Thursday, July 31, 2008

Mariposas Amarillas (El Graduado)


Mariposas Amarillas


Siete días significan

los treinta pájaros,

(el Simurg!)

que superaron la Materia

en Jericó.

¡Comunión!



Heb.11:30 "By faith the walls of Jericho fell down, after they were compassed about seven days.







EL ACERCAMIENTO A ALMOTÁSIM DE JORGE LUIS BORGES

EL ACERCAMIENTO A ALMOTÁSIM

JORGE LUIS BORGES



Philip Guedalla escribe que la novela The approach to Al-Mu'tasim del abogado Mir Bahadur Alí, de Bombay, «es una combinación algo incómoda (a rather uncomfortable combination) de esos poemas alegóricos del Islam que raras veces dejan de interesar a su traductor y de aquellas novelas policiales que inevitablemente superan a John H. Watson y perfeccionan el horror de la vida humana en las pensiones más irreprochables de Brighton». Antes, Mr. Cecil Roberts había denunciado en el libro de Bahadur «la doble, inverosímil tutela de Wilkie Collins y del ilustre persa del siglo XII, Ferid Eddin Attar» -tranquila observación que Guedalla repite sin novedad, pero en un dialecto colérico-.

Esencialmente, ambos escritores concuerdan: los dos indican el mecanismo policial de la obra, y su undercurrent místico. Esa hibridación puede movernos a imaginar algún parecido con Chesterton; ya comprobaremos que no hay tal cosa.

La editio princeps del Acercamiento a Almotásim apareció en Bombay, a fines de 1932. El papel era casi papel de diario; la cubierta anunciaba al comprador que se trataba de la primera novela policial escrita por un nativo de Bombay City: En pocos meses, el público agotó cuatro impresiones de mil ejemplares cada una. La Bombay Quarterly Review, la Bombay Gazette, la Cdlcutta Review, la Hindustan Review (de Alahabad) y el Calcutta Englishman, dispensaron su ditirambo. Entonces Bahadur publicó una edición ilustrada que tituló The conversation with the man called Al-Mu'tasim y que subtituló hermosamente: A game with shifting mimo» (Un juego con espejos que se desplazan).

Esa edición es la que acaba de reproducir en Londres Victor Gollancz, con prólogo de Dorothy L. Sayers y con omisión -quizá misericordiosa- de las ilustraciones. La tengo a la vista; no he logrado juntarme con la primera, que presiento muy superior. A ello me autoriza un apéndice, que resume la diferencia fundamental entre la versión primitiva de 1932 y la de 1934.

Antes de examinarla -y de discutirla- conviene que yo indique rápidamente el curso general de la obra.

Su protagonista visible -no se nos dice nunca su nombre- es estudiante de derecho en Bombay. Blasfematoriamente, descree de la fe islámica de sus padres, pero al declinar la décima noche de la luna de muharram, se halla en el centro de un tumulto civil entre musulmanes e hindúes. Es noche de tambores e invocaciones: entre la muchedumbre adversa, los grandes palios de papel de la procesión musulmana se abren camino. Un ladrillo hindú vuela de una azotea; alguien hunde un puñal en un vientre; alguien ¿musulmán, hindú? muere y es pisoteado. Tres mil hombres pelean: bastón contra revólver, obscenidad contra imprecación, Dios el Indivisible contra los Dioses. Atónito, el estudiante librepensador entra en el motín. Con las desesperadas manos, mata (o piensa haber matado) a un hindú. Atronadora, ecuestre, semidormida, la policía del Sirkar interviene con rebencazos imparciales. Huye el estudiante, casi bajo las patas de los caballos. Busca los arrabales últimos. Atraviesa dos vías ferroviarias, o dos veces la misma vía. Escala el muro de un desordenado jardín, con una torre circular en el fondo.

