Feliz, feliz, alegre, alegre
Ya hay ganadores del segundo concurso de novela policiaca "Otra vuelta de tuerca." Además, se trata de dos grandes narradores que me han distinguido con su amistad.
El primer lugar fue concedido a Francisco Haghenbeck, Paco para los amigos, con la novela Trago amargo.
Arquitecto de profesión, Paco es un veterano guionista de cómics (es el único mexicano que ha escrito un Supermán). Ha sido creador y escritor de varias series exitosas como Crimson (co-creada con Humberto Ramos y Óscar Pinto) y Alternation además de incursionar en áreas tan disímbolas como interesantes (diseño de museos, producción de comerciales y venta de piedras semipreciosas, entre otras).
Pero lo más importante es que es un gran amigo, una persona profundamente entrañable y un narrador muy talentoso que empieza con el pie derecho en el mundo de la narrativa.
Ésta es su primera novela.
La mención de honor fue para Toño Malpica, otro amigo querido. Toño tiene publicados varios libros entre novelas y dramaturgia (con su hermano Javier han ganado varios premios nacionales de teatro y montado algunas de sus obras). Entre los camaradas tiene la fama de ganar cuanto concurso entra (entre otras cosas tiene dos premios "Gran Angular" de novela juvenil y el premio Vid de novela de ciencia ficción). Y por si fuera poco, es un talentoso pianista y un amigo generoso y querido por quienes lo conocemos.
Enhorabuena a los dos, merecidísimo.
Kallikanzari
Uh... Por una cuestión práctica, acabo de abrir un blog de ilustrador, Apenas he subido algunas imágenes pero digamos que la nueva casa ya está presentable como para recibir visitas. Pueden entrar por aquí. Espero que les guste.
viernes, marzo 31, 2006
miércoles, marzo 29, 2006
"Harry Potter es el opio del pueblo": Stanislaw Lem (1921-2006)
Murió el maestro Stanislaw Lem, el más grande escritor europeo de ciencia ficción. Un satirista a quien se le ha colocado cerca de autores como Kafka, Borges y Calvino. Judío nacido en Polonia, vivió en carne propia la persecución y censura de los grandes sistemas utópicos del siglo XX, el nazismo y el comunismo. Lem inició escribiendo literatura realista (su primera novela El hospital de la transfiguración trata sobre unos médicos en un psiquiátrico de la Polonia ocupada que intentan salvar a los pacientes de un exterminio seguro) pare después, abrumado por el absurdo de este mundo, migrar al territorio de la literatura fantástica.
A continuación transcribo algunos pasajes de la que parece ser la última entrevista que concedió, hace dos años, a un medio hispanoparlante:
--Dijo hace años en una entrevista que "el mercado literario ha matado la literatura".
--Sí, Harry Potter es como opio para las masas. Hoy en día, gran literatura hay muy poca. Tal vez Pynchon, Saul Bellow... Pero ésos son nombres ya antiguos, y de los nuevos hay muy pocos. Es más fácil ser poeta, puesto que ahora para eso no hace falta ni siquiera sentido.
--¿Qué opina de internet y de las nuevas tecnologías?
--Internet, como cada nueva tecnología, tiene sus ventajas y desventajas. Si mi secretario necesita ponerse en contacto con mi representante en Hollywood lo hace en cinco minutos. Pero a través del correo electrónico nos llegan enormes cantidades de basura y todavía no existe ninguna manera eficaz de filtrarlo. Para mí el secretario es como un filtro de protección.
--Un filtro humano, no tecnológico.
--Si no fuera por él, ¡me volvería loco! En internet tengo una página web polaca y una americana, hay muchos chats, y yo no soy capaz de verlo todo, de leerlo todo. Nadie dispone de tanto tiempo. Sólo un niño se entusiasmaría con una montaña de chocolate.
--Como lector, ¿cuáles son sus influencias?
--Ninguna.
--Me refiero a cuando empezaba a escribir.
--¡Dios mío! Yo empecé en el 45, eso es ya prehistoria.
--Se ha hablado de Lem en relación con Borges, Italo Calvino, Anthony Burgess o Torrente Ballester. ¿Se siente usted cómodo en esta compañía?
--Claro, ¿y por qué no me iba a sentir cómodo? Cada uno trabaja en su galaxia.
--¿Hay otros maestros contemporáneos, o no contemporáneos, con los que se sentiría más a gusto?
--Hoy en día no tengo relaciones profundas con otros escritores. La mayoría de los escritores con los que estaba en contacto ya han muerto.
Considerado por muchos la mejor pluma de la ciencia ficción del siglo XX, Lem fue expulsado de la Science Fiction Writers of America (SFWA), de la que era miembro honorario por haber escrito un ensayo en el que acusaba a la ciencia ficción norteamericana de ser mediocre y escapista. Decía que el único autor que se salvaba era Philip K. Dick, sin embargo Dick se unió a los firmantes que solicitaron la expulsión de Lem de la SFWA:
--Hablando de malentendidos, ¿qué le pasó con Philip K. Dick?
--Aquello ocurrió porque él en aquel momento estaba tomando muchos alucinógenos. Escribí un artículo sobre su obra y le invité a venir a Polonia, pero Dick pensó de repente que yo no existía, que había algo así como un comité llamado Lem que intentaba secuestrarle y que le deseaba todo lo peor... Dick estaba muy mal de la cabeza.
--En aquel artículo (?Un visionario entre charlatanes?) decía que Ubik le había gustado mucho.
--Sí, sí, naturalmente.
--¿Hay otros libros de Dick, aparte de Ubik, que le gustaran?
--Era un escritor muy irregular, tenía libros muy buenos y otros mediocres. Eso dependía mucho de la cantidad de drogas que tomara.
--¿Qué otros escritores de ciencia-ficción le han interesado?
--Dick me ha parecido el más original de todos.
--Hubo una época en la que su nombre estaba al lado de Bradbury y de Asimov, como el contrapeso, digamos, de la ciencia-ficción anglosajona. ¿Cuál fue su relación con Bradbury, con Clarke , con Asimov?
--Ninguna. Creo que los rusos, los hermanos Arkadij y Boris Strugasky, han sido mejores.
Decepcionado de ambas adaptaciones cinematográficas de su novela Solaris (Tarkovsky,1972 y Soderbergh, 2002), era básicamente un pesimista con un gran (y corrosivo) sentido del humor, con muy pocas esperanzas puestas en el futuro de la humanidad:
--¿Qué piensa sobre los vuelos a Marte?
--Es un proyecto político, dictado por el deseo de Bush de repetir la maniobra de Kennedy cuando apoyó los viajes a la Luna. Lo que quiere conseguir Bush es garantizarse la victoria en las elecciones para el segundo mandato, cree que así se cubrirá de gloria y será famoso en Estados Unidos y en todo el mundo. Sabemos que hasta ahora sólo una de cada cuatro misiones al Marte, sin tripulación, llegaba a realizarse: tres de cada cuatro fracasaban. Si los americanos piensan volar hacia Marte por cien mil millones de dólares, teniendo en cuenta esas inevitables averías, tendrán que disponer de cuatro veces esa cantidad, y el Congreso seguramente no lo permitirá. Además, allí en Marte no hay nada interesante: es un desierto, sin aire ni agua. Así que se trata de un proyecto puramente político que sólo sirve para ganar fondos con vistas al próximo mandato de Bush.
Descanse en paz, el maestro Lem.
Murió el maestro Stanislaw Lem, el más grande escritor europeo de ciencia ficción. Un satirista a quien se le ha colocado cerca de autores como Kafka, Borges y Calvino. Judío nacido en Polonia, vivió en carne propia la persecución y censura de los grandes sistemas utópicos del siglo XX, el nazismo y el comunismo. Lem inició escribiendo literatura realista (su primera novela El hospital de la transfiguración trata sobre unos médicos en un psiquiátrico de la Polonia ocupada que intentan salvar a los pacientes de un exterminio seguro) pare después, abrumado por el absurdo de este mundo, migrar al territorio de la literatura fantástica.A continuación transcribo algunos pasajes de la que parece ser la última entrevista que concedió, hace dos años, a un medio hispanoparlante:
--Dijo hace años en una entrevista que "el mercado literario ha matado la literatura".
--Sí, Harry Potter es como opio para las masas. Hoy en día, gran literatura hay muy poca. Tal vez Pynchon, Saul Bellow... Pero ésos son nombres ya antiguos, y de los nuevos hay muy pocos. Es más fácil ser poeta, puesto que ahora para eso no hace falta ni siquiera sentido.
--¿Qué opina de internet y de las nuevas tecnologías?
