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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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