Una chusma de perros color de luna (a lean and evil mob of mooncoloured hounds) emerge de los rosales negros. Acosado, busca amparo en la torre. Sube por una escalera de fierro -faltan algunos tramos- y en la azotea, que tiene un pozo renegrido en el centro, da con un hombre escuálido, que está orinando vigorosamente en cuclillas, a la luz de la luna. Ese hombre le confía que su profesión es robar los dientes de oro de los cadáveres trajeados de blanco que los parsis dejan en esa torre. Dice otras cosas viles y menciona que hace catorce noches que no se purifica con bosta de búfalo. Habla con evidente rencor de ciertos ladrones de caballos de Guzerat, «comedores de perros y de lagartos, hombres al cabo tan infames como nosotros dos». Está clareando: en el aire hay un vuelo bajo de buitres gordos. El estudiante, aniquilado, se duerme; cuando despierta, ya con el sol bien alto, ha desaparecido el ladrón. Han desaparecido también un par de cigarros de Trichinópoli y unas rupias de plata. Ante las amenazas proyectadas por la noche anterior, el estudiante resuelve perderse en la India. Piensa que se ha mostrado capaz de matar un idólatra, pero no de saber con certidumbre si el musulmán tiene más razón que el idólatra. El nombre de Guzerat no lo deja, y el de una malka-sansi (mujer de casta de ladrones) de Palanpur, muy preferida por las imprecaciones y el odio del despojador de cadáveres. Arguye que el rencor de un hombre tan minuciosamente vil importa un elogio.

Resuelve -sin mayor esperanza- buscarla. Reza, y emprende con segura lentitud el largo camino. Así acaba el segundo capítulo de la obra.

Imposible trazar las peripecias de los diecinueve restantes. Hay una vertiginosa pululación de dramatis personae -para no hablar de una biografía que parece agotar los movimientos del espíritu humano (desde la infamia hasta la especulación matemática) y de la peregrinación que comprende la vasta geografía del Indostán-. La historia comenzada en Bombay sigue en las tierras bajas de Palanpur, se demora una tarde y una noche en la puerta de piedra de Bikanir, narra la muerte de un astrólogo ciego en un albañal de Benarés, conspira en el palacio multiforme de Katmandú, reza y fornica en el hedor pestilencial de Calcuta, en el Machua Bazar, mira nacer los días en el mar desde una escribanía de Madrás, mira morir las tardes en el mar desde un balcón en el estado de Travancor, vacila v mata en Indaptir y cierra su órbita de leguas y de años en el mismo Bombay, a pocos pasos del jardín de los perros color de luna. El argumento es éste: Un hombre, el estudiante incrédulo y fugitivo que conocemos, cae entre gente de la clase más vil y se acomoda a ellos, en una especie de certamen de infamias. De golpe -con el milagroso espanto de Robinsón ante la huella de un pie humano en la arena-- percibe alguna mitigación de esa infamia: tina ternura, una exaltación, un silencio, en uno de los hombres aborrecibles. «Fue como si hubiera terciado en el diálogo un interlocutor más complejo.» Sabe que el hombre vil que está conversando con él es incapaz de ese momentáneo decoro; de ahí postula que éste tia reflejado a un amigo, o arraigo de un amigo. Repensando el problema, llega a una convicción misteriosa: En algún punto de la tierra hay un hombre de quien procede esa claridad; en algún punto de la tierra está el hombre que es igual a esa claridad. El estudiante resuelve dedicar su vida a encontrarlo.

Ya el argumento general se entrevé: la insaciable busca de un alma a través de los delicados reflejos que ésta ha dejado en otras: en el principio, el tenue rastro de una sonrisa o de una palabra; en el fin, esplendores diversos y crecientes de la razón, de la imaginación y del bien. A medida que los hombres interrogados han conocido más de cerca a Almotásim, su porción divina es mayor, pero se entiende que son meros espejos.

El tecnicismo matemático es aplicable: la cargada novela de Bahadur es una progresión ascendente, cuyo término final es el presentido «hombre que se llama Almotásim». El inmediato antecesor de Almotásim es un librero persa de suma cortesía y felicidad; el que precede a ese librero es un santo... Al cabo de los años, el estudiante llega a una galería «en cuyo fondo hay una puerta y una estera barata con muchas cuentas y atrás un resplandor». El estudiante golpea las manos una y dos veces y pregunta por Almotásim.

Una voz de hombre -la increíble voz de Almotásim- lo insta a pasar. El estudiante descorre la cortina y avanza. En ese punto la novela concluye.

