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Bohemian Lights

"There will always be doubt whether the man is an animal used to think or just to graze."

Ramón María del Valle-Inclán

Today, thinking back to the weak, all work the trifle, and that the big issues and major systems are dying like cathedrals. The shout of "viva la bagatelle" has lost all its subversive power now because the trinket has become very profitable. Today I return to work, my dear Don Ramón, more relevant than ever. You never practiced or payroll professional avant-garde, but it is more than anyone. You anticipated Marcel Proust: "Things are not as they are, but as we remember," James Joyce and theater of the absurd in Beckett and Ionesco. Spain is still more grotesque than absurd. However, you do not have too many supporters among the writers that if they do cite it for decoration, not for aesthetic affiliations. Bohemian was the only all 98. His generation had a chair, as Unamuno, Machado, or an income, and Baroja. Then came the 27, and a generation of young gentlemen, "cool" if you will, but not bohemian. His aesthetic is an overcoming of pain and laughter, as they should be the talks of the dead, to tell stories of the living. I think this what you said, do not remember. You not only a style but a noble soul, ascending, with many hours of meditation and that balances the misery with absolute disinterestedness and greatness of the world: the hermit, away from everything, "despise others and not love themselves same. "

His redeemer art always felt that the world he lived was a world unfinished, and work better at certain times is revealed by the reluctance and the mockery of life at the time that has touched a in luck. Everything vanished in the groundswell of living quietly in the depths, but it never sank in the middle of everything, because he wore the jacket of his enthusiasm literario. Usted vivió entre un mundo de pintureros banales, corresponsales que ganaban más que usted, de escritores viviendo de changas, de refritos, de "yo conozco al director", y, sin embargo, no se doblegaba, no cedía, esperaba bajar por la escalera de caracol secreta a la reunión de palabras fascinantes y de amor escondido, con celos hasta de sí mismo: todo lo cual merece la pena de vivir, pues las otras vidas si se desprendiesen de su aturdimiento frívolo tendrían que suicidarse. El que no se toma tiempo para ver llegar lo que a lo mejor no llega nunca, no es artista cabal. El que trapichea mucho, busca cargos de influencia para halagar a los vulgares y entretenidos hombres, es inútil que quiera ser el literato who lived through the unspeakable delight, though he die in poverty. The soportación the coarse vulgarity of life, its hurry to things that the same would never arrive. You taught me not take much to continue that life without shame that practices human race in general. And so as you accept scarcity and misery if necessary, because we know that no alienation of both our being, some believe that alienated not doing certain things, but is sold, you can not get enough money. You were a passenger lines against any future unfailing.

Where I

ever said do not go? Does anyone has seen? Century is the same used again. Where I said that we dead optimistic that since there is nothing that is in life have to invent everything and so are the ones who live? He quietism, in a hurry, and while squeezing the hours talking, watching death coming, stopping the burial with a single desire to make the century seeing you come from sales of the roads, said: "I want to see the overview of all day ... Let no one disturb me! ". He dressed just to that and that was enough. The city became a city more dignified tram and no lanterns, so dignified by dogs and men. It emboldened, grotesque, bad-tempered as ever. No silent for a moment, denounced, cursed, he predicted. You never had office desk or table, for writing in bed as a dying and filled pages and pages in the most violent. Got few friends in the privacy of your home, but Unamuno had special leave to enter, and, in fewer interviews, their responses were more terrible and laconic. Piecework could not because good books are slow, as would be slow passage through the hourglass of a drop of water that was already pregnant with diamond.

