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King Vidor said that "the beauty and simplicity are the same thing." Add one to two qualities tend to that uniqueness when dealing with intelligence and displayed in an elegant way. Well, all this is achieved in the twenties, the book collects articles entitled 's happiness minnows, and delightful short pieces that beautifully edited Cliff. This set of qualities makes the texts of Simon Leys we seek a few moments of joy and calm reflection, but above all, that we captivate by its original mix as the daily chronicle of thoughts on the art, timeless quotes always rightly brought and an uncompromising sense. Arguably, this is a short treatise of good reason and the best quote, so this little book deserves to be on hand, as "the greatest pleasure of reading is rereading" according Leys himself says, his Readers will always ensured our enjoyment and occasionally returning to these pages. It then leaves a taste of what noted:

No expert in literature never be surprised by the distance that separates a writer from his writings, on the other hand, are not the deeds of the active life which produce great works, but rather the failure, the dark sorrows, boredom, the barren nothingness of days. And the novelist's genius lies, as Orwell said about DH Lawrence in "extraordinary ability to know through the imagination that can not be known through observation."

The beauty called the disaster the same way as the towers attract lightning. (...) The ignorance, obscurantism, bad taste or stupidity is not simply the result of shortcomings, but for many other active forces that claim furiously at every opportunity, and do not tolerate any exceptions to his tyranny. The talent always inspired is an insult to mediocrity. And if this is true of the aesthetic, even more so in the moral. More than artistic beauty, moral beauty seems to have the gift of exasperating our sad species. The need to reduce everything to our miserable level of stain, mock and degrade all that we are dominated by its splendor is probably one of the most distressing features of human nature.

History, contrary to what he believes public opinion, does not record the events. Only registered echoes of the events, which is very different, and to do so, relies on the imagination and memory.

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We received rain. Came after all to lie down for a moment before a dirty linen. A dense warp 'among which, however, sunlight impacted as a pin. On the leaves and petals, on the glass and polished stones, rainfall had posed as a procession of tiny snails. Fragile. Transparent. Surely keeping all the rainbow in the armpit. At the top of the garden there is a welter of small herbs. To get your perfume the very lewd call for more than a caress, an outburst. Hands are eating them with fingers like breasts lover. We had coffee in the gazebo. We were told that nothing was thick wisteria. Penalty not to have seen and smelled. R. spoke of the cuckoo could be heard nearby, the bird used to leaving the nest to be born outside and ends up throwing his hand to the brothers who are not, while the mother undergoes a very hard working deluded for a feeding. It was then we started a long walk along the right oak. Going to rapping after we crossed a pheasant on the road, but quickly hid. Barking dogs. In between the forest was discovered the landscape framed by the branches and sebes. The sunlight filtering through the thick clouds gave relief to the world. On the way back we chatted with a neighbor. He brought with him a very docile female mastiff being called Niebla. It was night. While we ate was congealed skylights constellations. As the conversation cheerful garlands.

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In the box these days, my vow of silence.

What is an aphorism but a philosopher suffering from laziness.

Some people naively yield to provocation and ends using its artillery against suicidal fanatics. Poor idiot: it shall be a murderer while their victims pretender achieved, however, heroic eternity.

The challenges are the north side of ambition.

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For the same road in autumn meadows dot the meadow saffron. A couple of days, we deal more aware of the path of heaven. Rain had been announced. Finally, barely fell short orbayu early. The glare was filtered immediately as a thick broth through the clouds. She felt a relief of oil to the cliffs. Strong brushstrokes skyline. A color of clay to the beach. An air impressionist. A carefree calm to our steps and words. Two strokes on some stones tell the traveler the good sense to his departure: the tension of wire arranged over the cliff. Below, the sea came quietly. On the front Sueve mists clung. At the door of some houses flourished glycine. Arrivals and the mason, was surprised at the violent roots of eucalyptus coming, that everything can, however, could not the ancient footprints of dinosaurs. X. took the photo of a girl whose foot often branded these craters. That lightened the color tone of fossil verse. In the village we expect a bowl game and a poor pans. Fresh cider and lively chat. The sun was out and a thought for a moment to resign to return; up suit with closed eyes lying on a chair on the terrace of the bar leaving the afternoon consumed as chips in the warm glare of the sky. Desktop laziness took only a little way back. At its end, a pair of kites on the beach of the island gave him a meager candle closing day. As shortness of breath. The dog melancholy of everything that has and ends.