Si no me engaño, la buena ejecución de tal argumento impone dos obligaciones al escritor: una, la variada invención de rasgos proféticos; otra, la de que el héroe prefigurado por esos rasgos no sea una mera convención o fantasma. Bahadur satisface la primera; no sé hasta dónde la segunda. Dicho sea con otras palabras: el inaudito y no mirado Almotásim debería dejarnos la impresión de un carácter real, no de un desorden de superlativos insípidos. En la versión de 1932, las notas sobrenaturales ralean: «el hombre llamado Almotásim» tiene su algo de símbolo, pero no carece de rasgos idiosincrásicos, personales. Desgraciadamente, esa buena conducta literaria no perduró.

En la versión de 1934 -la que tengo a la vista- la novela decae en alegoría: Almotásim es emblema de Dios y los puntuales itinerarios del héroe son de algún modo los progresos del alma en el ascenso místico. Hay pormenores afligentes: un judío negro de Kochín que habla de Almotásim, dice que su piel es oscura; un cristiano lo describe sobre una torre con los brazos abiertos; un lama rojo lo recuerda sentado «como esa imagen de manteca de yak que yo modelé y adoré en el monasterio de Tashilhunpo». Esas declaraciones quieren insinuar un Dios unitario que se acomoda a las desigualdades humanas. La idea es poco estimulante, a mi ver. No diré lo mismo de esta otra: la conjetura de que también el Todopoderoso está en busca de Alguien, y ese Alguien de Alguien superior (o simplemente imprescindible e igual) y así hasta el Fin -o mejor, el Sinfín- del Tiempo, o en forma cíclica. Almotásim (el nombre de aquel octavo Abbasida que fue vencedor en ocho batallas, engendró ocho varones y ocho mujeres, dejó ocho mil esclavos y reinó durante un espacio de ocho años, de ocho lunas y de ocho días) quiere decir etimológicamente «El buscador de amparo». En la versión de 1932, el hecho de que el objeto de la peregrinación fuera un peregrino, justificaba de oportuna manera la dificultad de encontrarlo; en la de 1934, da lugar a la teología extravagante que declaré. Mir Bahadur Alí, lo hemos visto, es incapaz de soslayar la más burda de las tentaciones del arte: la de ser un genio.

Releo lo anterior y temo no haber destacado bastante las virtudes del libro. Hay rasgos muy civilizados: por ejemplo, cierta disputa del capítulo diecinueve en la que se presiente que es amigo de Almotásim un contendor que no rebate los sofismas del otro, «para no tener razón de un modo triunfal».

Se entiende que es honroso que un libro actual derive de uno antiguo: ya que a nadie le gusta (como dijo Johnson) deber nada a sus contemporáneos. Los repetidos pero insignificantes contactos del Ulises de Joyce con la Odisea homérica, siguen escuchando -nunca sabré por qué- la atolondrada admiración de la crítica; los de la novela de Bahadur con el venerado Coloquio de los pájaros de Farid ud-din Attar, conocen el no menos misterioso aplauso de Londres, y aun de Alahabad y Calcuta. Otras derivaciones no faltan.

Algún inquisidor ha enumerado ciertas analogías de la primera escena de la novela con el relato de Kipling On the City Vall,; Bahadur las admite, pero alega que sería muy anormal que dos pinturas de la décima noche de muharram no coincidieran... Eliot, con más justicia, recuerda los setenta cantos de la incompleta alegoría The Faërie Queene, en los que no aparece una sola vez la heroína, Gloriana -como lo hace notar una censura de Richard William Church (Spenser, 1879). Yo, con toda humildad, señalo un precursor lejano y posible: el cabalista de Jerusalén, Isaac Luria, que en el siglo xvi propaló que el alma de un antepasado o maestro puede entrar en el alma de un desdichado, para confortarlo o instruirlo. Ibbür se llama esa variedad de la metempsicosis.1





