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What a joy to start sending postcards to hear carols and count the remaining steps to reach Bethlehem . On these dates the time - who flew from September postestival lazy - it seems that relief comes and leaves us to contemplate, as a delicate hourglass. For me today with a special drama, then open the door to the fatal age: twenty-five!. Thankfully, Carmen Martin Gaite encouraged me with the notes he left in one of his birthday, December 8, 1972:
" The time is worth for what you do with it. If you run away from him, the greater the wound, the terrible wounds of Dorian Gray. And disease relapse. "
And then:

"Summers are tragic and isolated, then no. In the winter come to your thread back. "

( Papers all , December 8, 1972)

Indeed, especially Christmas has a lot to pull the thread, remember, that is, to bring the old heart. As a child I always tormented the quarter ended too late for fear of not being able to devote myself, quietly, waiting for my Christmas Eve home, reading at times the Christmas Carol Dickens, taking out the tambourines and garlands of their cases. When going got older I have been gathering around me very different views from mine. I've seen those who wish to come to flee again and take a holiday truce, to which, sadness or loneliness, want to pass these dates as soon as possible, as an annoying illness, those who are placed with the shopping frenzy Christmas and nudges you're stuck in the middle of the street lit. But the other day I knew I had to enter a new group in the sample: this year have come the "respectful" (¿?), those who throw away the crib of little children, not to offend [Sic] do not know who. Before I opine at my leisure, better let me throw another Carmiña here capote:
" [the holidays] are not meaningful when no longer recalls the story that led to its conclusion. Mark is this: to remember, and if the thread of memory has been broken, continue to pretend that commemorates something is a hoax and a betrayal of the party [...] And without a real desire for representation, recall, no party that has value, can only be price. "
( pulling on the thread. Articles 1949-2000)

I also meant to throw wire from the silence, songs and familiar voices. And to celebrate in Bethlehem, Wise Men and Star. Oh, and with a visit to Old Mr. Scrogge, of course.

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HIDDEN THREAD ON CHRISTMAS

Today, more than dawn, a festive threatened sad. Although I did not dare to take away the right to Juan Maragall, who said "wait always a hidden goodness in everything " seemed to me very well hidden and that remains coy goodness sometimes I even think or breathe. But what the hell!, In the days pessimists need to play to rescue pretexts happy. And give them the welcome with cheers, toasts and smiles. So I sought a reunion with some encouraging letters that remind me that yes, there are relationships in which differences (religious, life, policies) are assumed and solved in harmony, sensitivity, respect and even, when there is reason - with mutual admiration. Maragall

and Unamuno gave good example. The serenity and optimism Catalan Catholic got on great with the harrowing anxiety Basque agnostic. At least that is shown in his correspondence. For its part, in the 60-70 years a dark, lonely skeptic Ramon J. Sender from his prolific American exile, maintained a correspondence with beautiful Carmen Laforet , twenty years younger, a mother devoted to her large family, happy, joy of a peaceful faith, and a little lazy with his writing ( latter yes I'm sorry). It is worth returning to a letter praising the Sender rare ability to be happy Carmen Laforet, traceable in his life and his art:

" His books have arrived two days ago. As I will discuss them again. Another thing I love watching them: you love life as life is (which means it is happy.) I love the latter. And there is something more important: brings happiness is not now in art. But you (say, of his stories) is taken and will take forever because it is full of talent and is also an original talent. Ultimately the only thing that has always since there are people who write. Or, simply, that breathes. "

(LAFORET, Carmen and SENDER, Ramon J: I can count on you. Correspondence, 2003 )

If you bring happiness or not, would for another entry. For today I will clarify that during the day I have more excuses appeared happy - hidden benefits? - They deserve to be celebrated daily. Personal and literary. Among the latter, the letters of Laforet-Sender and reading the wonderful "Declaration of Intent" to Rocío Arana, so respectful to ask for forgiveness, not to offend the sad and resabidos already back:

write because I am happy

.

I know that hurt

love and evenings and the hours of waiting

front of a window

lazy and dirty butts on the floor

I know not Needless to say it here

me the rare

which looks and sees everything as clean

and cries of joy in the corners

and what they want even nostalgia

I

dresses up

I apologize I know is a great sin

scandal

yes I'm happy and I say I'm playing

with fire but look

drizzle on people

violins

put yourself in my place

as silent as the world screams

strange gardens there under the snow .