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After strolling through the Cais de Gaia. To drink in the shade of the wineries. To navigate the river in a rabelo for tourists. After slowly swallows the gorge in the afternoon. After the ruins change their dirty gold by a curtain to act. Even after the river also that girt her waist with a silver cold air. At that time the portrait, her notebook was open to the fading light, the village and bridges, the Douro and the washing, peeling the city ya en la noche Cierna; tan abierto como un goal de una cámara un boceto confundiera that greedy con la vida en tránsito.

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Traducción simultaneous.

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Mi pequeña dosis art deco night of sleeplessness.

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My city is not called Lisbon, does not smell nor the south it passes over the river, but as she has milky springs and marbles ... In my city of gold are the sunsets over the Douro river and the sea and only she has the late afternoon light adorn the granite ... In my city, as in Lisbon for gulls and sea air but no ferries on the river for transporting nectar Rabelo and souls ... Born in my town north craggy, unyielding and the sun, when it penetrates her gently, tenderly, after winning the fog ... In my town there are also sessions, cats, doves, roasted chestnuts and bait and fate through the alleys, hung with springs like clothes to dry on the wires ... My city has also languescentes afternoons, gazebos plazas old playing cards at garden tables and reviving of widows and spinsters riding the tram ... It is true that the light in my city, not like the Lisbon but the light of my town is a flutter of love astro-rei to the na Beija-border, each Manhã! ...

Maria Mamede

(My city is not called Lisbon, and smells of the south, or by passing it the Tajo, but as Lisbon, has sources of milk and marble. In my city the sunsets are golden on the Douro River and the sea, and only she has a light sunset that adorns the granite. In my city, as in Lisbon, there are gulls and sea air, but no ferries in Rabelo is the only river that carry nectar and souls. In my city born North Cliff and disobedient, and the sun, when it comes to it, the delicate and lovingly enters after beating fog ... In my town there are cries, cats, pigeons, roasted chestnuts, liver and fado in the streets, adorned with fountains, with clothes drying on the awnings ... My city is also languishing afternoons, kiosks in the streets, old men playing cards at tables garden. And in her reborn widows and spinsters when riding in the tram. It is true that in my city of light is not such as Lisbon, but the light of my town is a flutter of love of the sun that kisses on the forehead every morning.)

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Ayer vi The wave . German film portrays, with brisk pace and effectiveness narrative, one week in the life of a German high school. The story goes like this: a teacher who touches on luck to explain the concept of autocracy, he decides, for a better understanding of the characteristics that identify all dictatorial system, put into practice in their own classroom methods that engender totalitarian formations. Interestingly, the involvement of students and the teacher, is such that after three or four days everything takes on a uniform absorbing and dangerous, a group that takes his name The wave . The end is tragic. The parable is squeezed to the womb and leaves a residue of bitterness and in the right terms, a concern, that in every group always exclusionary trend develops, much of what is singular at the margin, as what ends up being part lack of autonomy and only makes sense as gear. Leo

also the last article of Fences in El Pais Semanal, Before policy, which echoes some views held by Irene Lozano, which comes to the conclusion that the remedy for bad policy is not less political, but more. And that healthy democracies are those in which citizens consider not as a right but as a civic duty, to devote some years of his life to politics.

I remember once, as a counterpoint, what Zygmunt Bauman wrote: ideologies are those that make heavy veils look without seeing. It is this inclination which incapacitating our Étienne de la Boétie called voluntary servitude.

How reconcile it? How to deal with a political commitment which seems obvious that we should not shirk-without emasculating submission to party discipline? A symbology that stale, or military child, colorful, logos, tune and rallies. In this cult regarding verb teen easy or groomed image. Related to the entrenchment between foot plunges us into the mud and pushes us to shoot at the other side for mere survival, not listen to reason. Returning to La Boétie: voluntary servitude. Ola.