Nota

1 En el decurso de esta noticia, me he referido al Mantiq al-Tayr (Coloquio de los pájaros) del místico persa Farid al-Din Abú Talib Muhámmad ben lbrahim Attar a quien mataron los soldados de Tule, hijo de Zingis Jan, cuando Nishapur fue expoliada. Quizá no huelgue resumir el poema. El remoto rey de los pájaros, el Simurg, deja caer en el centro de la China una pluma espléndida; los pájaros resuelven buscarlo, hartos de su antigua anarquía. Saben que el nombre de su rey quiere decir treinta pájaros; saben que su alcázar está en el Kaf, la montaña circular que rodea la tierra. Acometen la casi infinita aventura; superan siete valles, o mares; el nombre del penúltimo es «Vértigo»; el último se llama «Aniquilación». Muchos peregrinos desertan; otros perecen. Treinta, purificados por los trabajos, pisan la montaña del Simurg. Lo contemplan al fin: perciben que ellos son el Simurg y que el Simurg es cada uno de ellos y todos. (También Plotino-Enéodas,V 8, 4 -declara una extensión paradisíaca del principio de identidad: Todo, en el cielo inteligible, está en todas partes. Cualquier cosa es todas las cosas. El sol es todas las estrellas, y cada estrella es todas las estrellas y el sol.) El Mantiq al-Tayr ha sido vertido al francés por Garcín de Tassy; al inglés por Edward FitzGerald; para esta nota, he consultado el décimo tomo de Las mil y uno noches de Burton y la monografa The Persion mystics: Attar (1932) de Margaret Smith. Los contactos de ese poema con la novela de Mir Bahadur Alí no son excesivos. En el vigésimo capítulo, unas palabras atribuidas por un librero persa a Almotásim son, quizá, la magnificación de otras que ha dicho el héroe; ésa y otras ambiguas analogías pueden significar la identidad del buscado y del buscador; pueden también significar que éste influye en aquél. Otro capítulo insinúa que Almotásim es el «hindú» que el estudiante cree haber matado.

The Cask of Amontillado


by Edgar Allan Poe
(published 1846)


THE thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely, settled --but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.

It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation.

He had a weak point -- this Fortunato -- although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity, to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack, but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially; --I was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could.

It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.

I said to him --"My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day. But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts."

"How?" said he. "Amontillado, A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!"

"I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain."

"Amontillado!"

"I have my doubts."

"Amontillado!"

"And I must satisfy them."

"Amontillado!"

"As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchresi. If any one has a critical turn it is he. He will tell me --"

"Luchresi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry."

"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own.

"Come, let us go."

"Whither?"

"To your vaults."

"My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchresi--"

"I have no engagement; --come."

"My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre."

"Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for Luchresi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado."

Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm; and putting on a mask of black silk and drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.

There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned.

I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together upon the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.

The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.

"The pipe," he said.

"It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white web-work which gleams from these cavern walls."

He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication.

"Nitre?" he asked, at length.

"Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?"

"Ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh!"

My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes.

"It is nothing," he said, at last.

"Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchresi --"

"Enough," he said; "the cough's a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough."

"True --true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily --but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps.

Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.

"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine.

He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled.

"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us."

"And I to your long life."

He again took my arm, and we proceeded.

"These vaults," he said, "are extensive."

"The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous family."

"I forget your arms."

"A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel."

"And the motto?"

"Nemo me impune lacessit."

"Good!" he said.

The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through long walls of piled skeletons, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.

"The nitre!" I said; "see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough --"

"It is nothing," he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc."

I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand.

I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement --a grotesque one.

"You do not comprehend?" he said.

"Not I," I replied.

"Then you are not of the brotherhood."

"How?"

"You are not of the masons."

"Yes, yes," I said; "yes, yes."

"You? Impossible! A mason?"

"A mason," I replied.

"A sign," he said, "a sign."

"It is this," I answered, producing from beneath the folds of my roquelaire a trowel.

"You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado."

"Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.

At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth side the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior crypt or recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.

It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the depth of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.

"Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchresi --"

"He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess.

"Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed, it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power."

"The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.

"True," I replied; "the Amontillado."

As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.

I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.

A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated, I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall; I replied to the yells of him who clamoured. I re-echoed, I aided, I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamourer grew still.

It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said--

"Ha! ha! ha! --he! he! he! --a very good joke, indeed --an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo --he! he! he! --over our wine --he! he! he!"

"The Amontillado!" I said.

"He! he! he! --he! he! he! --yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone."

"Yes," I said, "let us be gone."

