1.f.Ficción en virtud de la cual un relato
o una imagen representan o significan otra cosa diferente.
2.f.Obra o composición
literaria o artística de sentido alegórico.
3.f.Ret.Figura que consiste en hacer patentes
en el discurso, por medio de varias metáforas consecutivas, un sentido recto y
otro figurado, ambos completos, a fin de dar a entender una cosa expresando
otra diferente.
Look over yonder
What do you see?
The sun is a'rising
Most definitely
A new day is coming, ooh, ooh
People are changing
Ain't it beautiful, ooh, ooh
Crystal blue persuasion
Better get ready
To see the light
Love, love is the answer, ooh ooh
And that's all right
So don't you give up now, ooh ooh
So easy to find
Just look to your soul
And open your mind
Crystal blue persuasion, mmm, mmm It's a new vibration
Crystal blue persuasion
Crystal blue persuasion
Maybe tomorrow
When he looks down
On every green field, ooh ooh
And every town
All of his children
And every nation
They'll be peace and good brotherhood
Crystal blue persuasion, yeah
Actually, I’m still wondering how
I ended up here, but... yes.I mean, I can’t imagine we strikeeach other as criminals.
GALE
Well, there’s crime and thenthere’s crime, I suppose.I’m definitely a libertarian.Consenting adults want what they want -- and if I’m not supplyingit, they will get it
somewhereelse. At least with me, they’regetting
exactly what they pay for.No added toxins or adulterants.Yeah, I was doing it
the way you are supposed to. Pursuing mydoctorate at Colorado. NSFresearch grant. I was on
my way.Jumping through
hoops -- kissingthe proper
behinds... attending toall the
non-chemistry that onefinds
oneself occupied by.You know that world.That is not what I signed on for.I love the lab. Because it’s allstill magic, you know? Chemistry?I mean, once you lose that...
WALT
It is, it is magic. It still is.
GALE
And all the while, I kept aboutthat great old Whitman poem.“When
I Heard the Learn’dAstronomer.”
WALT
I don’t know it.
GALE
Ah. Anyway...
WALT
Well, can you recite it?
GALE
Pathetically enough, I could.
WALT
Al
right, well... No, no... comeon. Come on.
GALE
Sure you wanna hear it?
What the hell?
When I heard the
learn’d astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were
ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and
diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer
where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became
tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I
wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air,
and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the
stars.
Walt Whitman
Cuando escuché al docto astrónomo,
cuando me presentaron en columnas
las pruebas y guarismos,
cuando me mostraron las tablas y diagramas
para medir, sumar y dividir,
cuando escuché al astrónomo discurrir
con gran aplauso de la sala,
qué pronto me sentí inexplicablemente
hastiado,
hasta que me escabullí de mi asiento y
me fui a caminar solo,
en el húmedo y místico aire nocturno,
mirando de rato en rato,
en silencio perfecto a las estrellas.
Traducción de León
Felipe
El azul
del mar inunda mis ojos, el aroma de las flores me envuelve, contra las rocas se estrellan mis enojos y así toda esperanza me devuelve. Malos tiempos para la lírica.
Las ratas corren por la penumbra del callejón, tu madre baja con el cesto y saluda, seguro que ha acabado tu jersey de cotton ...puedes esbozar una sonrisa blanca y pura. Malos tiempos para la lírica.
Seguro que algún día cansado y aburrido encontrarás a alguien de buen parecer, trabajo de banquero bien retribuído y tu madre con anteojos volverá a tejer
En el reino de la Poesía cada poema es una
torre que se yergue a instancias secretas para ser habitada por un príncipe
(¿el poeta, nosotros, alguien que vendrá?) Ese príncipe sabe que sobre el
discurrir profuso de lo cotidiano, de lo abismante de las cosas, la máxima
certeza es el desconsuelo felizmente asumido, sabe que los poemas al ser torres
próximas a derrumbarse, son en sí la interrogación permanente que no necesita o
busca respuestas fidedignas, sino el goce de formular esas mismas preguntas con
el mayor sentimiento y perfección posibles.