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Some children playing on the banks of a river flowing down fast. A girl's body floating face down. An elderly woman who goes to the doctor at a hospital and is out with the desperation of a mother who is dragged along the floor to learn that his daughter has just died. Poetry is a Korean movie directed by Lee Chang-dong that begins in tragedy and swings for two hours on a risky balancing on the dark plot that flies and delicate manners and aspirations that guide the life of its protagonist. For Mi-Ja, the grandmother played by the light and elegant actress named Yoon Jeong-Hee, wants to learn to write poetry. And in this effort continues even after learning that his teenage grandson, with whom he lives, is responsible, along with five other boys in his class, from the terrible abuse inflicted on a teenage girl which led to suicide. Mi-Ja's will even keep write a first poem in his life after also know that these emerging memory leaks that lead to consult a doctor are the beginning of Alzheimer's disease. Mi-Ja is taking notes in a small notebook he keeps with him at all times in her handbag and which point is the feeling that wakes you up contact with nature even in this short and painful journey that takes her to the house in the area of \u200b\u200bthe dead teenager. Your writer will not pursue late but put into practice the advice of the teacher's writing workshop, looking at things with such intensity that for a moment can be one to feel within them. So the end of the film returns to the river's waters. Everything is closed on its way. And a voice is that of Mi-Ja recited the poem given to the teacher as the final course work. Do not talk about it. Neither of the flowers and trees in their notes. The poem speaks of the pain of a budding woman after a few verses he takes over the narrator. Mi-Ja has managed to embody the soul of Agnes, the girl commits suicide. He was inside her and from there end and diligently wrote his poetry.

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has often used the metaphor of the river as life manriqueña. Minimum flow that comes crystalline impetuous runs down the mountain, grows on the experience of its course, as eddies near the end and ends up dying in the mouth it mixes with ocean water, ash of all stocks. Conceivably, however, another observation allegorically lives: the stairs. Unsupervised wear and tear, but as an attitude. The horizon which is always a top step and try not to take away intended purpose dismissive but comprehensive. Or that of someone who, by contrast, prefers to dig the underground final steps and muddy Remango not altruistic but to rejoice at lair. Turning to literary figures, can then be given the paradoxes of that anyone is reaching the delta of life and continue its efforts to reach the top of the ladder, but also the terrible shame of those who travel by the rapid course of their while down river itself with equal joy to the smallest steps.

hear late at night the policy statements possessed by the truth. More wood. At the station waiting the polls. Chop it up with viciousness, chipped, the highest landings of the stairs. The kettle boils. It loses altitude. I look then to the balcony to give me air. The night is warm and quiet. Across the street a girl toils under the light of a lamp in what looks like a loose folios reading about taking notes. A study that requires getting up from time to time to consult books that extracts prepared a small library behind him. After a while, also looks to the window. Look out from the eaves. The sky looks clear.

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On Saturday the moon was so great that he looked up years in the face. We had done the night on the road. And just find us on the old railway bridge looking from the top to the beach Artedo. Derailed on the narrow way, as if it were a sideshow attraction in a traveling circus in town. That day the tides are sluggish first but endless dragging on the docks, then dismissive and distant as if running behind horizon. Things of influence and the whims of the moon. It had been a lovely day. The gorse flourished along the entire river. The fledgling station splashed with yellow spine of the serpent lazy. Jaime Sabines said that a few drops of moon in the eyes of the elders help to die well. That big moon binge put to Saturday closure of excess spring, a joy in excess, a death round. For many years that the satellite is not coming to Antojanes of our homes and had all winter that the sun does not spring from the floor.

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My love walks like a soldier.
My love hugs like a girl.
The voice of my love is broken.
my love's hands are soft and strong.