"For the love of God, Montresor!"

"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!"

But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud --

"Fortunato!"

No answer. I called again --

"Fortunato!"

No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick; it was the dampness of the catacombs that made it so. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat!


Monday, July 28, 2008

Henry James

The mystery at the heart of Henry James' The Ambassadors, solved. - By Joshua Glenn - Slate Magazine
Is It a Chamber Pot?Nope! A century-old literary mystery, solved.
By Joshua Glenn
Posted Wednesday, Oct. 31, 2007, at 4:28 PM ET

Click here to read more from Slate's Fall Fiction Week.
Henry James' The Ambassadors.

Ever since the 1903 publication of Henry James' The Ambassadors, critics and readers have puzzled over a literary mystery that has come to be known as the Woollett Question. What, everyone from E.M. Forster to David Lodge has wanted to know, is the "little nameless object" manufactured in Woollett, Mass.? The case went cold at some point in the 1960s, but earlier this week it was reopened … and cracked.

In James' late and longiloquent novel, our protagonist is Lewis Lambert Strether, the middle-aged amanuensis and aspiring fiance of Mrs. Newsome, a wealthy widow who presides over the fictional manufacturing town of Woollett. Strether is traveling from Boston to Paris, where he hopes to track down Mrs. Newsome's son, Chad, the wayward heir of the family's booming industry. Along the way, he is befriended by a young American abroad, Maria Gostrey, who soon inquires what, exactly, it is that they manufacture back in Woollett.

"It's a little thing they make—make better, it appears, than other people can, or than other people, at any rate, do," says Strether. When prompted to explain further, he again equivocates, describing the business as "a manufacture that, if it's only properly looked after, may well be on the way to become a monopoly." Impatient with Strether's "postponements," Gostrey asks him whether the article in question is something improper—perhaps even unmentionable?

"Oh no, we constantly talk of it; we are quite familiar and brazen about it," Strether hastens to reply. "Only, as a small, trivial, rather ridiculous object of the commonest domestic use, it's just wanting in—what shall I say? Well, dignity, or the least approach to distinction." The manufactured item is, he concludes, "vulgar."

Her interest piqued, Gostrey ventures three guesses: Clothespins? Saleratus? (That is, baking soda.) Shoe polish? No, no, and no. Not until the novel's final chapter will Strether offer to name the "little nameless object." But at this point in the narrative, Gostrey, whose romantic overtures have been rejected by Strether, no longer cares to know.

Generations of readers have felt differently: One critic after another has speculated about what small, vulgar, everyday item might have been manufactured at the turn of the century in Massachusetts. In the 1920s, several James exegetes took the low road, arguing that Strether's protestation notwithstanding, the Newsome family was most likely turning out an unmentionable. In his 1925 book, The Pilgrimage of Henry James, Van Wyck Brooks guesses that the object is "a certain undistinguished toilet-article," by which he means a grooming or personal hygiene product. In Aspects of the Novel (1927), E.M. Forster insists that we can't know what the "little thing" is, then facetiously claims that it is a button hook—a doohickey used for fastening one's garments, gloves, or boots.

In David Lodge's 1965 campus novel, The British Museum is Falling Down, Brooks and Forster's mildly titillating line of interpretation is updated by Camel, a grad student writing a thesis on sanitation in Victorian literature, who suggests that the thingamajig is a chamber pot. One might desire to trust the judgment of Lodge, who is the author of both a novel about James (Author, Author, 2004) and a nonfiction book about his research into James' life and letters (The Year of Henry James, 2006). But in interviews, Lodge has taken pains to point out that Camel's scatological theory was advanced only "half seriously."

Other Jamesians have taken the high road, preferring to believe that Strether's reluctance to name the object has nothing to do with bodily functions, but instead reflects the expatriated novelist's own "self-distancing from American business life, whose vulgarities were much criticized by English writers," as Christopher Butler puts it in his notes to the 1985 Oxford University Press edition of the novel.