--Internet, como cada nueva tecnología, tiene sus ventajas y desventajas. Si mi secretario necesita ponerse en contacto con mi representante en Hollywood lo hace en cinco minutos. Pero a través del correo electrónico nos llegan enormes cantidades de basura y todavía no existe ninguna manera eficaz de filtrarlo. Para mí el secretario es como un filtro de protección.
--Un filtro humano, no tecnológico.
--Si no fuera por él, ¡me volvería loco! En internet tengo una página web polaca y una americana, hay muchos chats, y yo no soy capaz de verlo todo, de leerlo todo. Nadie dispone de tanto tiempo. Sólo un niño se entusiasmaría con una montaña de chocolate.
--Como lector, ¿cuáles son sus influencias?
--Ninguna.
--Me refiero a cuando empezaba a escribir.
--¡Dios mío! Yo empecé en el 45, eso es ya prehistoria.
--Se ha hablado de Lem en relación con Borges, Italo Calvino, Anthony Burgess o Torrente Ballester. ¿Se siente usted cómodo en esta compañía?
--Claro, ¿y por qué no me iba a sentir cómodo? Cada uno trabaja en su galaxia.
--¿Hay otros maestros contemporáneos, o no contemporáneos, con los que se sentiría más a gusto?
--Hoy en día no tengo relaciones profundas con otros escritores. La mayoría de los escritores con los que estaba en contacto ya han muerto.
Considerado por muchos la mejor pluma de la ciencia ficción del siglo XX, Lem fue expulsado de la Science Fiction Writers of America (SFWA), de la que era miembro honorario por haber escrito un ensayo en el que acusaba a la ciencia ficción norteamericana de ser mediocre y escapista. Decía que el único autor que se salvaba era Philip K. Dick, sin embargo Dick se unió a los firmantes que solicitaron la expulsión de Lem de la SFWA:
--Hablando de malentendidos, ¿qué le pasó con Philip K. Dick?
--Aquello ocurrió porque él en aquel momento estaba tomando muchos alucinógenos. Escribí un artículo sobre su obra y le invité a venir a Polonia, pero Dick pensó de repente que yo no existía, que había algo así como un comité llamado Lem que intentaba secuestrarle y que le deseaba todo lo peor... Dick estaba muy mal de la cabeza.
--En aquel artículo (?Un visionario entre charlatanes?) decía que Ubik le había gustado mucho.
--Sí, sí, naturalmente.
--¿Hay otros libros de Dick, aparte de Ubik, que le gustaran?
--Era un escritor muy irregular, tenía libros muy buenos y otros mediocres. Eso dependía mucho de la cantidad de drogas que tomara.
--¿Qué otros escritores de ciencia-ficción le han interesado?
--Dick me ha parecido el más original de todos.
--Hubo una época en la que su nombre estaba al lado de Bradbury y de Asimov, como el contrapeso, digamos, de la ciencia-ficción anglosajona. ¿Cuál fue su relación con Bradbury, con Clarke , con Asimov?
--Ninguna. Creo que los rusos, los hermanos Arkadij y Boris Strugasky, han sido mejores.
Decepcionado de ambas adaptaciones cinematográficas de su novela Solaris (Tarkovsky,1972 y Soderbergh, 2002), era básicamente un pesimista con un gran (y corrosivo) sentido del humor, con muy pocas esperanzas puestas en el futuro de la humanidad:
--¿Qué piensa sobre los vuelos a Marte?
--Es un proyecto político, dictado por el deseo de Bush de repetir la maniobra de Kennedy cuando apoyó los viajes a la Luna. Lo que quiere conseguir Bush es garantizarse la victoria en las elecciones para el segundo mandato, cree que así se cubrirá de gloria y será famoso en Estados Unidos y en todo el mundo. Sabemos que hasta ahora sólo una de cada cuatro misiones al Marte, sin tripulación, llegaba a realizarse: tres de cada cuatro fracasaban. Si los americanos piensan volar hacia Marte por cien mil millones de dólares, teniendo en cuenta esas inevitables averías, tendrán que disponer de cuatro veces esa cantidad, y el Congreso seguramente no lo permitirá. Además, allí en Marte no hay nada interesante: es un desierto, sin aire ni agua. Así que se trata de un proyecto puramente político que sólo sirve para ganar fondos con vistas al próximo mandato de Bush.
Descanse en paz, el maestro Lem.
lunes, marzo 20, 2006
Para documentar la vanidad
Eh... mañana martes 21 de marzo (día del bicentenario del bombero más famoso de este país) estaré de invitado en el noticiario Ventana de medianoche, del Canal 22M, justo a las 12 de la noche.
Eh... mañana martes 21 de marzo (día del bicentenario del bombero más famoso de este país) estaré de invitado en el noticiario Ventana de medianoche, del Canal 22M, justo a las 12 de la noche.
Escape del planeta Televisa (mi odio es fértil)
Nunca he...
...comprado un disco de Maná.
...ido a un concierto de Luis Miguel.
...escrito un guión para ningún programa de Televisa (aunque me lo propusieron).
...visto el programa de Adal Ramones.
...considerado a Chespirito un genio.
...encontrado la menor gracia en Alejandra Guzmán.
...cantado una canción de Timbiriche.
...creído en el noticiero de López Dóriga.
...caido en el chantaje del Teletón (en lugar de ese despliegue hipócrita deberían embrutecer un poco menos a la raza).
...considerado al monótono y sobreactuado Ignacio López Tarso como un "primer actor."
...reido con chiste alguno de Polo Polo.
...sabido cuál es la gracia de Don Margarito, Rafita, la Chupitos y demás gente que le gusta exhibir su deformidad como "chistosa."
...soportado a Jorge Ortiz de Pinedo.
...disfrutado las humoradas del Perro Bermúdez (qué plomazo).
...admirado a Cuauhtémoc Blanco (ese gran rocanrolero).
...visto ni un minuto de Rebelde (¿qué de rebelde tienen esos sujetos?).
...entendido la música grupera.
...aguantado a Don Francisco.
...seguido una telenovela.
...encontrado chitoso a Eugenio Derbez (hombre patético donde los haya) ni repetido ninguno de sus chistes.
...seguido las andanzas del muy raboncito futbol mexicano.
...utilizado palabras como locochón o prendido.
...visto completa una película de Pedro Infante (sé que es anatema, lo siento pero así es).
...seguido ningún Big Brother ni ningún otro reality show.
...soportado los progamas de chismes de Pepillo Origel.
...aguantado los programas matutinos para amas de casa.
...seguido con detalle escándalos prefabricados como el de Nyurka.
...comprado Tele-Guía.
...ni TVyNovelas, Eres, Furia Grupera ni demás prensa especializada en el patético jet-set nacional.
...considerado a Lucerito como "la novia de México" (¡por favor!).
Lo más dramåtico del asunto es que no tengo televisión y no así he podido escapar de todos estos referentes. Quizá Televisa sea un mal necesario, y sólo hay algo aún peor: TV Azteca.
Como dijo Baudelaire, "Oh, satanás, ten piedad de mi larga desdicha..."
Nunca he...
...comprado un disco de Maná.
...ido a un concierto de Luis Miguel.
...escrito un guión para ningún programa de Televisa (aunque me lo propusieron).
...visto el programa de Adal Ramones.
...considerado a Chespirito un genio.
...encontrado la menor gracia en Alejandra Guzmán.
...cantado una canción de Timbiriche.
...creído en el noticiero de López Dóriga.
...caido en el chantaje del Teletón (en lugar de ese despliegue hipócrita deberían embrutecer un poco menos a la raza).
...considerado al monótono y sobreactuado Ignacio López Tarso como un "primer actor."
...reido con chiste alguno de Polo Polo.
...sabido cuál es la gracia de Don Margarito, Rafita, la Chupitos y demás gente que le gusta exhibir su deformidad como "chistosa."
...soportado a Jorge Ortiz de Pinedo.
...disfrutado las humoradas del Perro Bermúdez (qué plomazo).
...admirado a Cuauhtémoc Blanco (ese gran rocanrolero).
...visto ni un minuto de Rebelde (¿qué de rebelde tienen esos sujetos?).
...entendido la música grupera.
...aguantado a Don Francisco.
...seguido una telenovela.
...encontrado chitoso a Eugenio Derbez (hombre patético donde los haya) ni repetido ninguno de sus chistes.
...seguido las andanzas del muy raboncito futbol mexicano.
...utilizado palabras como locochón o prendido.
...visto completa una película de Pedro Infante (sé que es anatema, lo siento pero así es).
...seguido ningún Big Brother ni ningún otro reality show.
...soportado los progamas de chismes de Pepillo Origel.
...aguantado los programas matutinos para amas de casa.
...seguido con detalle escándalos prefabricados como el de Nyurka.
...comprado Tele-Guía.