Sucede a veces que de A se puede pasar a
B no porque uno crea que hay una conexión, sino porque la conexión no depende
de la creencia subjetiva del espectador, sino de la deliberada intención del
creador. Esto Jaime lo hacía mucho; de hecho, diría que construía A con una
suma de B, C, D y lo que se le ocurriese. Siempre B, C, D, etc eran de alto
calado y, también siempre, A quedaba limpia como si la suma que albergaba en su
interior no atendiese a reglas matemáticas elementales, como si de resultas de
sumar dos más dos diese cinco. Cuando los demás copiaban, él intertextualizaba lo más fino que había
dado la poesía inglesa, la francesa, la clásica, hasta abrumar en cada frase,
en cada posible evocación, si uno pretendía seguir el hilo hacia atrás; y hasta
deleitar, claro, con su simple lectura.
Tratar en un cuaderno como este de tirar
del hilo es un asunto de una laboriosidad mayor, pero con paciencia y osadía lo
haré de cuando en cuando, como lo he hecho con las traducciones de algunos
poemas escritos en inglés. Voy a empezar por uno que me ronda desde hace
tiempo, bello hasta el dolor, y que me llevará varias entradas:
PRÍNCIPE
DE AQUITANIA, EN SU TORRE ABOLIDA
Una clara conciencia de lo que ha perdido,
es lo que le consuela. Se levanta
cada mañana a fallecer, discurre por estancias
en donde sórdamente duele el tiempo
que se detuvo, la herida mal cerrada.
Dura en ningún lugar este otro mundo,
y vuelve por la noche en las paradas
del sueño fatigoso... Reino suyo
dorado, cuántas veces
por él pregunta en la mitad del día,
con el temor de olvidar algo!
Las horas, largo viaje desabrido.
La historia es un instante preferido,
un tesoro en imágenes, que él guarda
para su necesaria consulta con la muerte.
Y el final de la historia es esta pausa.
Vi por fin la serie Brideshead revisited, aquí
traducida como Retorno a Brideshead. Después compré el libro y en él ando. Me
ha impactado tanto que voy a abrir una etiqueta para albergar entradas que de
alguna u otra forma entroncan con el universo creado por Evelyn Waugh,
su autor. La anterior entrada sería la primera, aludiendo a buena parte del
nudo existencial de los personajes que por la obra desfilan, y esta, también.
En el proceso de degradación del absolutamente encantador -charming- Sebastian hay varias alusiones a los términos que aquí
siguen, haciendo hincapié en su diferencia. Según la RAE, son sinónimos; por lo
que he podido indagar, no lo son. Apuntes y notas hay en la red para quien
quiera diferenciar de forma precisa.
alcoholizado,
da.
(Del part. dealcoholizar).
1.adj.Dicho de una persona: Que
por el abuso de las bebidas alcohólicas, padece los efectos de la saturación
del organismo por alcohol.U. t. c. s.
And the weeks flew by Until they moved on the show Leaving his caravan behind It was parked out on the south east ridge And as the company crossed the bridge With the first rain filling the bone-dry river
bed It shone, just so, upon the edge Away, away, we're sad, they said
Dog-boy, atlas, half-man, the geeks, the hired
hands There was not one among them that did not cast
an eye behind In the hope that the carny would return to his
own kind
And the carny had a horse, all skin and bone A bow-backed nag, that he named
"Sorrow" How it is buried in a shallow grave In the then parched meadow
And the dwarves were given the task of digging
the ditch And laying the nag's carcass in the ground And boss Bellini, waving his smoking pistol
around saying "The nag is dead meat" "We caint afford to carry dead weight" The whole company standing about Not making a sound And turning to dwarves perched on the enclosure
gate The boss says "Bury this lump of crow
bait"
And then the rain came Everybody running for their wagons Tying all the canvas flaps down The mangy cats crowling in ther cages The bird-girl flapping and squawking around The whole valley reeking of wet beast Wet beast and rotten hay Freak and brute creation Packed up and on their way
The three dwarves peering from their wagon's
hind Moses says to Noah "We shoulda dugga deepa
one" Their grizzled faces like dying moons Still dirty from the digging done
And as the company passed from the valley Into a higher ground The rain beat on the ridge and on the meadow And on the mound
Until nothing was left, nothing at all Except the body of Sorrow That rose in time To float upon the surface of the eaten soil
And a murder of crows did circle round First one, then the others flapping blackly down