In "The Meaning of the Match Image in James's The Ambassadors," a 1955 essay in the journal Modern Language Notes, for example, Patricia Evans asserts that the thingamabob is a safety match—which, she claims, would explain why James jokes at one point in the novel that Mrs. Newsome's daughter's unpleasant smile was "as prompt to act as the scrape of a safety-match." The hermeneutics of suspicion is contagious: Two years later, the same journal published "Time and the Unnamed Article in The Ambassadors," in which R.W. Stallmann, also relying on what might or might not be fraught similes and allegories in James' text, claims the object "is—or ought to be—a clock." To be precise, an alarm clock, which "represents a way of life the opposite of Europe's."

Alas, without any firm evidence—Stallmann lamely notes that at Worcester, Mass., clocks were manufactured in James' day, but then sheepishly backs away from this line of argument—we're still left to guess at what the object might be.

Until now. For years, I've had the Woollett Question in the back of my mind: What kind of article would fit every particular? First, the object must be small, trivially so: not a chamber pot, then, nor an alarm clock, the former being too large and the latter insufficiently trivial. Patricia Evans' safety match is an inspired guess … but matches are neither ridiculous nor vulgar. Second, the article must be something controversial, and therefore likely to have been talked about "constantly," in late 19th- and early 20th-century polite East Coast society: not a button hook, then, nor most artifacts used in making your toilet. Razors, toothbrushes, menstrual pads, earwax curettes, and the like may have been vulgar, but controversial they were not.

The answer was finally revealed to me a few weeks ago, via a new book by Henry Petroski, prolific author of case histories of "useful things," from pencils to paper clips to the kitchen sink. His latest is on the toothpick. Writing in the New York Times Sunday Book Review last week, Joe Queenan excoriated Petroski for having written a worthless text. How wrong he was! For although Petroski never mentions James in The Toothpick: Technology and Culture, he nevertheless provides conclusive proof that the "little nameless object" in The Ambassadors, over which so many have brooded for so long, is, yes, a toothpick.

Let's proceed with caution. Is a toothpick trivially small and ridiculous? Check. Where were ready-made wooden toothpicks first manufactured in America? In Cambridge, Mass., by Charles Forster, an entrepreneur who, in the mid-1860s, oversaw the development of a new device that transformed birch logs into flat, double-pointed toothpicks. Was the toothpick controversial? Yes! According to Petroski, although wooden-toothpick use after meals was a long-standing tradition in Spain and Latin American countries, in mid-19th-century New England, polite society regarded public tooth-picking as vulgar, and the implement was an "unknown adjunct to the dinner table." Forster slowly overcame this prejudice through assiduous marketing; according to possibly apocryphal legend, his most successful scheme was hiring "Harvard scholars" to eat at Boston restaurants and then after their meal to ask for toothpicks. (For more details on Forster's ingenious marketing tactics, read this piece by Henry Petroski in Slate.)

By 1869, according to some estimates, machine-made toothpicks were selling in the United States at a rate as high as 5 million per day, and Forster held a virtual monopoly (recall Strether's use of the term) on their production and sale. In 1882, a year in which James was twice recalled from England to his parents' home in Cambridge, first by his mother's death, then his father's, it was big news around eastern Massachusetts that a factory capable of producing 70,000 toothpicks per hour was going to be established south of Boston, at Brockton. The New York Herald expressed the "hope that the Boston ladies will not imitate some of the New York ladies who carry toothpicks in their mouths in stores and streets." As for the Forster children, they seem to have been no more proud of their family's enterprise than the Newsomes. Petroski notes that when Charles Forster died in 1901, two years before the publication of The Ambassadors, his family would neglect to mention in his obituary his pioneering work in making and marketing toothpicks.

The foregoing evidence, I submit, is stronger than anything that other Jamesians have produced so far. But there's textual proof as well. In looking through James' other writings, the references to toothpicks I've found suggest he indeed considered the item vulgar. But my favorite piece of textual evidence comes from The Ambassadors itself. In the 1880s, Forster patented a revolutionary new machine that polished, rounded, compressed, and sharpened toothpicks. This new toothpick was a marvel, according to Petroski, "ahead of its time as a designed object." Now consider Strether's first impression of Chad Newsome, whom he hasn't seen in five years when he finally tracks him down:

Chad was brown and thick and strong; and of old Chad had been rough. Was all the difference therefore that he was actually smooth? Possibly; for that he was smooth was as marked as in the taste of a sauce or in the rub of a hand. ... It was as if in short he had really, copious perhaps but shapeless, been put into a firm mould and turned successfully out.

