Sketches From A Book

From time to time, I post some excerpts from my unpublished novella, or more likely sketches, similar to the drawing here. I made the drawing ages ago, but I would like my book to be alive and growing. While I ponder what to do with the novella — in the trash?, to glory? —, translating some of its fragments into English provides me new views on it, and it becomes more funny and unpredictable. I have put these excerpts under the label "my book" so that you can take a look at them any time. Here follows the latest rendering:

People used to say that Marta was a self-made woman. If there was anyone between the Northern Ranges and the Third Main Canal that thought otherwise, had never dared to say so. Thus everyone was in agreement on this point.

Robert liked Marta because she lived as she wanted, and because he was part of Marta's self-made life. Of course she could not choose Robert as her nephew, for example, neither the other members of the family as her relatives. But this was one of the many truths that Marta was not prepared to listen to. When hanging out with her, Robert noticed that, behind their conversation, she said other things quite important, pleasantly undefined, which meant more or less: "do not let them take it from you, boy. I do not think they have taken it from me. They made a mess of me, as you can see. But they did not take it from me."

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Almost Wordless: J. D. Salinger

Jerome David Salinger has died at 91 years old, after 50 years almost in silence. Rumor has it that his home at Cornish, New Hampshire, is full of unpublished works. Let's hope they don't put it upside down. Salinger said something like that the important thing is not to publish, but to write.

It feels like Salinger wrote The Catcher in the Rye in a day, and that incredible feeling of ease inspires writing. Inspires the pursuit of voice. Not his voice. My voice. Your voice.

Aimee BENDER — Source: Wikipedia

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Estate Al Lago

“The months that Giacomo spent at Milan, all year except from summer and some days of fall, it seemed to him that did not count in his life. They were like a landscape of mists, of grey buildings, intended to confine his imagination in a sense of inanity that made him lazy, subtly unhappy.

“I mesi che Giacomo passava a Milano, tutto l'anno esclusa l'estate e qualche giorno d'autunno, gli sembrava non contassero nella sua vita. Erano come un paesaggio di nebbie, di palazzi grigi, destinato a chiudere la sua immaginazione in un sentimento di inanità che lo rendeva pigro, sottilmente infelice.

This is the beginning of Estate al lago (Summer at the Lake), by Alberto Vigevani, and the image is that of the Catalan edition. Since I haven't found an English translation of this book anywhere, I rolled up my sleeves and got to render some of its sentences so that I could share them here. But then I had one of those glorious odd moments of inspiration in which I stop and think. "I have translated from Catalan into English a fragment originally written in Italian", I mumbled. "And why not use the Cyrillic alphabet and hire a Greek rhapsode to recite it?"

So I started again. I went to Google books, just to confirm that there is not an English rendering of Vigevani's book, but found instead some cuttings of the Italian version, like this one:

Three of those fragments where enough. With an eye on them and the other on the Catalan version, I finally felt confident enough to translate two sentences (no Greek rhapsode, I'm sorry). The ultimate reason of this detour is that I enjoyed very much the book. Alberto Vigevani (Milan, 1918-1999) tells in a clear, classic style Giacomo's last holidays as a child. He's an imaginative boy who does not actually study much and maybe is too contemplative, but he is entering real life through poetry. Oh, and he feels sotilmente infelice... It seems to me that the author is referring to real hapiness. The whole thing is a tiny book that deserves widespread recognition (and desperately needs a translator).

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Lifestyle, Books And Online Findings

For several days I have been researching a bit to write about the books that are awaiting on the shelf — and they wait with all the patience in the world, for which I thank them wholeheartedly. In my “bookish”, informative and entertaining research to see what is being published online, I have found a little of everything, as I will explain in next posts, but if there is something that costs me to find, as always, is time to sort the ideas and the information I gather, and even to read those books. I think it is the immediacy of the online articles that attracts me most, to know what is being cooked right now, and the wide range of topics that can be related to anything: I often start with writing, and it follows whatever, speaking in public, when to conceive, the newest widgets... The list is endless. Once, a boy who came to our publishing house with his mother, a freelance writer, facing the question of whether he liked books, he replied that he surely did, but not all of them: he only liked peaceful books. He gave no further explanation and the truth is that he left us somewhat puzzled, plus touched, of course. Children can be very wise. What the kid said still makes me think, while going through some authors’ thoughts, works, findings..., comings and goings.