...ni TVyNovelas, Eres, Furia Grupera ni demás prensa especializada en el patético jet-set nacional.
...considerado a Lucerito como "la novia de México" (¡por favor!).
Lo más dramåtico del asunto es que no tengo televisión y no así he podido escapar de todos estos referentes. Quizá Televisa sea un mal necesario, y sólo hay algo aún peor: TV Azteca.
Como dijo Baudelaire, "Oh, satanás, ten piedad de mi larga desdicha..."
jueves, marzo 16, 2006
New Mexican Fiction (5)
La razón que dinamitó mi carrera de narrador, el auténtico catalizador, fue la envidia, mientras hace casi 10 años leía el tercer volumen de la antología Más allá de lo imaginado, de Federico Schaffler, y descubrí que el autor más joven era un tal Gerardo Sifuentes... ¡Dos años más joven que yo!
Me puse a escribir.
Hoy, Gerardo es uno de los narradores más destacados de su generación. Con él cerré la ponencia sobre nueva narrativa mexicana que di en Londres:
Gerardo Sifuentes was born on Tampico, an industrial port on northern Mexico in 1974. He's an electronic industrial engineer who fled the dull world of factories and quality control offices to pursue a career on writing. He's published a short science fiction stories collection, Perro de Luz (Lightdog), and a novel, Pilotos infernales (Infernal Pilots) which won a national science fiction novel award. Sifuentes' storytelling ranges from the conventional to the dellusive. The next excerpt from his novel would've been easily enjoyed by William Burroughs.
Infernal pilots
I
The sexiest thing about Marta was her bulbous stump, right at her right knee's height. If you asked her, she'd reply that a shark got her leg on Tampico, before she became the lover of a Russian ship's captain.
Truth is her leg was crushed by a trash truck while she laid dead drunk on an alley. The Russian ship stuff is true.
Some time ago, few sailors would pick her up at the bar. Back then she charged a couple hundred.
Ater the accident, she started charging a thousand.
And when she met the Russian captain, something happened that changed her life forever.
II
I finish my beer while Konejo and Mortadelo boast about their hunchbacks in front of two Japanese tourists. An American girl, a gringa, asks me for cigaretes. She has a third blue eye, not a very good implant. I show her the pack, she takes three cigaretes and then goes away, blinking her third eye. A saliva filament hangs from my lips. I've never caressed the skin of a seal or al dolphin. They say seals are the ocean's dogs.
I like this neighborhood. Konejo got me a cheap appartment. Only 500 pesos a month, two rooms, bathroom and a balcony with plants. I like my studio-living-dining room, because it always retains the smell of beer and pot from the day before. Last week, Konejo took a cage with groundhog and they felt very happy on my room's enviroment. It's a shame we ended up eating them, I would loved to have one as a pet.
Today, I went to the Police Station, but no one showed up to work. I forgot it was sunday. I hate sundays, specially sundays' afternoons. A book I read said that such feelings were an evidence of industrial societies' failure to bring people quality leisure time.
By night I showed up at the new Tokyo Pop bar, The Chocokrispies were playing a gig. I met a one-eyed girl who resembled my first girlfriend. I asked her if she had any dolpihns or seals on her house. She just meowed and since I didn't understand her I just nodded all the time. "Can't help falling in punk with you?"
I work as a M-Kultra agent, a government's agency. My incomes allows me to have certain luxuries and special connections on this city. I also travel a lot. I'll be on Australia in a couple of months, there I'll buy a kangaroo. I know I don't have enough space to raise it, but Konejo has a large backyard where it can be happy.
Mi boss is a Capricorn. Yesterday he stabbed to death her wife with some scissors, when he caught her stealing some M-Kultra's classified files. Today he has a hearing with the supreme comitee. They need to know for how long did his wife keep contact with the enemy. If they find out about our activities, something really nasty could happen. I don't know exactly how nasty, but they mustn't know it. I'm an Aquarian myself.
La razón que dinamitó mi carrera de narrador, el auténtico catalizador, fue la envidia, mientras hace casi 10 años leía el tercer volumen de la antología Más allá de lo imaginado, de Federico Schaffler, y descubrí que el autor más joven era un tal Gerardo Sifuentes... ¡Dos años más joven que yo!
Me puse a escribir.
Hoy, Gerardo es uno de los narradores más destacados de su generación. Con él cerré la ponencia sobre nueva narrativa mexicana que di en Londres:
Gerardo Sifuentes was born on Tampico, an industrial port on northern Mexico in 1974. He's an electronic industrial engineer who fled the dull world of factories and quality control offices to pursue a career on writing. He's published a short science fiction stories collection, Perro de Luz (Lightdog), and a novel, Pilotos infernales (Infernal Pilots) which won a national science fiction novel award. Sifuentes' storytelling ranges from the conventional to the dellusive. The next excerpt from his novel would've been easily enjoyed by William Burroughs.
Infernal pilots
I
The sexiest thing about Marta was her bulbous stump, right at her right knee's height. If you asked her, she'd reply that a shark got her leg on Tampico, before she became the lover of a Russian ship's captain.
Truth is her leg was crushed by a trash truck while she laid dead drunk on an alley. The Russian ship stuff is true.
Some time ago, few sailors would pick her up at the bar. Back then she charged a couple hundred.
Ater the accident, she started charging a thousand.
And when she met the Russian captain, something happened that changed her life forever.
II
I finish my beer while Konejo and Mortadelo boast about their hunchbacks in front of two Japanese tourists. An American girl, a gringa, asks me for cigaretes. She has a third blue eye, not a very good implant. I show her the pack, she takes three cigaretes and then goes away, blinking her third eye. A saliva filament hangs from my lips. I've never caressed the skin of a seal or al dolphin. They say seals are the ocean's dogs.
I like this neighborhood. Konejo got me a cheap appartment. Only 500 pesos a month, two rooms, bathroom and a balcony with plants. I like my studio-living-dining room, because it always retains the smell of beer and pot from the day before. Last week, Konejo took a cage with groundhog and they felt very happy on my room's enviroment. It's a shame we ended up eating them, I would loved to have one as a pet.
Today, I went to the Police Station, but no one showed up to work. I forgot it was sunday. I hate sundays, specially sundays' afternoons. A book I read said that such feelings were an evidence of industrial societies' failure to bring people quality leisure time.
By night I showed up at the new Tokyo Pop bar, The Chocokrispies were playing a gig. I met a one-eyed girl who resembled my first girlfriend. I asked her if she had any dolpihns or seals on her house. She just meowed and since I didn't understand her I just nodded all the time. "Can't help falling in punk with you?"
I work as a M-Kultra agent, a government's agency. My incomes allows me to have certain luxuries and special connections on this city. I also travel a lot. I'll be on Australia in a couple of months, there I'll buy a kangaroo. I know I don't have enough space to raise it, but Konejo has a large backyard where it can be happy.
Mi boss is a Capricorn. Yesterday he stabbed to death her wife with some scissors, when he caught her stealing some M-Kultra's classified files. Today he has a hearing with the supreme comitee. They need to know for how long did his wife keep contact with the enemy. If they find out about our activities, something really nasty could happen. I don't know exactly how nasty, but they mustn't know it. I'm an Aquarian myself.
New Mexican Fiction (4)
Sólo voy a decir dos cosas de Alberto Chimal: (1) en un medio tan lleno de envidias y rivalidades como el literario, es de las pocas personas de quien todo mundo habla bien y (2) No me queda duda, es el mejor cuentista de mi generación.
Alberto Chimal was born on Toluca, Mexico City's nearest major city, on 1970. He's published more than ten short stories and poems collections, as well as essays. He's been included on many important anthologies. He also is a critic and an editor and is considered the most important short story writer of his generation. Alberto has won many importan literary awards, including the San Luis Potosí Award for best unpublished short story collection, Mexico's most important prize for short fiction. His favourite writers include Jorge Luis Borges and Italo Calvino, and it shows on the following excerpts from his book People Ot The World (Gente del mundo), in his own words, "a collection of vignettes and ultra-short stories about the inhabitants of an imaginary world." People Of The World was included among La Jornada's Newspaper ten best books of the year list in 1998.
Truth
The Llollo ("We Who Are Two") said always the reverse of what they thought, and amongst them the worst enemies greeted each another joyfully; the lovers never ceased to say their goodbyes; the generals ordered a charge when their armies had to retreat; the mothers reprimanded their most obedient children. Always.
But travelers from all the lands went to the Llollo to hear them talk, to see them live in such a strange fashion, and it is believed that one of them, perhaps a merchant or a storyteller, taught them to lie (an art unknown or even unthinkable to them).