James had a habit of associating his characters with a specific piece of scenery or work of art, or, in The Ambassadors, manufactured object—recall Sarah Newsome Pocock's safety-match smile. Of Chad Newsome, it might be said that he was as compressed and polished as one of Forster's toothpicks.

Miscelánea Borgiana 1

Borges, el Cartógrafo de la Literatura
Borges, el Cartógrafo de la Literatura

Hugo Santander Ferreira

Versión en Inglés



En una entrevista concedida en 1963, en Montevideo, Jorge Luis Borges confiesa: «Estoy podrido de literatura. No podría contestar hablando del sol, no suelo pensar directamente en el sol1, sino en las imágenes, textos, relatos del sol.» El sol no le interesaba, de hecho, como un ente concreto, sino como un medio de expresión poética. Discípulo de Berkeley, Borges enfatiza la inmaterialidad de nuestras representaciones:

La lluvia es una cosa
Que sin duda sucede en el pasado

Borges asume la literatura como la creación suprema del hombre, más elaborada y misteriosa que el universo inmediato. Hegel categorizó las manifestaciones del pensamiento, situando a la filosofía en la cúspide, sobre el arte y la religión. Sus razones, es de suponer, fueron primordialmente personales. Borges trastocaría este concepto, escribiendo en una de sus páginas que la filosofía no es sino la empresa más ambiciosa de la literatura.

El mundo, como ente físico, sólo le interesa en cuanto corresponde a una tradición literaria. James Irbi escribió en 1960 a propósito de su primer encuentro con Borges en los Estados Unidos: «Está muy entusiasmado con San Francisco, ciudad que antes conocía sólo por las lecturas de Mark Twain, Bret Harte, Norris, Stevenson. '¡San Francisco existe de un modo notable!' -exclama. En general, los Estados Unidos lo llenan de admiración; está muy deseoso de conocer el este: Nueva York, Nueva Inglaterra… 'Es que todo esto salió de ahí, ¿verdad?' Es la primera vez que Borges deja el Río de la Plata desde el año 1924. Está como descubriendo el mundo por primera vez.»2 Borges, de hecho, no sólo descubriría, sino que además seduciría a Norteamérica, elogiando los versos de Robert Frost y recitando pasajes previamente memorizados de Boewulf.

Sus poemas, sus cuentos, sus ensayos, sus reiterativas conferencias y entrevistas, son un elaborado esfuerzo por abarcar, o más bien reseñar, los escritos que le precedieron, pero a diferencia de un erudito o un profesor universitario, Borges no se limita a describir sus lecturas, sino que las recrea, las reinventa o, en sus propios términos, las rescribe. Los sitios que imagina, los escritores que relee, son coordenadas de una vasta topografía imperfecta, olvidada o mal elaborada. Queriendo recordarla, mejorarla o perfeccionarla, su obra, más allá de su valor literario y estilístico, nos conduce por una trama de citas, versos y opiniones, tan extensa como los mapas del Imperio, reseñados por su personaje Suárez Miranda en su libro Viajes de Varones Ilustres: «…En aquel Imperio, el Arte de la Cartografía logró tal Perfección que el mapa de una sola Provincia ocupaba toda una Ciudad, y el mapa del imperio toda una Provincia. Con el tiempo, esos Mapas Desmesurados no satisfacieron y los Colegios de Cartógrafos levantaron un Mapa del Imperio, que tenía el tamaño del Imperio y coincidía puntualmente con él.»3

Un periodista portugués, a propósito de la publicación de la obra completa de Borges en Lisboa, escribe perplejo que sólo un erudito como Borges es capaz de citar veintiséis escritores por página. Sus alusiones literarias son continuas y necesariamente evanescentes. Borges le dedica, por ejemplo, tres líneas a Philipp Mainländer, un filósofo olvidado que luego de publicar su obra Filosofía de la Libertad, se suicidó. E. Cioran, un apologista de la obra de Mainländer, acusa a Borges de eclecticismo e indelicadeza: «Para él todo vale, en tanto que él [Borges] sea el centro de todo.»4