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January Reads: Jakob von Gunten

When I read that Kafka, the quiet, evasive, almost unnoticed Franz Kafka, once opened his mouth to say: "Jakob von Gunten: a good book", I thought, wow, it has to be a bloody must read.

It turns out this is a story of a German young man who disowns his aristocratic origin because all he wants to do in life is to serve. Instead of dreaming on becoming an astronaut, a fireman, or... well, who he already is, Jakob wishes to enter an institution for youngsters from low social origins and learn to be a butler.

This surely is literature of the absurd mixed with black humor, but the funny thing is that Jakob is nothing but Robert Walser's alter ego, although this is not important for us readers, since the book has his own life appart from Walser. Besides, the Swiss writer hides himself and he chills one's spine each time he appears between the lines when he notes down, for instance, some thoughts that don't belong to the young Jakob, who is supposed to be the narrator... Yet it helps to know that Walser was unconcerned about success, an utter outsider.

The whole thing is as much eerie as it is fascinating. I haven't ended reading Jakob von Gunten and let's hope I will make it to the end of this uncanny story without loosing my identity, like Jakob in that school for servants! But it's more likely that I will laugh for months remembering this book. It's such an eccentric birthday present, but I asked for it, and I couldn't complain even if I wanted to.

And who do I think I am to follow Kafka's recommendations anyway?

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My Other Blog: Collage Drawer

I just let you know that I've created a new blog, Collage Drawer, which is about arts and crafts. It's something I've wanted to do for a long time. Let's hope I will be able to manage two blogs from now on! Please take a look at it, many thanks in advance.

"Love, and do what you will."                            ST. AUGUSTINE

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Kreativ Blogger

I got this award from a dear friend in this blogging world, Carmen Henesi. Make sure you visit her blog, Carmen's Cronicles, to read her great poems and enjoy her friendship. Thank you so much, Carmen!

And now I must tell you SEVEN THINGS YOU DON'T KNOW ABOUT ME. Carmen knows that I'm very shy, but I forgive her everything. :)

1. I could write for hours about my being boring, shy, a loner, etc., but why pay interest to something that can be defeated by a single cup of wine?

2. Fifteen years ago, before the Spanish army was professionalized, it was compulsory for every young man to perform the military service, or a substitutive social service. I did this other service in a public library where I read my fill. Among others, I read À la recherche du temps perdu by Proust, amazingly translated into the dialectical variant of Catalan spoken in Majorca. Some say that reading these seven volumes is not good for one's health, but, man, they're better than the army.

3. As a child I used to win all the literary contests in which I participated, that is to say, a lot of contests. That was cool. Yeah, I said it was.

4. In my land there is a tradition that unites nationalism with hiking. I guess the idea is "if you love your land, get to know it". Once, this love led two friends of mine and me to a sort of byroad: we volunteered as cooks at a summer camp for 100 children. It was a most rewarding experience for us, but do not ask the boys about our rustic stews.

5. I drink lots of tea in a mug like the ones in ceramic mugs, and I also am a coffee geek, which I could easily drink from the coffee pot if I don't moderate myself!

6. When I was between 17 and 21 years old I worked part time at a theater company as an actor. At that time I met two playwrights who worked for us and then we've met again in the publishing house where I work. Soon I realized that acting was not what I wanted to do, this is why I "retired" at 21, but I still remember the thrill of being brought a play with a role written for me, and I burst with pride each time another company represents one of those plays.

7. You surely didn't know that I have a brand new blog. Ha! This one is good. It still needs some work though, when ready I will let you know.