And the carny's van still sat upon the edge Tilting slowly as the firm ground turned to
sludge And the rain it hammered down
And no-one saw the carny go I say it's funny how things go
Here she comes, you better watch your
step
She's going to break your heart in two, it's true
It's not hard to realize
Just look into her false colored eyes
She builds you up to just put you down, what a clown
'Cause everybody knows (She's a femme fatale)
The things she does to please (She's a femme fatale)
She's just a little tease (She's a femme fatale)
See the way she walks
Hear the way she talks
You're written in her book
You're number 37, have a look
She's going to smile to make you frown, what a clown
Little boy, she's from the street
Before you start, you're already beat
She's gonna play you for a fool, yes it's true
'Cause everybody knows (She's a femme fatale)
The things she does to please (She's a femme fatale)
She's just a little tease (She's a femme fatale)
See the way she walks
Hear the way she talks
Lou Reed en The Velvet Underground, 1966
Andy Warhol:I wonder if people are
going to remember us? Edie Sedgwick:What,
when we're dead? Andy Warhol:Yeah. Edie Sedgwick:Well
I think people will talk about how you changed the world. Andy Warhol:I
wonder what they'll say about you... in your obituary. I like that word. Edie Sedgwick:Nothing
nice, I don't think. Andy Warhol:No
no, come on. They'd say, "Edith Minturn Sedgwick: beautiful artist and
actress... Edie Sedgwick:...and
all around loon. Andy Warhol:...Remembered
for setting the world on fire... Edie Sedgwick:...and
escaping the clutches of her terrifying family...
Andy Warhol:...Made
friends with everybody, and anybody...
Edie Sedgwick:...creating
chaos and uproar wherever she went. Divorced as many times as she married, she
leaves only good wishes behind.
[laughs] Edie Sedgwick:That's nice,
isn't it?
Alas, poor Yorick! I knew
him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne
me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is!
my gorge rims at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how
oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of
merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your
own grinning? quite chap-fallen? Now get you to my lady’s chamber, and tell
her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh
at that.
Hamlet. William Shakespeare
The young lord Hamlet -1868-. Philip Hermogenes Calderón.
A veces sucede que en un poema que no me
gusta hay partes integrantes que me encantan. Este es el caso. El poema entero
lo tenéis aquí; es de Benjamín Prado.Y lo
que me interesa es esto:
Mi padre conducía siempre coches usados.
Los domingos, casi de madrugada,
cruzábamos despacio la ciudad: calles frías,
letreros encendidos, casas oscuras.
(...)
Mi padre buscaba estaciones de radio.
Yo veía las torres de la luz, el cielo
extraño de las fábricas.
La película es del 86, o sea, de hace 27 años; David tenía 40 años; Isabella,
34; Kyle, 27; Laura, 19; Dennis, 50; Dean, 50 y Roy, qué cosas, 50 también,
aunque suIn dreamsera del 63, es decir, de hacía 23
años, cuando él tenía 27. La letra era suya también, por cierto.
A candy-colored clown they call the Sandman
Tiptoes to my room every night
Just to sprinkle stardust and to whisper
"Go to sleep, everything is all right"
I close my eyes, then
I drift away
Into the magic night, I softly say
A silent prayer like dreamers do
Then I fall asleep to dream my dreams of you
In dreams I walk with
you
In dreams I talk to you
In dreams you're mine all of the time
We're together in dreams, in dreams
But just before the
dawn
I awake and find you gone
I can't help it, I can't help it, if I cry
I remember that you said goodbye
It's too bad that all
these things
Can only happen in my dreams
Only in dreams
In beautiful dreams
IT'S A STRANGE WORLD, ISN'T IT
Richard Corliss,
Time, September 22, 1986
''Things got a little
out of hand,'' nice young Jeffrey (KyleMacLachlan) tells his nice young friend
Sandy (Laura Dern). Well, yes. Walking through the woods of peaceful Lumberton,
Jeffrey found a severed human ear crawling with ants. The ear belonged to a man
who, with his son, had been kidnaped by Frank (Dennis Hopper), a sicko on a
helium high. Frank was blackmailing the man's wife Dorothy (Isabella
Rossellini), and hiding in Dorothy's closet, Jeffrey watched Frank work his
awful sexual will on her. When Dorothy discovered Jeffrey, she took him to bed.