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is a film that over the years, perhaps it has been setting a tone of asphalt (that potions of handicrafts of our childhood that gave the wrinkles of the things an air of old noble but spurious). But it is a movie that I see again whenever I can because, despite its timeless atmosphere as little eighties, I have increasingly become a classic. History is not a paragon of originality or address too subtle, but all I can a splendid trio of actors who weave together a chronicle urban black dye, passion and friendship that makes Sea of \u200b\u200bLove an unforgettable film. Are Al Pacino, Ellen Barkin and John Goodman. The first police giving life to a ragged life and haunts alcoholic. The second rising right up to the flammability temperature negative. And the third class as a child putting the counterpoint of humor and bonhomie so well oiled that any thriller. When rolled, Al Pacino came a season of theater and excesses. Maybe that's why also give the loser and disoriented profile which is not apparent at any time the protagonist, Frank Keller. Nothing better to become an actor of such character are called an immersion in the playing shady types whose life must be soaked to stalisnasvski. But for this model characters, who are the very face of defeat, do not become a caricature, in human rags swaying on the stool in a seedy bar while saying phrases supposedly deep, it is adorned with precise doses of humor and even laugh at his own stamp on the mirrors. Therefore, one of the most memorable scenes in the movie is when Al Pacino, looking at your feet as you look at an extravagance, Barkin shows the expensive and flashy moccasins she had given and they are absolutely unfit for a boozy detective and appearance rather Adamic: Look, if I have to put your moccasins! "he says in one of the most beautiful declarations of love movie you remember. And it is perfectly understandable as possible to declare a woman like Helen of melody seduction. A femme fatale that it be finally only in the imagination of Keller, but also, and for the same plot development in that of those on the other side of the screen confused joyful mystery and scorching heat with the ways a fatal Dietrich Sternberg. In the lobby of a neighborhood supermarket, the brief scene in which Pacino's hand slips a few inches above the knee of a Barkin who come to the meeting wearing nothing but a black trench coat and high heels, is much more heated than a whole marathon porn gymnastics. Yes, perhaps Sea of \u200b\u200bLove is not a masterpiece, or maybe even not even a great movie in the opinion of those who set fees in the world of the film, but I confess that every time Tom Waits performs his unique version of Sea of \u200b\u200blove (original title film) on loans that close the projection, one would invade that what Borges spoke in a Scandinavian poem that has so much to do with the threat of the moment: the nostalgia of this.

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I know they are just songs. Old songs that are very plot occasionally forgotten. But what would we be without them. Without his memory. Without that rhymes substrate we hibernates inside the heat waiting for the cups and shared snuff.

The night music engenders. In the songs come
magnet memoirs,
piano tune, the guitar and almost dust, violin
eaten for years, the maracas that sound like bones
.

José Emilio Pacheco

Who does not remember the songs of his life, who did not chant in exalted moments of friendship and joy, as if he had lost forever any traces of the stories of his childhood. For when the years we are changing, becoming seemingly wiser, but inevitably more distant the songs we were not deleted from the soul, they speak better than we were, what we might yet again become disenchanted with lime only scratching the time.


Blood has reasons that make fat veins. Pena
grief and sorrow over
make a paste the scream.
Sand is a handful ...
But there are mountains of sand.
Atahualpa Yupanqui

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been disabled here for some time. The short answer to that force represented a continued effort for which there always are in the mood or time enough. On the other hand, tried again this blog never generate cliques earthy, even in sporadic cases might seem. There is a tendency here to the intro literary genre that usually leads to relief of the commentators, who prefer primed sharply with the political. There is no better test than targeted to go to the digital pages of a newspaper and notice what attracts the interest of the reader who uses the questioning. Not usually point, I assure you, the items of the cultural pages, except that they feed some controversy recently starred as fencing and Espada, who, having drifted into the brothel, because of questionable taste with which she faced her reply the second, took a somewhat unusual impact. But also, most commentators are part of that day might be considered "Army of Darkness": Dark soldiers (anonymous) and twisted tusk. As this practice, as in all in which is relegated to the discrete-life itself, has perverse consequences: it takes the pulse of public opinion which just goes faster your heart rate. Thus, if clumsily vital signs are investigated, is more than likely to err on the diagnosis. In Nazi Literature in America , Bolaño has a purpose Matthew Aguirre Bengoechea I hated it "Alfonso Reyes worth more tenaciously noble endeavor." What a great application would be given to the first law of thermodynamics if the dark energy of most commentators was transformed into a constructive force, if that determination is overturned more wicked noble endeavor. And how much better we would do if given due weight to everything, even though the noise we occupy the exact job that takes you to the middle finger should be pressed for time delete key .