(ARANA, Rocío: Magic, 2002)

[Photo: Carmen Laforet and Ramon J. Sender]

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KIND OF HAIR AND THE PERSON

Yesterday, while reading Julian Marias, I remembered a story from childhood:
was Saturday, playing in the garden with my brothers when my mother came through the door. He came, very pretty, the hair salon. But she looked very different: she has always been length hair, and had left his hair much shorter and more blond than usual. First we started laughing like crazy, rolling around on the grass, how cruel, sometimes, children, "then I approached her, looking sad and said, "But ... if you look ... a lady". She was a little surprised. The fact is that it was good, yes, but did not seem our mother, but only one lady , a more of which we passed on the street daily . During the day I watched a lot, trying to decipher the mystery. In the end, of course, I got used [but, as I recall, no one has done it again hairstyle ever more].

That small child crisis at the strangeness-changing hair of my mother, had become really important to have affected another area of person: to the center (or substance) staff. Had it been altered, he had the impression of having "lost", that had been "alienated." Julian Marias explains really know that when a person is when we have reached key his substance (or lack thereof), its personal project. So, s or "substance" or "authenticity" allows us to see her as a person and only irreducible , the core remains confident that despite the contingency, time and circumstances, so variable-of life:

" The person" insubstantial "is one whose range of possible biographies is very poor, or inconsistent, destitute of justification and therefore intelligibility. Given the insubstantial person can not know what to expect, because she does not know. On the contrary, to others, we can ignore almost everything, we feel you have reached your personal center of which spring acts, and that contact gives us the ability to "inhabit"-or, conversely, be "inhabited" by it-that is, the interpenetration that is the highest form of coexistence and co. This is the richer the greater the " substance "of the person, ie, the degree of reality [...] So you have confidence in a person's character is always" bet "is affixed to a card, with the aware that they may lose, but with the conviction that this confidence will not be disappointed [...] "

(Julián Marías: Person )

[* note: yes, oddly enough in the photo is Audrey Hepburn! ... at the salon]

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ZENOBIA AND JUAN RAMON, VERSES AND FLOWERS ARE YOU

What woman does not like to write him verses or give away flowers? Without wishing to get sharp, with the times-hue: sure some hate that they present the boy with a bouquet of violets, a scene that may sound ancient, black and white film of Frank Capra (thus I like) or as discussed Cecilia song. But what of the verses, ah, I so hard to believe that someone did not receive them with emotion, especially if they speak of the three wounds universal. And if you continue to write later, long after the period of "conquest", the credit is already huge. May not even matter that have not been made by the subject in question: many they won the lottery when the postman Neruda's half-convinced that poetry is of the writer, but who needs it.

My thesis was confirmed by reading the Daily of Zenobia, which reflect those hours sad and painful exile in America with Juan Ramón Jiménez.

is known that the great poet was a very difficult family life. Constant depression, pathological fear of death (which required the couple to always travel with a doctor), neurasthenia, antisocial, selfish child, "imaginary smells, unhealthy dependence on his wife and an obsessive "allergy" to noise, not just the annoying speaker and bustle of the street:

"JR steadily began to complain of the noise heard every time I tried to turn the page the newspaper, making with the utmost care. "
(Tuesday, March 12, 1940)

If we add their total inability to carry out practical tasks and indispensable, as concern for the domestic economy, a twenty-first century woman is asked how he could support the poor Zenobia. Imagine various reasons. Among the former, their love, their capabilities, and its daily mass (we would need lots of help from God, no doubt), among the latter, that Juan Ramón, plus lunatic, a poet and was sensitive. The very clever, when he warned that Zenobia was reaching the brink of despair, I gave verses, flowers:

"JR Today has given me great joy. Yesterday I started when I said: "Tomorrow I want to go buy you some carnations for your day." I rushed to hug him, saying: "The less are the flowers, which gives me more joy is to go out with me ". " (August 30, 1952)

" " Life of my life / Zenobia soul / how beautiful you are / morning star! ". JR sang me this afternoon, and I said that it seemed impossible for people to sell for the most precious jewels when the world does not cost anything " (October 4, 1955).

"Tonight JR told me a song so pretty popular, I have to write it down, much as I oppose the dramatic ideas JR says:

When I'm in agony
Sit Put my head in your hand
mine And maybe
I die. "
(October 8, 1955)

the poet and the woman recovered, at least for a moment, smiles and hope. Because Zenobia was ready, strong and independent, as it should, but it was a lady. And a lady is a lady.