They began to say what they thought; to say what they did not thought knowing that no one would believe them, and also to speak plainly without anyone giving them credence. They ended mixing what they thought and what they did not thought in their discourse, their actions and even their thoughts; and so they became equal to the other peoples of the world, and they scattered all over it, for they could no longer, it is said, understand one another.
The Hour Of Death
The sacred books of the an-Anesdre ("We Who Respect Time") state that, in ancient times, a vengeful or inscrutable god ordered that folk to "die at the Day's ninth hour, when the Sun is highest." Such a strange command has had, through the centuries, several interpretations; all of them have marked the history of that region.
During the Famine, the beggar-preachers of Andigoro the Narrow taught that the Other World allowed entrance to the souls of the dead only at midday. Any of their faithful who was deemed dying was promptly killed at the ninth hour, and those who died unassisted at any other time were left unburied, to rot or to be eaten by birds and dogs.
In the fourth century, when the an-Anesdre were among the most advanced nations of the world, the empress Kenil-Dir of the Veiled Eyes decided that the ninth hour of all her people had come. She ordered all cities, towns and villages of the land to be ravaged, and when her captains did not obey her, she killed herself. Since she had no heirs, her death caused a long, disastrous war between the many who wanted her throne.
In the seventh century, the writing of the Good Thoughts Gild influenced the noblemen of the an-Anesdre cities: the princes grew fearful of old age, decrepitude and decadence, and adopted the custom of suicide, which they committed, aided by weapons and poisons ever more sophisticated, when they believed themselves at the peak of their powers. So popular became this bearing that it became the law, and for many years the lesser men were made, often forcefully, to follow their betters.
Today, because of the improvements in the astronomical sciences made since the ending of the War of the Fowl, the an-Anesdre know that the sun reaches the highest point in the sky only a few days each year. Those days, the people, forgetting differences and conflicts, gather together in festivals held everywhere, during which the executioners slay those sentenced to die and any other who wishes to. They also offer to the gods a sacrifice for every one who could not wait to the proper day to arrive.
Art
The P'tabrek ("We Who Illuminate") learn to draw before they learn to speak, and their hands, when they hold brush or charcoal, are always more agile than their mouths. There are always many visitors from distant lands at K'Tiraka, their city; they come looking for paintings, and all day long you can hear in the streets the shouting of the vendors, the haggling, the clink of coin, and the exclamations, full of awe, of all who have eyes to see.
Among the P'tabrek, the vain commission beautiful false mirrors, made to conceal the changes brought daily by age and misfortune; the governors' decrees have no written words on them, and thus anyone can understand them; the couples draw up on their bodies lovely landscapes, made to disappear with the first glows of the skin.
Courage
Always, they say, the Magok-da ("We Who Throw Ourselves") have fed themselves with nothing but yak meat, yak milk and tubers fried in yat fat. (They live on the meager steppes of Daka, where those creatures thrive still.)
Thousands of years of such a diet have made them a people so obese that, for example, few of them can walk, even fewer can run, and the biggest of their riders must ride on two or even three horses at the same time. However, they insist in satisfying their bellicose urges, as we can read in the following note, written by historian Kschatt of Morrst:
In the eve of every battle, the noises of feverish work can be heard at their camps. At dawn, the catapults (several times greater than the most common ones, with long metallic beams and seven feet wide buckets) are ready; trains of yaks move them as near the enemy positions as possible.
Then, while a few daring riders go forward in a false charge, to provoke the adversaries, the real Magok-da army appears: huge, round warriors, all armored, with cruel blades, long bows and fearsome spears. They climb, with some difficulty, into the buckets; they are slung, one after the other, by the smaller soldiers who man the machines, and who barely have time, after a shot, to tense the ropes, pull the beams down, put the next projectile in the bucket, take aim and shoot again.
It is strange, and more than a little terrifying, to see the Magok-da warriors in flight. Sometimes they let themselves spin slowly, sometimes they keep their eyes set on the enemy soldiers on which they will fall. Almost anyone who sees them screams if he also hears the blood songs that they sing while over the ground. Upon hitting it, a lone warrior can crush a dozen enemies; if he survives the fall and is able to move, he can kill at least a hundred more.
Since childhood, and even before, the Magok-da grow accustomed to fly: their parents, instead of cradling them in their arms, hurl them up when they want them to sleep.
Sólo voy a decir dos cosas de Alberto Chimal: (1) en un medio tan lleno de envidias y rivalidades como el literario, es de las pocas personas de quien todo mundo habla bien y (2) No me queda duda, es el mejor cuentista de mi generación.
Alberto Chimal was born on Toluca, Mexico City's nearest major city, on 1970. He's published more than ten short stories and poems collections, as well as essays. He's been included on many important anthologies. He also is a critic and an editor and is considered the most important short story writer of his generation. Alberto has won many importan literary awards, including the San Luis Potosí Award for best unpublished short story collection, Mexico's most important prize for short fiction. His favourite writers include Jorge Luis Borges and Italo Calvino, and it shows on the following excerpts from his book People Ot The World (Gente del mundo), in his own words, "a collection of vignettes and ultra-short stories about the inhabitants of an imaginary world." People Of The World was included among La Jornada's Newspaper ten best books of the year list in 1998.
Truth
The Llollo ("We Who Are Two") said always the reverse of what they thought, and amongst them the worst enemies greeted each another joyfully; the lovers never ceased to say their goodbyes; the generals ordered a charge when their armies had to retreat; the mothers reprimanded their most obedient children. Always.
But travelers from all the lands went to the Llollo to hear them talk, to see them live in such a strange fashion, and it is believed that one of them, perhaps a merchant or a storyteller, taught them to lie (an art unknown or even unthinkable to them).
They began to say what they thought; to say what they did not thought knowing that no one would believe them, and also to speak plainly without anyone giving them credence. They ended mixing what they thought and what they did not thought in their discourse, their actions and even their thoughts; and so they became equal to the other peoples of the world, and they scattered all over it, for they could no longer, it is said, understand one another.
The Hour Of Death
The sacred books of the an-Anesdre ("We Who Respect Time") state that, in ancient times, a vengeful or inscrutable god ordered that folk to "die at the Day's ninth hour, when the Sun is highest." Such a strange command has had, through the centuries, several interpretations; all of them have marked the history of that region.
During the Famine, the beggar-preachers of Andigoro the Narrow taught that the Other World allowed entrance to the souls of the dead only at midday. Any of their faithful who was deemed dying was promptly killed at the ninth hour, and those who died unassisted at any other time were left unburied, to rot or to be eaten by birds and dogs.
In the fourth century, when the an-Anesdre were among the most advanced nations of the world, the empress Kenil-Dir of the Veiled Eyes decided that the ninth hour of all her people had come. She ordered all cities, towns and villages of the land to be ravaged, and when her captains did not obey her, she killed herself. Since she had no heirs, her death caused a long, disastrous war between the many who wanted her throne.
In the seventh century, the writing of the Good Thoughts Gild influenced the noblemen of the an-Anesdre cities: the princes grew fearful of old age, decrepitude and decadence, and adopted the custom of suicide, which they committed, aided by weapons and poisons ever more sophisticated, when they believed themselves at the peak of their powers. So popular became this bearing that it became the law, and for many years the lesser men were made, often forcefully, to follow their betters.
Today, because of the improvements in the astronomical sciences made since the ending of the War of the Fowl, the an-Anesdre know that the sun reaches the highest point in the sky only a few days each year. Those days, the people, forgetting differences and conflicts, gather together in festivals held everywhere, during which the executioners slay those sentenced to die and any other who wishes to. They also offer to the gods a sacrifice for every one who could not wait to the proper day to arrive.
Art
The P'tabrek ("We Who Illuminate") learn to draw before they learn to speak, and their hands, when they hold brush or charcoal, are always more agile than their mouths. There are always many visitors from distant lands at K'Tiraka, their city; they come looking for paintings, and all day long you can hear in the streets the shouting of the vendors, the haggling, the clink of coin, and the exclamations, full of awe, of all who have eyes to see.
Among the P'tabrek, the vain commission beautiful false mirrors, made to conceal the changes brought daily by age and misfortune; the governors' decrees have no written words on them, and thus anyone can understand them; the couples draw up on their bodies lovely landscapes, made to disappear with the first glows of the skin.
Courage
Always, they say, the Magok-da ("We Who Throw Ourselves") have fed themselves with nothing but yak meat, yak milk and tubers fried in yat fat. (They live on the meager steppes of Daka, where those creatures thrive still.)
Thousands of years of such a diet have made them a people so obese that, for example, few of them can walk, even fewer can run, and the biggest of their riders must ride on two or even three horses at the same time. However, they insist in satisfying their bellicose urges, as we can read in the following note, written by historian Kschatt of Morrst:
In the eve of every battle, the noises of feverish work can be heard at their camps. At dawn, the catapults (several times greater than the most common ones, with long metallic beams and seven feet wide buckets) are ready; trains of yaks move them as near the enemy positions as possible.