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Early in the morning I left the camera at the beach. It was an almost visceral dawn shreds. Life recently beat out over San Lorenzo. Somewhat later, in the quiet of the ride, I put foot to the image.

Perhaps the only certainty on whether the light
awakening.
But on these mornings when the sky
raw dawn
affirm the eyes in the land
like docile
as if it were eternal.

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Aim for the inevitable noise generated by the friction with the other or mess up what is said, or disturb the silences essential. Why

suecede always agonizingly aware that the clarifications that attempt to alleviate the misunderstandings eventually become a kind of agony that is more often fatal. What a disappointment

these humble beginnings mine. Nothing is more distinguished than silence, but one is a villain you can words.

there not in any interpretation a sin of arrogance?

Is there any misinterpretation in an exercise in ignorance or, at worst, bad faith?

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Poetry es memoria de la sombra de la memoria , dice la cita de Gelman que abre el nuevo libro de Paco Velasco, quien, además, en sus primeros versos, se afirma en la idea axial que se desprende del poema citado y de toda su escritura: Dice verdad quien dice sombra . Y pues la poesía es un andar casi a ciegas en busca de la luz, los versos de este libro no pretenden sino la verdad, buscan la narración precisa, pero a la vez elegiaca, de lo que la vida ha sido, de lo que de la vida queda en esa trocha que el poeta ha ido abriendo en las páginas en blanco de cada uno de sus días. La palabra del hombre / hacia la muerte / comienza en aquel cuaderno de rayas / y se tuerce en los versos / con que abres / la trocha between the branches of the white page . In that notebook, or other similar at least, talk again later, and on returns, that part of the book in which, in a deep, heartfelt and exquisite literary, becomes the people, children, the beginning, but above anything else, education of sensibility forged in contact with the landscape and home: Striped primer / waiting on the table / and the recent loaf / and the pot of milk / it cools. / (...) Listen to the lark as a thousand hearts beating / roadside / to start the day. That bread is the mother, and is warmer than the oven by touching of the hands that have amassed in the trough. Paco Velasco said in his book dedications Night , explaining some beautiful heptasílabos (Hogacita hot / cold that the dawn. / A work of man / smells and morning) that his mother made the best loaves the world. I do not think it is coincidence that this recovery of children, people, landscapes, its birds, its river, slate where d ibujaba ordered a simple and happy world, this bundle of poems that are Returns occupy the heart of the book and pull up as well, with an undisguised tone manriqueño: What took the stone from the grave / child hunter and air in the sink? There was forged in large measure, the man who then went and wrote, and finally collected his way in this age that is memory, shadow memory, just as well, when another menacing shadow looms on the horizon. shadow comes from the sea, / from the mountain, / the morning light / that afternoon off. / (...) On the sea, death. It will assemble your book. With the poetry itself that constitutes the first chapter, the shadow words: With the lights falls, / is longer than the body / the shadow that follows you . With evidence of aging that moves the poems of the second part, memory eyes: "(...) days advance / and time you delete and wrinkles / and the hand away. / And the face and memory . Reaching its peak in the beautiful Returns, which one believes that both have those "silent waters" that flowed from the previous book Paco Velasco. The decline of this particular Mount Caramel is precipitated with a desperate time Disclaimer ( rain comes slowly / and the grass growing in pots / rises to drink.) To The fire and ash, the last season all it consumes and to which we can only follow, as the last hope (as cited by Claudio Rodriguez), draining the "blank page". Paco Velasco's poetry, the very old earth juice, distilled purer than ever, focused, intense and, above all, authentic, this Memory shadow.

Francisco Alvarez Velasco
Cultural Institute "The Brocense"
AbeZeterio Collection, Cáceres, 2010

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Saturday evening. Carrandi. Near the church. The Texu. With Sueve the background. Overhead. Dotted Snow and sunshine late. In silence and after so much noise.

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