And now, I have to pass the award on to 7 bloggers. With all my pleasure:

Consciouslove from True Love Manifesting.
Eiji from Is My English Strange?
Holly from Earth to Holly.
James MacAdam from Vault of Story.
Jean from Jean's Musings.
Just from Pictures Of Despair.
Karen from WillOaks Studio.

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Wordless Birthday

Source: Zazzle.

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The Snow in Spain...

...I mean Catalonia ||||. Have you heard of the huge snowstorms in UK? Well, they're travelling and yesterday were over my home. All the following photos were taken on January 8th at some Catalan places by people who share them in the local news site 3cat24.cat.

The snow and the sea at l'Hospitalet de l'Infant.

This is Salou, and it used to be the sunny beach where I spent some summer Sundays as a child. Brrr!

Cervera, the place where my father was born. See the old city walls? The road goes through a tunnel under the city to avoid them. And then, there's the snow; it never snows in Cervera!

Dryland trees in Gandesa.

I'm sure he's forming his own view of the snow.

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Young Readers

So, I better keep scribbling. I'm currently stuck in a story that begins more or less like this (the translation may sound awkward, but I give up for now!):

We used to read quickly, impatiently, for we expected to understand ourselves after getting the poems right. Likewise, rather than the silence or the intimacy of the poets, we always found in their writings a renewed wish to be satisfied that made us read the following poems even more urgently. Until, in the last blank page, we added our own invisible lines to the printed poem, our own voices always ready to impose themselves with funny screams and laughter. Because the reading did not content us immediately, but it showed us our inner world of hopes, we used to leave the books aside and look for something that could afford fulfillment, and not merely suggest it.

Poets told us in advance, or so it seemed to us, a secret that few people knew at our age: we had the gift of being clever. We only misinterpreted them, of course, and whenever those authors, for incomprehensible reasons, wrote about other topics than our cleverness, they vanished like words before our eyes.

Image source: Wikimedia Commons.

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Royal Postponement

After hearing an indiscreet conversation between two squires, I learned that this year the Magi have decided to bring me my gifts on my birthday, which is not far off. I'm fine with that, I can wait a little more, and, best of all, I will have some time to spend with those gifts — which are books — after a stressful December at work and before I start the semester in my online university on March (they call it semester, and it surely is as expensive as a six-months course, but we only study during three months :| ). Meanwhile, I'm browsing on the net some book covers and designs that for me are very inspiring (sort of minimal, colourless... that's my style!) and I thought I could share some of them with you. The first cover is made by Sorotsky Design and the second ones by Sub Studio. I'll talk about my books, much simpler than these ones, when I receive them.

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Sylvie

While I wait for the Magi to bring me some books, I'm reading a novella by the nineteenth century French poet, essayist and translator Gérard de Nerval. He's well known, among other things, for his influence on writers as diverse as the Surrealists or Marcel Proust, and for his work Les filles du feu (1854), a set of stories in which the main themes are love and female portraits. Nerval conceived the best of these portraits, Sylvie, when he was trying to free himself of his worries by diving into his memories.

Sylvie is the story of a man who makes a mistake in looking for an ideal. He's carried away by the appeal and the power of suggestion of an actress, Aurélia. Eventually, he realizes that what attracted him to Aurélia was her resemblance to Sylvie, a peasant with whom he shared his childhood. Both girls will have something to say about his hesitations.

Every moment of the past, that belongs to Sylvie, is narrated in the present tense, in the same temporal plane in which takes place the relationship with Aurélia, so everything comes together. Although the narrator says that it's an image what he seeks, and nothing more, he's actually trying to define himself with this wistful composition, untangling different time periods and mixed feelings.

If you like the nineteenth century literature, you will love this novella, and if you've read it already you will probably agree that it is worth to read it more than once. But it is suitable for all readers, no matter their tastes, because the author gives a real insight into his own soul — the souls of us all. Furthermore, if you have, like me, a soft spot for the works of prose written by poets, then you should not miss this masterpiece.

I myself am trying not to miss any detail of Sylvie, but these days it is not easy to focus on a book, or at least a book that I already have... Only three days until I know if the Wise Men will be generous with me!

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