danny

“Otra manera de tratar de decirlo: lo defectivo se siente más como una pobreza intuitiva que como una mera falta de experiencia. Realmente no me aflige gran cosa no haber leído todo Jouhandeau, a lo sumo la melancolía de una vida demasiado corta para tantas bibliotecas, etc. La falta de experiencia es inevitable, si leo a Joyce estoy sacrificando automáticamente otro libro y viceversa, etc. La sensación de falta es más aguda en

Es un poco así: hay líneas de aire a los lados de tu cabeza, de tu mirada, zonas de detención de tus ojos, tu olfato, tu gusto, es decir que andás con tu límite por fuera”

— Rayuela, Julio Cortázar (chapter 84)

i’m reading one of those novels, Hopscotch (Rayuela), by Julio Cortázar. when i say one of those novels, i mean one of those novels that goes deep inside the characters, usually the main ones, and stress the world according to the narrator, the personage, the living being who posses the story. it is like the world is not a defined environment, discreet in it’s relations to us, but just an expression of our inner self, reflected in materical and metaphisical objects, that then we call the world (Berkley?, Wittgenstein?). so the world is not an existing arrangement of ordered causes and effects, but a huge mirror, where we see ourselves reflected in our most minimal and intimate details. (Alice in Wonderland?).

and i like those novels because they let me step out of myself, not to be me for a lapse, and rerun the world over other person’s paths, other’s steps. it lets me see myself from outside, and catch experiences of my surroundings as of perceived by strangers. like a guided tour of somebody else’s self. soothing to the point of not wanting to return to something (my own world) that i glance and judge as impossible to sustain, when others have already conquered it, as it seems.

then love is not love, but the way they love; the end of despair is just a bridge away, and searches are already searched; life is but just a story we can write, or read. it can be as real as ours, if not more, if not else. it is a map of ourselves, but drawed by mighty conquerors that had the courage (ink?) to roam and wander over wastelands of soul-charged cities, to break through jungles of self-boredom, and came out one-pieced, alive, with breath enough to tell the story, with stories enough to breathe.

but with a more clever eye, a more sharp soul, a more caleidoscopic vision of it (themselves?).

it is not easy to go out of ourselves and take a glance around. but it makes a fairer view of it. after all, outside there is the real mc coy. and true it is, the world is our oyster.

so be it.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, March 25th, 2003 at 16:42:00 and is filed under thoughts.