Then, while a few daring riders go forward in a false charge, to provoke the adversaries, the real Magok-da army appears: huge, round warriors, all armored, with cruel blades, long bows and fearsome spears. They climb, with some difficulty, into the buckets; they are slung, one after the other, by the smaller soldiers who man the machines, and who barely have time, after a shot, to tense the ropes, pull the beams down, put the next projectile in the bucket, take aim and shoot again.
It is strange, and more than a little terrifying, to see the Magok-da warriors in flight. Sometimes they let themselves spin slowly, sometimes they keep their eyes set on the enemy soldiers on which they will fall. Almost anyone who sees them screams if he also hears the blood songs that they sing while over the ground. Upon hitting it, a lone warrior can crush a dozen enemies; if he survives the fall and is able to move, he can kill at least a hundred more.
Since childhood, and even before, the Magok-da grow accustomed to fly: their parents, instead of cradling them in their arms, hurl them up when they want them to sleep.
miércoles, marzo 15, 2006
Historietas reales
Mi colega monero Ernan me manda el link del blog colectivo Historietas Reales, en el que colaboran nada menos que once historietistas (hombres y mujeres), posteando cómics autobiográficos una vez a la semana.
El link resultó ser una agradable sorpresa, por lo que ahora se los comparto. Debería haber más esfuerzos como éstos (y menos foros de fanboys).
Mi colega monero Ernan me manda el link del blog colectivo Historietas Reales, en el que colaboran nada menos que once historietistas (hombres y mujeres), posteando cómics autobiográficos una vez a la semana.
El link resultó ser una agradable sorpresa, por lo que ahora se los comparto. Debería haber más esfuerzos como éstos (y menos foros de fanboys).
New Mexican Fiction (3)
Modelo a seguir, colega conspirador en eso de apoderarnos del mundo y gurú personal, Pepe Rojo no sólo es alguien que admiro mogollón, sino además uno de mis mejores amigos. Y uno, me parece, de los mejores escritores de su generación:
Pepe Rojo was born on Chilpancingo, a small town halfway between Mexico City and Acapulco, in 1968. So far, he's published a short story collection, Yonke (Junkyard), a novel, Punto Cero (Point Zero), has been included on several anthologies and has won a couple of national short story awards. Were I forced to define his work, I would say it is as J.G. Ballard zapping a TV while playing videogames. The next is a excerpt from his short story Ella se llamaba Sara (Her Name Was Sara), a disturbed tale abour suburban punk rockers and teenage violence that turns into an organic horror story, very Lovecraft-esque in a postmodern fashion. By the way, the title refers to a corny pop love song from the seventies.
Her name was Sara
"We're fucked up, we're fucked up", hummed Sara while we ran desperately through unfamiliar dark streets. The bad guys were behind us. Well, not that bad. After all, Sara had thrown a brick through the windshield of the car of one of the guys (six, ten, twenty, thirty, I swear there was an army of them!) but then again, the guy had earned it. You don't say "What a waste of a woman, fucking tomboy" to a girl like Sara. She just smiled and told me "let?s better scram from this party".
Outside, she ran to get a brick and shattered with it the windshield of a car parked in front of the hosts' house. Obviously, they came out to see what happened, but we were already running because, as usual, we didn't have a car. So, we ran till we felt our hearts pounding their way out of our chests. It was far from unusual. I still bear two scars thanks to a guy Sara had insulted that decided that my head should kiss passionately the pavement five times. The first two, I still can recall in detail, the other three I only know about because Sara told me later. Such were the inconveniences of being Sara's only friend. There are guys so stupid that they think that if a woman offends them, they have the right to beat the crap out of the woman's friend companion. As it often happened.
So we ran randomly around suburban streets, trying to constantly change our paths to dodge our chasers' cars. We were lost, We were still far from any major avenue where we could catch a bus and they were riding at least four cars. Besides, they were really pissed off.
"Next time, you better slash their fucking tires", I said and she tried to smile, but couldn't. We were tired, and it seemed like this time we were going to buy the farm. We didn't hear their cars. It was a matter of luck. We could reach a bus and sleep on our beds or get caught and then who knows what would happen.
"Shit. You didn't even tell me what you were going to do!"
"Fuck off, you're such a sissy. Besides, if I told you, you wouldn't let me do it. Just shut up, forget it and walk faster."
Every time we heard a car we ran to hide behind a tree till it drove by. Night was calm, though it was cold.
"Anyway, it was you the one who wanted to come to this party" said Sara. "I've told you a thousand times I hate suburbs' parties. All you see are stupid rich kids."
She kept annoying me. She was quite a sight. She was soaked on sweat, her eyes bright by the adrenaline overdose. She was cute. Well, not only cute, she was gorgeous and that's not a word I'm fond of. The worst was that she was as beautiful as the girls on the commercials. Just like the imaginary picture of the perfect daughter that every father has in mind. She couldn't hate it more. She had a problem with her beauty. That's why she'd shaved her head. That?s why she always used baggy pants. "So no one peeps my ass", she used to say. That?s why she'd pierced her tongue and her belly buttom. That's why she had three earrings on each ear and was saving money to pierce her nipple. I thought that sooner or later she would pierce her vaginal lips, too. She always replied to this: "Fuck off, how tacky! What would my children think? And what a bummer for birthing!", and bursted into laughter. Curiously, the more she mutilated her body, the prettier she looked, the harder it was no to notice her.
Modelo a seguir, colega conspirador en eso de apoderarnos del mundo y gurú personal, Pepe Rojo no sólo es alguien que admiro mogollón, sino además uno de mis mejores amigos. Y uno, me parece, de los mejores escritores de su generación:
Pepe Rojo was born on Chilpancingo, a small town halfway between Mexico City and Acapulco, in 1968. So far, he's published a short story collection, Yonke (Junkyard), a novel, Punto Cero (Point Zero), has been included on several anthologies and has won a couple of national short story awards. Were I forced to define his work, I would say it is as J.G. Ballard zapping a TV while playing videogames. The next is a excerpt from his short story Ella se llamaba Sara (Her Name Was Sara), a disturbed tale abour suburban punk rockers and teenage violence that turns into an organic horror story, very Lovecraft-esque in a postmodern fashion. By the way, the title refers to a corny pop love song from the seventies.
Her name was Sara
"We're fucked up, we're fucked up", hummed Sara while we ran desperately through unfamiliar dark streets. The bad guys were behind us. Well, not that bad. After all, Sara had thrown a brick through the windshield of the car of one of the guys (six, ten, twenty, thirty, I swear there was an army of them!) but then again, the guy had earned it. You don't say "What a waste of a woman, fucking tomboy" to a girl like Sara. She just smiled and told me "let?s better scram from this party".
Outside, she ran to get a brick and shattered with it the windshield of a car parked in front of the hosts' house. Obviously, they came out to see what happened, but we were already running because, as usual, we didn't have a car. So, we ran till we felt our hearts pounding their way out of our chests. It was far from unusual. I still bear two scars thanks to a guy Sara had insulted that decided that my head should kiss passionately the pavement five times. The first two, I still can recall in detail, the other three I only know about because Sara told me later. Such were the inconveniences of being Sara's only friend. There are guys so stupid that they think that if a woman offends them, they have the right to beat the crap out of the woman's friend companion. As it often happened.
So we ran randomly around suburban streets, trying to constantly change our paths to dodge our chasers' cars. We were lost, We were still far from any major avenue where we could catch a bus and they were riding at least four cars. Besides, they were really pissed off.
"Next time, you better slash their fucking tires", I said and she tried to smile, but couldn't. We were tired, and it seemed like this time we were going to buy the farm. We didn't hear their cars. It was a matter of luck. We could reach a bus and sleep on our beds or get caught and then who knows what would happen.
"Shit. You didn't even tell me what you were going to do!"
"Fuck off, you're such a sissy. Besides, if I told you, you wouldn't let me do it. Just shut up, forget it and walk faster."
Every time we heard a car we ran to hide behind a tree till it drove by. Night was calm, though it was cold.
"Anyway, it was you the one who wanted to come to this party" said Sara. "I've told you a thousand times I hate suburbs' parties. All you see are stupid rich kids."
