenham. Yesterday, I strolled peacefully up and down Cholmondeley Walk and Water Lane, keep on across the Buccleugh Gardens and along the Petersham Meadow into the Nurseries and the Ham House up to the Eel Pie Island. (My juicy guide-book says Bogart and Hepburn shot a few scenes there in 1951 for The African Queen; I guess such deed would be possible no more today, with planes approaching closeby Heathrow every two minutes). And so, I strolled up and down and came across with the name of Twickenham, to which I did not pay much attention. Back in the tube, however, I learned that tickets for Lady Gaga's concert in London are at sale, and that the concert will be held at Twickenham Stadium on the 8th or 9th of September, don't remember... . The stadium, by the way, impoverishes the view from the Hill, and so does the Control Tower of Heathrow, I reckon.

A second serendipity came also yesterday from the river Thames. I had been reading recently about the "famous" Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race -Oxbridge- at the Thames, from Putney to Barnes Bridges. 4 miles and 374 yards and a record -Cambridge crew- of 16 minutes and 19 seconds from 1998. The boat race official web page is entertaining and has jewels like this photograph of Hugh Laurie, training, in 1980:

                                         Hugh Laurie, first face, pushing blades for Cambridge in 1980.

Everything new for me, everything, and I said, "that should be a lovely tour as well". Once again, the Evening Standard brought yesterday to my attention the fact that I am re-discovering America.

The opinion of Sarah Sands about the incident in the 158th race last Saturday is interesting and allows you pulling the thread and enjoy your time by further boozing from different sources the unique character of human nature. The reactions about the incident have been unanimous, I can see: Trenton Oldfield was "a rebel without a clue" and his anti-elite antics rudderless and rambling, at best. It surprises me the urgency of everybody in discussing whether or not Oldfield has any arguments to do so. I guess everyone seems to agree, at the end, that words are rather weak and useless and, thus, other methods shall be used providing the cause is fair. As Sands suggests, it is the re-edition of Emmeline Pankhurst vision: "deeds, not words". The path is dangerous, I feel, very dangerous and sad. Oldfield is just a fashionable moron, what else can I say? It is crystal clear.

Another version of the same stupidity and contradiction -but with a laid-back, totally bourgeois touch- I see in the photograph in the Evening of Penelope Cruz and Javier Bardem, exiting Richard Caring's restaurant in Mayfair the other night. Caring is a billionaire and Bardem is, I guess, only a millionaire, but a so-called anti-capitalist and... Puff, who cares?...Be it. However, is that necessary to show up in Mayfair in a pair of dark trainers and a T-shirt? It is the world upside-down, a reverted tacky taste: a millionaire pretended to be chabacano*. Nothing new at all, anyhow, since the times Bertold Bretch used to wear bespoken tatters.

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* A young woman from the Philippines told me about the interesting association between this Spanish word ("vulgar, with no art") and the so-called language, derived from Spanish, and spoken by half-a-million in certain places of the Philippines and Malaysia.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Old

I have been looking for a travel guide to Morocco -going to Agadir, particularly-. The guide book has been requested to Wood Green library... It is from 2001, and the young librarian asked: "It is quite old, 2001. Do you still wanted?". Quite funny, init? I guess this is what Stanley Kubrick missed in 1968: that 2001 could be "quite" old sometime. For me, though, 2001 was the beginning of the Modern Age.

Modern paganism

The first sound that hit my ear this morning -the Easter Monday bank holiday- was silence. Silence all around. It was not that at all on Sunday; and I said to myself: "Self, this is the modern form of Paganism". What else?

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Resurrection

Amidst beer, fancy dresses and, later, the music of the Doors, S. -who is not a believer- carved an interesting point: "we don't go to Church anymore; we don't reflect anymore". This morning, the noise of the vacuum celebration and tired pomposity at Saint Paul corroborated the statement, no doubt. Upon my personal darkness of sins and corners, quite a few friendly beams of light shone today nevertheless. Not clean or angelical ones_ purity does not exist. I don't feel great nor high now, but certainly am grateful for them.

Another great reflection came through this. The singer is already 50; the gloomy realization is that I understand him... We understand... And we are not even 35... Mud and aspirations, that is a human being: a waterfowl struggling to lift away from a stain of oil.

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