Nomadic time, in houses less definitive, more resolute, detached from their furniture, no stained glass. Going into neglect and left him wrecked everything that always wounded living death. You do not have anywhere to drop dead, and the drag of life suffocating him so without pause or truce that was a moment that broke down and suffered a quick death to the slow anguish. Underwent a contrast with life when everything seems to art and then it is not. Broken desvigorizado, disillusioned, and you was like Don Quixote, the lord of the sad. All had been planted in life and for one reason or another had been left alone. "Dogs bark to feel alone. We howl of disappointment on a night like this. Imagine you are a dog! How should feel of disoriented on the streets of men ". But you were a hardened and had nothing to do with that lesson. Their morale was higher than overlap each other. You were entitled to an apostle redeemer preaching, scaring the hypocrites. He was giving farewell to life through the narrow streets and arcades most impressive and beloved the world, under a rain that kept her alive the harmony of the cemeteries in the midst of life, crossing the popular nightspot, golfante and lupanaria. He felt the hospital of life on the street, as in a loop that will stop nocheros beings. "Only when we lose by musicals Panida jungle trails can hear the footsteps and evoke the shadow of the unknown that goes with us."

Yes, my dear Don Ramón, we describe a good living, but we took it. That is terrible. Is beyond our power and our brace ourselves because we escape ourselves. The art is presented and survival. I get the street from the balcony of the desolation of life. You said at the time of his death: "How long does this."

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The encounter with the history we are all guilty

"History is not just a parade of false absolutes, a series of temples raised to pretexts, a debasement of spirit to the Improbable. "

EMCioran

" History, the nightmare that would wake up. "

James Joyce

"Ultimately, the truth does not matter."

Wallace Stevens

From the first pages of the book of essays by Milan Kundera A meeting , discover the absolute freedom from which the author writes, free of any imposition, faith or ideology, no concessions to anything or anyone, disillusioned about everything except the creators in finding something to share. Kundera is the freedom that is claiming for a long time novelist and writer in general, the freedom that has lived long enough to uncover all the traps he lives. Kundera has had too many brushes with history as to still believe in something outside the individual: first experienced the rude awakening from their lethargy with communism, then the desperation after the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia, which led him into exile and literary language change, from Czech into French, and, after the dazzling success of his novels, his eighties had to endure a slanderous campaign against him, launched from Prague and vociferous press frivolous world. These experiences, which quietly hints at A meeting , make him a free thinker who defends the man and his path to inner independence and enlightenment. Why this title? Because to talk about what interests you intimately, Kundera calls on their pages to the creators who feel closer. So parade through the book writers such as Juan Goytisolo, Celine, Philip Roth, Carlos Fuentes, García Márquez or Curzio Malaparte, or musicians like Stravinsky, Xenakis and Janácek, inescapable reference on all test books Kundera. At these meetings, Kundera addresses the major issues that occupy the end of his life: the identity and exile, falsehood and treachery, memory and forgetting, the living and the dead. Always from the vicissitudes of the individual, only to Kundera has value, lowest man before history and powers, to the limiting collective identities, to the religions and ideologies.

Kundera that shortly after his arrival in France, in a meeting mentioned the name of Anatole France and immediately the Romanian writer EMCioran leaned over to whisper: "never uttered here this name out loud if it wants to become the talk of the general fun!" Why? Because in a country that is proud of its revolution, a writer who is worthy of critical analysis contempt.

For Kundera forgetfulness is an evil, but the memory used as a weapon of punishment, which has become legendary transparency required, it is equally damaging, for which is to create a general indiscretion.

In the final pages, the novel examines Kundera Malaparte skin. Its theme is Europe, first submitted by the Nazis, then released, liberated and occupied-US and the USSR. Europe had regarded their culture as a model for the world after his release, he starts to feel small in front of a bright and omnipresent American. In contrast in the perception of Europeans, European and skeptical tired, defeated and blame that was left blinded by the bright white smile virtuoso American interests both of Malaparte as Kundera.

If Kundera opens his book talking about the living, their originality and their pathetic little physical resemblance to portraits of Bacon, A meeting concluded with a reflection on the dead. Compared with the living, the dead have an absolute numerical superiority: "Insurance of their superiority, they mock us, make fun of this little island of time in which we live, in that tiny time of the new Europe which we shown in all its insignificance, all its transience. "

After a meeting I see that Milan Kundera, French or Czech, is one of the best essayists present and that this is his most beautiful book of essays and more lucid, more pampered and personal.