el misterioso oficio

LA POESÍA, OTRA VEZ

Cualquier cosa tiene más sentido en este mundo que escribir poesía: arrojar piedras a un río, mirar el sol, respirar, no hacer nada, dormir, subirse a un árbol, mentir, odiar, morir, llorar, matar una mosca vieja que a duras penas levanta el vuelo, sufrir, enamorarse, ser correspondido, no serlo, perderse en el mar, ahogarse, comprar en una tienda una chocolatina, comerse una mandarina con la mirada ausente, hacer el ridículo, ser humillado, humillar, matar un pavo para Navidad con un cuchillo Arcos comprado en Amazon, conducir un cortacésped por una autopista, saludar a los muertos como si estuvieran vivos, arreglar el tejado de la casa de tus abuelos, decepcionar, pagar a Hacienda, tirar la basura a un contenedor, comprarte un avión, aprender a tocar una trompeta, usar desesperadamente demasiada lejía para lavar el váter, rezarle a Dios, afiliarse al Partido Comunista de España, ducharte, buscar un zapatero para que te arregle los zapatos más viejos del mundo, hospedarte por dos mil trescientos euros la noche en una suite del Four Seasons de la calle Sevilla de Madrid, desaparecer, borrar tu nombre de todos los registros civiles del estado español, hacerte inmensamente rico, empobrecerte, pedir limosna en una esquina, desvanecerte en la Gran Vía madrileña como si no hubieses sido sino una ilusión óptica, cualquier cosa tiene más sentido que este oficio de escribir poesía, el misterioso oficio que el azar y el tiempo encomendaron a unos pocos y desdichados seres humanos entre los que no quiero contarme.

Manuel Vilas

el trastorno de la mirada

- We've got to find a structure for this.

- Who are you? Who are you!!

- Turn left outside the hotel. Take the first street on the left. Go to the end. I'll be by the church.

- I love you.
- I know.

- I can't see past you.
- I think you've never seen much at all.

- I've been thinking about what we should do.
- Do?
- I have to leave Ingrid. There's no doubt about that. It's the right thing for everybody. I can't go on... not like this. What happened in Paris... The way I behaved. I've never had feelings like this. I have to get them into some sort of... order. I know it'll be hard for Martyn. He's fond of you.
- He loves me.
- I know, but he's young. He'll get over it.
- He's your son. He'd hate you.
- He'd hate me for a while, but...
- You'd lose him. You'd lose your own son? You'd also destroy the life you've made with Ingrid. It's a good life. What you say doesn't make sense.
- How come you're so sure?
- Because in your heart, you don't even want it. You want us to start
eating breakfast together?
- I'd like that.
- You'd like it if we lived in the same house... read the papers together? What would you gain if you left Ingrid?
- I'd gain you.
- You'd be gaining something you already have.

- When can you see me?
- Thursday.
- Thursday at five o'clock.

- My nightdress was still covered with blood. It was then... I had to. I knew I had to. I asked him to fuck me. "Fuck me," I said.


- My childhood wasn't all wonderful.
- Really?
- As a matter of fact, it wasn't. Perhaps... I don't know, perhaps it was... Perhaps it was too perfect... nothing was to disturb the surface of things. Everything was fine... no questions. It isn't healthy. That's all I'm saying. It's not a big issue. But it's good to have roots. But roots aren't that great... unless something else comes with them.
- Like what?
- I don't know. Warmth, I suppose. Passion.
- It was probably my fault.
- It came more from Dad, if I have to name anyone.

- Of course, it's hard for us. I'm sure Anna has told you.
- Told us?
- About the brother she had. Of course, it strikes me. It had to strike me, looking at Martyn. He does look so like Anna's brother. I don't know if you realized that. Not, of course, that Aston was as handsome. 

- It would be too bad if anything prevented her.
- I'm not sure I understand what you mean.
- I think you do. I watched you throughout the meal. You can't even look at her.

- I won't speak of this again.

- I thought you could control life... but it's not like that. There are things you... There are things you can't control.
- Do you think I would have married Martyn... if I couldn't be with you?

- Why didn't you kill yourself? You should have killed yourself when it began. Didn't you know? You thought you could go on?
- Yes, yes!
- Every day into the future? Go on betraying us both every day? You are not an evil man. You should have killed yourself when you first realized... and then I would have been able to mourn. It would have been hard, but I would have buried you. And I would have wept.

- I want him back! I want my son back! I want Martyn! Give me my son!
- Martyn is dead. Your son is dead. Give his death to me. Give it to me. Give me his death. Give it to me.


- It's true, isn't it? What a pity we ever met.

- Not enough? Not enough for you? For a moment there, I thought of making love to you.

- Good-bye. We shan't meet again. Thank you. She's here, isn't she? She's here!

- I saw her once more only. I saw her by accident at an airport, changing planes. She didn't see me. She was with Peter. She was holding a child. She was no different from anyone else.

Damage 1992.
El guion es de David Hare, que no es asunto menor. Aquí hay una crítica que se hace corta, de buena que es.