She kept annoying me. She was quite a sight. She was soaked on sweat, her eyes bright by the adrenaline overdose. She was cute. Well, not only cute, she was gorgeous and that's not a word I'm fond of. The worst was that she was as beautiful as the girls on the commercials. Just like the imaginary picture of the perfect daughter that every father has in mind. She couldn't hate it more. She had a problem with her beauty. That's why she'd shaved her head. That?s why she always used baggy pants. "So no one peeps my ass", she used to say. That?s why she'd pierced her tongue and her belly buttom. That's why she had three earrings on each ear and was saving money to pierce her nipple. I thought that sooner or later she would pierce her vaginal lips, too. She always replied to this: "Fuck off, how tacky! What would my children think? And what a bummer for birthing!", and bursted into laughter. Curiously, the more she mutilated her body, the prettier she looked, the harder it was no to notice her.
New Mexican Fiction (2)
Continúo con mi ponencia de la London Book Fair. Esta vez toca el turno de Isaí Moreno:
Isaí Moreno was born on Mexico City on 1967. He's a mathematician and has published two novels, Pisot, los digitos violentos (Pisot, The Violent Digits), which won the Juan Rulfo National Award for best first novel and Adicción (Addiction). The first chapter of his novel Pisot, which I'm about to read, makes me think of Rudy Rucker mimicking Edgar Allan Poe's style while writing a historical novel set on eightenth century Mexico.
Pisot, The Violent Digits. Chapter I.
On May thirtenth, 1752, at the ancient city of Mexico, a highly unusual, rather grotesque incident happened.
As if aware of a forecast calamity, several neighbors of the De Salazar house stared besides the gloomy funeral candles set for the last rites, a small, pale sillhouette that pronounced a hideous statement, so bizarre that it stroke them with such horror and repulsion that they couldn't forget it for the rest of their lives.
That day, a total sun eclipse had been accurately precdicted by contemporary astronomists. Eclipses had always provoked uneasiness. For a year then, wise men discussed and refuted about the cosmic circumstances that breeded the mists, like evil clouds spawned to darken mankind's hearts. Speaking of which, don José Mariano de Medina, a prominent astronomer from the city of Puebla wrote:
I'm certain that the disturbances suffered on eclipse years are not produced by the evil influence of the stars, but by the fears and terrors that the astologists' doom predictions strike on the uneasy characters.
These words circulated on a flyer that produced great controversy and was heavily criticized, specially by the Physics scientist Narciso Narcop who, on his turn, published a letter-brochure in which he revindicated the magical nature of eclipses and rebated Medina's illustrated rationalism. An so, between harsh debates and discussions, the predicted eclipse occured and no few people eased their fears by entrusting their souls to the Holly Providence, As twilight drew on, many elder women gathered on groups to hum lethanies in an attempt to dispel the Evil One and his wandering souls.
Dogs barked on the streets, emphasizing with their howling the certainty of human misery, covered by the veil of the eerie night that haunts mankind. So was thought by those who joined don Juan de Salazar on his agony. The hard working elder was a creole goldsmith who was painfully succumbing to asthma. Few sights are as pitiful as a slow death that doesn't end for good. The old man's troubled breathing, that of his final moments, reminded a decrepit old dog dying away on a corner, whose breath whistles away from a sore throat. Tragedy was boosted by the fact that the elder was struggling death in the middle of an eclipse, when men find themselves vulnerable against nature's forces that whip their destinies like a storm. The man's gasps, which momentarily seemed to end, ceasing his suffering, suddenly resumed as a desperate whistling that snatched away a few seconds from suffocation. By the end of the eclipse he finally gave away to the eternal sleep. Friends and relatives mourned him. Few noticed that even though the Sun shone again, it seemed dull and shineless, just as grim as the funeral candles that were lit to be used on the last rites. That long agony had finally ended. It was just then when the mourners heard astonished a child's voice saying "I know how many times he gasped before dying". Silence fell as everyone turned to stare the voice's owner. Surprised faces turned into shocked ones when Policarpo voiced a number. Oh! He'd counted the agonizing man's gasps, one by one on his dreadful agony, until the end. Women stuttered, trying to mutter forgotten prayers. A chill climbed up their spines. What kind of a spawn was that? Only demoniac entities were capable of the aberration they'd just beholded. This boy was insane. Or maybe possesed. That was it. Maybe it all could be beacuse of the eclipse. Everyone was haunted by the scene on their nightmares to come. All of them felt thei skeletons shook when they saw the pale young lad lukewarmly turn around and walk firmly into the house's yard.
Yes, all what happened was the true sign of a catastrophe to come.
Continúo con mi ponencia de la London Book Fair. Esta vez toca el turno de Isaí Moreno:
Isaí Moreno was born on Mexico City on 1967. He's a mathematician and has published two novels, Pisot, los digitos violentos (Pisot, The Violent Digits), which won the Juan Rulfo National Award for best first novel and Adicción (Addiction). The first chapter of his novel Pisot, which I'm about to read, makes me think of Rudy Rucker mimicking Edgar Allan Poe's style while writing a historical novel set on eightenth century Mexico.
Pisot, The Violent Digits. Chapter I.
On May thirtenth, 1752, at the ancient city of Mexico, a highly unusual, rather grotesque incident happened.
As if aware of a forecast calamity, several neighbors of the De Salazar house stared besides the gloomy funeral candles set for the last rites, a small, pale sillhouette that pronounced a hideous statement, so bizarre that it stroke them with such horror and repulsion that they couldn't forget it for the rest of their lives.
That day, a total sun eclipse had been accurately precdicted by contemporary astronomists. Eclipses had always provoked uneasiness. For a year then, wise men discussed and refuted about the cosmic circumstances that breeded the mists, like evil clouds spawned to darken mankind's hearts. Speaking of which, don José Mariano de Medina, a prominent astronomer from the city of Puebla wrote:
I'm certain that the disturbances suffered on eclipse years are not produced by the evil influence of the stars, but by the fears and terrors that the astologists' doom predictions strike on the uneasy characters.
These words circulated on a flyer that produced great controversy and was heavily criticized, specially by the Physics scientist Narciso Narcop who, on his turn, published a letter-brochure in which he revindicated the magical nature of eclipses and rebated Medina's illustrated rationalism. An so, between harsh debates and discussions, the predicted eclipse occured and no few people eased their fears by entrusting their souls to the Holly Providence, As twilight drew on, many elder women gathered on groups to hum lethanies in an attempt to dispel the Evil One and his wandering souls.
Dogs barked on the streets, emphasizing with their howling the certainty of human misery, covered by the veil of the eerie night that haunts mankind. So was thought by those who joined don Juan de Salazar on his agony. The hard working elder was a creole goldsmith who was painfully succumbing to asthma. Few sights are as pitiful as a slow death that doesn't end for good. The old man's troubled breathing, that of his final moments, reminded a decrepit old dog dying away on a corner, whose breath whistles away from a sore throat. Tragedy was boosted by the fact that the elder was struggling death in the middle of an eclipse, when men find themselves vulnerable against nature's forces that whip their destinies like a storm. The man's gasps, which momentarily seemed to end, ceasing his suffering, suddenly resumed as a desperate whistling that snatched away a few seconds from suffocation. By the end of the eclipse he finally gave away to the eternal sleep. Friends and relatives mourned him. Few noticed that even though the Sun shone again, it seemed dull and shineless, just as grim as the funeral candles that were lit to be used on the last rites. That long agony had finally ended. It was just then when the mourners heard astonished a child's voice saying "I know how many times he gasped before dying". Silence fell as everyone turned to stare the voice's owner. Surprised faces turned into shocked ones when Policarpo voiced a number. Oh! He'd counted the agonizing man's gasps, one by one on his dreadful agony, until the end. Women stuttered, trying to mutter forgotten prayers. A chill climbed up their spines. What kind of a spawn was that? Only demoniac entities were capable of the aberration they'd just beholded. This boy was insane. Or maybe possesed. That was it. Maybe it all could be beacuse of the eclipse. Everyone was haunted by the scene on their nightmares to come. All of them felt thei skeletons shook when they saw the pale young lad lukewarmly turn around and walk firmly into the house's yard.
Yes, all what happened was the true sign of a catastrophe to come.
martes, marzo 14, 2006
V For Vendetta
Como podrá verse por mi cara de éxtasis, uno de los highlights del viaje a Londres fue coincidir con la premiere de la película V For Vendetta, basada en la novela gráfica que escribió Alan Moore e ilustró David Lloyd a fin de los 80.
Venía caminando por Covent Garden con mi amiga Sumi cuando vi la V flameando a las puertas del cine, y de la nada salieron decenas de tipos vestidos como "V", el protagonista de la historia que lleva una máscara de Guy Fawkes. No lo resistí y le pedí a uno tomarme la foto.]
Pues bueno, anoche, gracias a la invitación de mi amiga Eugenia Robleda, fui junto con la gran Ira Franco a la premiere nacional de la peli.
Grandísima decepción.