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SOMETHING TO TELL?

There was a time in which he wrote Journal. First so corny those small padlock and gold lettering, very handy gift for a girl of nine years, then cover bulky notebooks decorated with collages something quirky, very personal -as claimed any teenager-in combining different types of letters from magazines to ask the question " " T i and Ne s A g l OQ or and On t c to R ? . " (Hence my excitement when I fell into my hands the beautiful Papers all of Carmen Martin Gaite and collages lot of New Yorkers). In the lavish interior drawings, poems of love that still did not understand and words, many words with emotions rampaging naive, from the furious rage to the parental scolding to unbridled joy when, after a week of rain, the sun had risen and finally deleted the pools could go skating with my friend. One day I thought I had saved too many books and there is no place to hide in my room, " Diaries can not be read by anyone other than the one who writes. Rule No. 1 ". So little by little, I was leaving that first person, for lack of "secret corners."

To my dismay, one of the first day of classes at the University professor warned us that " Writers knowing that her diary will be found and published after his death, Bear that in mind. "

"Now it is certain that I would not for a writer, if only she was worried about what would be the best hiding place for my books, I thought. But I remembered those words many times, for example, by opening the diary of Cesare Pavese . In the prologue of Italo Calvino and Natalia Ginzburg is the same Warning:

"His friends had long known the existence of the log-Pavese, and some of them had expressed the wish that were printed after his death. "

The writer who builds a Journal becomes its own character, novel himself and shamelessly also like to offer this life that grazed with the magic wand literature is no longer "life" to dry. Pavese also wondered to himself, as I did in adolescence: "Do you have something to say?", hence the brief reply that gives us the April 25, 1936, in one line:

" Today, nothing "

And hence, I suppose, that statement, and calm, with which the Italian writer wanted to melt, tragically, literature and life through the last words of his diary, so well known, shortly before committing suicide at the Hotel Roma in Turin on 27 August 1950:

" This disgusting. / No words. A gesture. not write more. "

.

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How right carries with it últimamamente link has called this blogg Enrique García Máiquez, " calmer than fast." Certainly , my words have ponded as do honor to the title this space, but I rejoice because serenity is what has allowed me to return and above all, re-read yours, so quick and enlightening as always. Finally, after a month of vertigo and accelerated work has come peace and quiet, I've found, not through the achievement of my thesis poor, but in the joy of a few days in the mountains, in the best company, refugee in the beautiful surroundings of Ordesa and Monte Perdido . To go back and remember the strange feeling of harmony and happiness, I needed a reunion with the thickets and sources of clear water from the classics. And I turned my eyes to life rested Fray Luis de León :

[...] From the mountain on the slope,

planted by my hand, I have a garden,

that spring,

of beautiful flower shed,

hope and shows the true fruit;

and as greedy

to see the airy summit

a pure fountain running until rushes;

and then quiet,

the way through the trees twisting,

the floor, past

wearing vegetable

and various flowers will [...]

spreading

("Song of the solitary life")

And I admired the romantic rapport between nature and HD Thoreau, who recognized the benefactor eternal source of life in Field:

"There can be no truly black melancholy to living in the midst of nature and calm his senses. Never was storm wind was not music for a innocent and healthy ear. Nothing is able to plunge into a vulgar sadness loyal and straightforward. While joy the friendship of the seasons I think that nothing can make life a burden to me. The gentle rain which waters my beans and field keeps me at home today, there is ennui and melancholy, but a blessing for me [...]"

( Life in the Woods)

Now I look at photographs taken pity I can not pick up the sound of the river, or the bubbling of the cascade, or silence, nor the menacing roar of that mighty cow protecting their grass. Nor can regain me pleasure I felt tired after a long trip, the fresh face and the serenity, the glory of the warm bath, followed by dinner, the conversation and wine ..., that fatigue is so different from that to an afternoon of shopping or a busy day of sedentary work But ... must return to step on the road, go over the agenda and meet new deadlines forget the green and silver winding among the rocks, because as our parents warned us, the reality is this ... and I wonder: Were not really those stones, wood, that toast breakfast, the bell tower, the mare splashing with mud puddles, rain in the evening wiping our feet on a shady path, the storm illuminating black roofs, the play of shadows and lights in the beech forest, trout from the river greeted the outspread wings of the dove appeared in an instant, the clear sky, the serene happiness Shared?