''Hurt me,'' she said. ''No, I want to help you'' -- but he soon enough acceded
to her masochistic desires. Then Frank taught Jeffrey a lesson. He smeared
lipstick on his own face, kissed Jeffrey hard on the mouth and beat him
senseless. Sandy responds to such revelations like a child at the end of a
nightmare fairy tale: ''It's a strange world, isn't it.''Strange and repellent
and seductive -- a world of power plays in which everybody's somebody's victim.
Sandy is attracted to Jeffrey's quiet intensity. Jeffrey is beguiled by
Dorothy's mystery, her dangerous demands. To keep her family alive, Dorothy
must surrender to Frank's depraved games. But even Frank is in the thrall of
Ben (Dean Stockwell), an epicene drug dealer, who in turn is subject to the
political power of a heavyset enigma in a yellow jacket. On that stroll in the
woods, Jeffrey fell down the rabbit hole and found an inverted pyramid of moral
monstrosity. ''I am seeing something that was always hidden,'' he says.Now he can't take his eyes off it.The
plot alone would be enough to earn Blue Velvet this year's Authentic Weirdie
prize. But wait, there's more. Writer-Director Lynch (Eraserhead, The Elephant
Man, Dune) has stocked his movie with artifacts from every decade of postwar
America; it could be taking place now, then or never. Emotionally, the picture
comes from outer space. Instead of seducing the audience, the characters are picture-book
flat. Only the images are deep and dense. The friendly loggers of Lumberton
wave at the camera; Frank screams an obscenity and poof! disappears; a corpse
is bound and bowed like a Kienholz sculpture; the climactic gun battle takes
just a few shorthand strokes. The acting styles collide fiercely too.
MacLachlan and Dern have an innocents-in-hell sweetness; Stockwell does a
preening Percy Dovetonsils number; Rossellini is a madwoman with all stops out;
Hopper tops her, with maybe the vilest sadistic creep in movie history.All of
which is to say that Blue Velvet is in no sense a realistic film. It is not
modernist camp either. Lynch believes every bit as much in the redemptive power
of teen love -- with families miraculously restored and two kids kissing to the
crooning of a wedding-chapel organ -- as he does in the force of evil. He and
his film will surely be reviled, but as an experiment in expanding cinema's
dramatic and technical vocabulary, Blue Velvet demands respect.
British
author J. G. Ballard on David Lynch's Blue
Velvet (originally published in Time Out in 1993):
Blue Velvet is,
for me, the best film of the 1980s - surreal, voyeuristic, subversive and even
a little corrupt in its manipulation of the audience. In short, the perfect
dish for the jaded palates of the 1990s. But a thicket of puzzles remains.
First, why do the sensible young couple, played by Kyle MacLachlan and Laura
Dern, scheme to break into the apartment of the brutalized nightclub singer
(Isabella Rossellini) and risk involving themselves with the psychopathic
gangster - Dennis Hopper in his most terrifying screen performance?
[...]
The second puzzle is the role of the severed ear found by the young man after
he visits his father in hospital, and which sets off the entire drama. Why an
ear rather than a hand or a set of fingerprints? I take it that the ear is really
his own, tuned to the inner voice that informs him of his imminent quest for
his true mother and father. Like the ear, the white picket fence and the
mechanical bird that heralds a return to morality, Blue Velvet is
a sustained and brutal tease, The Wizard of Oz re-shot with a
script by Kafka and decor by Francis Bacon.
J. G.
Ballard, 'Blue Velvet' in J. G. Ballard, A User's Guide to the
Millenium: Essays and Reviews
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