Apenas había transcurrido unos cuantos minutos cuando Ira y yo ya estábamos mentando madres, comprendiendo que los hermanos Wachovski sencillamente no habían entendido la profunda carga subversiva del cómic de Alan Moore. Ni una pizca.
No en balde, Moore pidió que su crédito no apareciera en la cinta.
Horror.
Asistimos a la frivolización de una de las mejores historias de la narrativa gráfica que yo jamás había leído. Distorsionado más allá del reconociminento, "V", el elegante terrorista del libro se convierte en un fantoche enmascarado que suelta karatazos y lanza cuchillos, como buen primo cinematográfico que es del Neo de Matrix.
Como queriendo hacer la historia apta para las buenas conciencias y el consumo masivo, la historia fue dejada en los huesos, quitando todo vestigio de pensamiento crítico contra el statu quo para convertirla en una historia camp al estilo de la serie de Batman de los 60.
Ni siquiera el despliegue visual justifica la existencia de este bodrio. Qué poco respeto para la obra original. Era mejor no haber hecho nunca la adaptación al cine.
Lo más triste del asunto es que sin duda será un éxito de taquilla en todo el mundo.
Qué pena. Comparto tu tristeza, Alan...
Como podrá verse por mi cara de éxtasis, uno de los highlights del viaje a Londres fue coincidir con la premiere de la película V For Vendetta, basada en la novela gráfica que escribió Alan Moore e ilustró David Lloyd a fin de los 80.
Venía caminando por Covent Garden con mi amiga Sumi cuando vi la V flameando a las puertas del cine, y de la nada salieron decenas de tipos vestidos como "V", el protagonista de la historia que lleva una máscara de Guy Fawkes. No lo resistí y le pedí a uno tomarme la foto.]
Pues bueno, anoche, gracias a la invitación de mi amiga Eugenia Robleda, fui junto con la gran Ira Franco a la premiere nacional de la peli.
Grandísima decepción.
Apenas había transcurrido unos cuantos minutos cuando Ira y yo ya estábamos mentando madres, comprendiendo que los hermanos Wachovski sencillamente no habían entendido la profunda carga subversiva del cómic de Alan Moore. Ni una pizca.
No en balde, Moore pidió que su crédito no apareciera en la cinta.
Horror.
Asistimos a la frivolización de una de las mejores historias de la narrativa gráfica que yo jamás había leído. Distorsionado más allá del reconociminento, "V", el elegante terrorista del libro se convierte en un fantoche enmascarado que suelta karatazos y lanza cuchillos, como buen primo cinematográfico que es del Neo de Matrix.
Como queriendo hacer la historia apta para las buenas conciencias y el consumo masivo, la historia fue dejada en los huesos, quitando todo vestigio de pensamiento crítico contra el statu quo para convertirla en una historia camp al estilo de la serie de Batman de los 60.
Ni siquiera el despliegue visual justifica la existencia de este bodrio. Qué poco respeto para la obra original. Era mejor no haber hecho nunca la adaptación al cine.
Lo más triste del asunto es que sin duda será un éxito de taquilla en todo el mundo.
Qué pena. Comparto tu tristeza, Alan...
New Mexican Fiction (1)
He decidido pegar por partes la ponencia que llevé a la London Book Fair. Como verán, está en inglés. Se me pidió hablar sobre jóvenes narradores mexicanos y yo seleccioné cinco de los escritores que más me gustan (dejando fuera desgraciadamente a varios que también consideraba dignos de inlcuirse). Además de hablar un poco de cada uno de ellos, traduje un extracto del trabajo de cada quien (excepto en el caso de Alberto Chimal, que me dio sus textos ya traducidos). A continuación, la primera parte:
Mexican literature has a rich tradition that spans from the ancient pre-hispanic myths to post-modern contemporary fiction. Nevertheless, two circumstances had prevented it from being widely read among european readers. First, is our peripherical condition as a nation. Being almost a United States colony, who would take seriously Mexican literature beyond the well-known major authors such as Octavio Paz or Carlos Fuentes? Second, is the language frontier. Even in a globalized age, good translations are scarce and expensive. Being ours an antique and complex culture, accurate translations turn out to be pretty difficult, as I experienced myself while preparing this lecture.
If I had to summarize Mexican new fiction's characteristics, I'd find myself on deep trouble. Some critics have pointed out several general characteristics:
*Younger Mexican writers are now less interested on local subjects that global thematics. Cosmopolitism and europhilia made a comeback, as the Crack generation has stated.
*Even though the historical novel seems to be pretty popular these days, urban fiction and social decay seem to be more appealing to young authors.
*Subgenres such as crime and science fiction, traditionally despised by Mexican authors, have an increasing influence on younger writers.
*There seems to be a great simpathy for English speaking authors, specially post-war American writers, as opposed to the last generation's affaire with the french. William Burroughs, J.G. Ballard, Philip K. Dick, Kurt Vonnegut, Charles Bukowski, Jack Kerouack, John Fante, Martin Amis, Hanif Kureishi and Raymond Carver, just to name a few, seem to be pretty popular among my generation.
But these are only general assumptions; on the whole, the true richness of new Mexican fiction rests on its diversity.
Choosing fine examples of young Mexican writers turned out to be a complex task. First off, it was necessary to define young and then, pick some examples of the finest active narrators.
My criteria was to choose writers that fullfilled the following requirements: (1) They had to be younger than forty, (2) They had to have won at least one important literary award and (3) They had to have published at least two books.
The prior characteristics eased just a little my task. At the end, I picked five of my colleagues, I wrote a little introductury text about them and their books and then translated an excerpt from their work (except in the case of Alberto Chimal, who translated his own texts. I must say that he's by far a finer translator than myself).
Finally, I just want to mention some of the writers that didn't make it to my selection, which I regret. They are Gerardo Porcayo, Gonzalo Lizardo, Antonio Malpica and Julián Herbert.
1
José Luis Zárate was born on Puebla, Mexico's fourth major city, on 1966. By far my personal favourite living Mexican author, he's published several books, including short stories collections, novels and an essay on film. His novel La ruta del hielo y la sal (The Ice and Salt Route) won the Vid International Science Fiction and Fantasy award. He's basicly won all the major Spanish awards on fantastic literature. His is a truly original voice that merges the fantastic with a delicate poetic tone. Tatuajes, dibujos mínimos (Tatoos, minimal drawings) is an unpublished short fiction book composed by 500 ultra-short stories about, well, tatoos. Next, four samples.
I witness the tatoo's birth, the ink woman raising her head on my flesh. I see her stand difficultly, and leave.
I stay here, all blood and pain.
I expect to heal, to trace her again.
Hoping that this time, she stays with me.
I close my eyes as you undress. In the dark, your body is a warm tide, wind blowing through the printed paths of my flesh, a panting breathing on the picture's lines, the slow pain of passion on the ink.
Your invisible body, shifting, liquid, only exists at the touch of my skin; and you only touch the drawing you traced yourself.
Awareness and pleasure, an ocean sea printed on me.
All you are --as I am for you-- is a tatoo.
The tatoo machine is composed by an electric motor, an rolling wheel and a hollow needle that pricks and folds at full speed with a tiny hook at the end.
With an effort, patiently, the tatoo artist skillfully fishes the image immersed on the skin.
The woman pointed one of the suspects.
"That's him. He raped me."
The one with the red dragon on his chest, they wrote. But they were wrong.
She wasn?t pointing the man.
It was the tatoo. The obscene, red beast.
He decidido pegar por partes la ponencia que llevé a la London Book Fair. Como verán, está en inglés. Se me pidió hablar sobre jóvenes narradores mexicanos y yo seleccioné cinco de los escritores que más me gustan (dejando fuera desgraciadamente a varios que también consideraba dignos de inlcuirse). Además de hablar un poco de cada uno de ellos, traduje un extracto del trabajo de cada quien (excepto en el caso de Alberto Chimal, que me dio sus textos ya traducidos). A continuación, la primera parte:
Mexican literature has a rich tradition that spans from the ancient pre-hispanic myths to post-modern contemporary fiction. Nevertheless, two circumstances had prevented it from being widely read among european readers. First, is our peripherical condition as a nation. Being almost a United States colony, who would take seriously Mexican literature beyond the well-known major authors such as Octavio Paz or Carlos Fuentes? Second, is the language frontier. Even in a globalized age, good translations are scarce and expensive. Being ours an antique and complex culture, accurate translations turn out to be pretty difficult, as I experienced myself while preparing this lecture.
If I had to summarize Mexican new fiction's characteristics, I'd find myself on deep trouble. Some critics have pointed out several general characteristics:
*Younger Mexican writers are now less interested on local subjects that global thematics. Cosmopolitism and europhilia made a comeback, as the Crack generation has stated.
*Even though the historical novel seems to be pretty popular these days, urban fiction and social decay seem to be more appealing to young authors.
*Subgenres such as crime and science fiction, traditionally despised by Mexican authors, have an increasing influence on younger writers.
*There seems to be a great simpathy for English speaking authors, specially post-war American writers, as opposed to the last generation's affaire with the french. William Burroughs, J.G. Ballard, Philip K. Dick, Kurt Vonnegut, Charles Bukowski, Jack Kerouack, John Fante, Martin Amis, Hanif Kureishi and Raymond Carver, just to name a few, seem to be pretty popular among my generation.
But these are only general assumptions; on the whole, the true richness of new Mexican fiction rests on its diversity.
Choosing fine examples of young Mexican writers turned out to be a complex task. First off, it was necessary to define young and then, pick some examples of the finest active narrators.
My criteria was to choose writers that fullfilled the following requirements: (1) They had to be younger than forty, (2) They had to have won at least one important literary award and (3) They had to have published at least two books.
The prior characteristics eased just a little my task. At the end, I picked five of my colleagues, I wrote a little introductury text about them and their books and then translated an excerpt from their work (except in the case of Alberto Chimal, who translated his own texts. I must say that he's by far a finer translator than myself).
Finally, I just want to mention some of the writers that didn't make it to my selection, which I regret. They are Gerardo Porcayo, Gonzalo Lizardo, Antonio Malpica and Julián Herbert.
1
José Luis Zárate was born on Puebla, Mexico's fourth major city, on 1966. By far my personal favourite living Mexican author, he's published several books, including short stories collections, novels and an essay on film. His novel La ruta del hielo y la sal (The Ice and Salt Route) won the Vid International Science Fiction and Fantasy award. He's basicly won all the major Spanish awards on fantastic literature. His is a truly original voice that merges the fantastic with a delicate poetic tone. Tatuajes, dibujos mínimos (Tatoos, minimal drawings) is an unpublished short fiction book composed by 500 ultra-short stories about, well, tatoos. Next, four samples.
I witness the tatoo's birth, the ink woman raising her head on my flesh. I see her stand difficultly, and leave.
I stay here, all blood and pain.
I expect to heal, to trace her again.
Hoping that this time, she stays with me.
I close my eyes as you undress. In the dark, your body is a warm tide, wind blowing through the printed paths of my flesh, a panting breathing on the picture's lines, the slow pain of passion on the ink.
Your invisible body, shifting, liquid, only exists at the touch of my skin; and you only touch the drawing you traced yourself.
Awareness and pleasure, an ocean sea printed on me.
All you are --as I am for you-- is a tatoo.
The tatoo machine is composed by an electric motor, an rolling wheel and a hollow needle that pricks and folds at full speed with a tiny hook at the end.
With an effort, patiently, the tatoo artist skillfully fishes the image immersed on the skin.
The woman pointed one of the suspects.
"That's him. He raped me."
The one with the red dragon on his chest, they wrote. But they were wrong.
She wasn?t pointing the man.
It was the tatoo. The obscene, red beast.
jueves, marzo 09, 2006
miércoles, marzo 08, 2006
1) Lo que mas me gusta de Londres es esa sensacion de estar justo en el centro del mundo. Casi me sucede como a Abel Quezada en Nueva York, que se sentia tentado a pararse en una esquina para aplaudirle a todos los que pasaran.
2) La Feria del libro me deja un sabor agridulce. Enfocada totalmente a la compra-venta de derechos de autor, no tiene eapacios para los lectores. Ya sabia que era asi, no deberia darme por sorprendido.
3) El evento es tan grande que la presencia de Mexico como pais invitado casi paso desapercibida. Casi.
4) Esta ha sido la oportunidad para establecer o reafirmar amistad con varios escritores. Claudia Gullen, Eduardo Antonio Parra y Sergio Gonzalez Rodriguez, junto con Cynthia, que vino de Liverpool un par de dias, hicimos un bonito grupo de viaje.
5) El castillo de Windsor, sin duda, es impresionante, pero tambien una monumental trampa para turistas. Por lo menos no es tan decepcionante como Buckingham.
6) Porque todo es TAN caro por aqui?
7) Se acaba de estrenar Mirrormask, la cinta de Dave McKean escrita por Neil Gaiman. Me muero de ganas de ir. Si logro convencer a mi amiga Sumi (que vive aqui desde hace un par de annos) ire a verla.
8) Ahora me parece que se habla mas espannol que la ultima vez que estuve por aca. Hay muchos espannoles y latinoamericanos de mojarras. O sera que no los vi la vez pasada?
9) La comida es mala y cara. De lo mejor, un pescado llamado John Dory (no es que se llame Juanito, es el nombre de la especie) que solo se da en las costas inglesas. Lo comimos en un restaurante italiano donde el Conaculta ofrecio una cena a la delegacion mexicana.
10) Hice una cita con unos agentes literarios franceses. Resulto que la duenna es esposa de Gilbert Shelton (of The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers fame) de amiga de Robert Crumb, ademas de representarlos a ambos.
11)Las tiendas de comics estan llenas de manga y supeheroes, casi todo conseguible en cualquier parte del mundo. Una pena. Parece ser que la onda, como platicaba con Bachan, esta ahora en Francia.
12) El dato extranno, no puedo accesar el blog del Carcass desde la Virgin Megastore de Piccadilly Circus. Me dice que su contenido es restringido. Bien, Carcass.
13) Hay un magnifico museo de la caricatura recien inaugurado cerca del British Museum. Hay originales de todos los moneros ingleses importantes desde Hogarth. Me sorprende el nivel de sus moneros de periodicos. Y lo mejor, ver un par de originales de Brian Bolland.
14) Mientras escribo esto suena en la tienda la vieja cancion ochentera de Rockwell "Somebody's Watching Me", muy apropiada en una ciudad repleta de camaras de circuito cerrado por todos lados. Aqui, efectivamente, el gran hermano te esta observando.
15) Ya me harte de la lluvia.
16) Y perdon por repetirlo, pero QUE CARO es todo.
2) La Feria del libro me deja un sabor agridulce. Enfocada totalmente a la compra-venta de derechos de autor, no tiene eapacios para los lectores. Ya sabia que era asi, no deberia darme por sorprendido.
3) El evento es tan grande que la presencia de Mexico como pais invitado casi paso desapercibida. Casi.
4) Esta ha sido la oportunidad para establecer o reafirmar amistad con varios escritores. Claudia Gullen, Eduardo Antonio Parra y Sergio Gonzalez Rodriguez, junto con Cynthia, que vino de Liverpool un par de dias, hicimos un bonito grupo de viaje.
5) El castillo de Windsor, sin duda, es impresionante, pero tambien una monumental trampa para turistas. Por lo menos no es tan decepcionante como Buckingham.
6) Porque todo es TAN caro por aqui?
7) Se acaba de estrenar Mirrormask, la cinta de Dave McKean escrita por Neil Gaiman. Me muero de ganas de ir. Si logro convencer a mi amiga Sumi (que vive aqui desde hace un par de annos) ire a verla.
8) Ahora me parece que se habla mas espannol que la ultima vez que estuve por aca. Hay muchos espannoles y latinoamericanos de mojarras. O sera que no los vi la vez pasada?
9) La comida es mala y cara. De lo mejor, un pescado llamado John Dory (no es que se llame Juanito, es el nombre de la especie) que solo se da en las costas inglesas. Lo comimos en un restaurante italiano donde el Conaculta ofrecio una cena a la delegacion mexicana.
10) Hice una cita con unos agentes literarios franceses. Resulto que la duenna es esposa de Gilbert Shelton (of The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers fame) de amiga de Robert Crumb, ademas de representarlos a ambos.
11)Las tiendas de comics estan llenas de manga y supeheroes, casi todo conseguible en cualquier parte del mundo. Una pena. Parece ser que la onda, como platicaba con Bachan, esta ahora en Francia.
12) El dato extranno, no puedo accesar el blog del Carcass desde la Virgin Megastore de Piccadilly Circus. Me dice que su contenido es restringido. Bien, Carcass.
13) Hay un magnifico museo de la caricatura recien inaugurado cerca del British Museum. Hay originales de todos los moneros ingleses importantes desde Hogarth. Me sorprende el nivel de sus moneros de periodicos. Y lo mejor, ver un par de originales de Brian Bolland.
14) Mientras escribo esto suena en la tienda la vieja cancion ochentera de Rockwell "Somebody's Watching Me", muy apropiada en una ciudad repleta de camaras de circuito cerrado por todos lados. Aqui, efectivamente, el gran hermano te esta observando.
15) Ya me harte de la lluvia.
16) Y perdon por repetirlo, pero QUE CARO es todo.
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