Uno de los personajes de la novela de Ernesto Sábato Abbadon, el exterminador, nos cuenta que a Nobokov estaba fascinado con Borges en un principio, hasta cuando descubrió que su obra era la fachada de una casa vacía. El elemento más encantador o repulsivo en Borges es, de hecho, su erudición. Esta es un tanto desconcertante en sus primeros poemas, en donde el autor se esfuerza por comunicarnos sus emociones como lector. Si desconociésemos las virtudes de sus escritores predilectos deploraríamos versos como:

Hugo me dio una hoz que era de oro

La crítica apela a Borges laberíntico. Una referencia directa a sus relatos, en donde el laberinto desempeña un papel preponderante, pero así mismo a la urdimbre de su obra, en donde Borges postula una idea para enseguida abandonarla por otra, y así sucesivamente. Cuando Borges prologa Moll Flanders nos asegura que es la primera novela que emplea rasgos circunstanciales. Borges enuncia su hipótesis, pero no profundiza en ella. Su procedimiento es idéntico cuando mancomuna la obra dispar de Heidegger y Jarspers para refutarla en cinco líneas: «las filosofías de Heidegger y de Jaspers hacen de cada uno de nosotros el interesante interlocutor de un diálogo secreto y continuo con la nada o la divinidad; estas disciplinas, que formalmente pueden ser admirables, fomentan esa ilusión del yo que el Vedanta reprueba como error capital. Suelen jugar a la desesperación y la angustia, pero en el fondo halagan la vanidad; son, en tal sentido, inmorales.5» Su ductilidad es evidente en algunos de sus ensayos, en donde Borges yuxtapone a Heráclito con Lulio y la milonga. Pero Borges no postula verdades. En cierta entrevista se jactó de haber leído la obra completa de Schopenhahuer, un filósofo que escribió con admiración y desprecio: «En donde hay contradicción y mentira, hay pensamiento.6» Borges no quiere persuadirnos, sino provocarnos, obligarnos a consultar sus referencias, para corroborarlas, refutarlas o descubrir su inexistencia. Borges mismo corregiría la impresión caótica de su invención algunos años antes de su muerte: «Creo que se ha abusado de la frase 'enumeración caótica', inventada, creo, por algún teórico alemán… Creo que si realmente se hicieran enumeraciones caóticas resultarían irresponsables y el lector no podría seguirlas… Desde luego la enumeración tiene que ser aparentemente caótica, pero realmente tiene que haber ciertas afinidades secretas.»7

Su obra nos invita a una lectura o relectura constante. Las tramas de sus cuentos son, desde luego, admirables, pero si los despojásemos de sus referencias literarias las descubriríamos como un mero pasatiempo, como novelas policíacas, de horror o de ciencia ficción. Sus argumentos nos resultarían, incluso, reiterativos. Baste mencionar que las tramas de Sur, Las Ruinas Circulares, Los Teólogos y Abenjacán el Bojarí muerto en su laberinto —entre otros cuentos y poemas menos célebres—, reinciden. En ellas un personaje descubre que su vida no le pertenece; que su destino corresponde a otro personaje:

«…comprendió que el tesoro no era lo esencial para él [Zadid]. Lo esencial era que Abenjacán pereciera. Simuló ser Abenjacán, mató a Abenjacán y finalmente fué Abenjacán.»8

«Aureliano supo que para la insondable divinidad, él y Juan de Panonia … formaban una sola persona.»9

Su recurrencia más afortunada es la metáfora, que aúna el mundo real con el literario. Cuando escribe «aquel rey de Tebas que vió dos soles»10, pensamos en Edipo, que es entre los reyes de Tebas el más célebre. Conjeturamos que los dos soles se refieren a un hombre hurgándose los ojos, o arrojándose a la lava de un volcán, tan ardiente como el sol. Su ambigüedad, es, de cualquier modo, intencional. Borges emula las páginas que ha leído y nos invita a que lo emulemos de igual manera. Gérard Genette confesaba que escribir sobre Borges es una tarea irritante y laboriosa, pues su obra suscita parodias, una mera imitación de sus discursos. Pero hablar de un discurso Borgiano es una contradicción. Tal vez Borges también creyese, en un principio, que sus ensayos no eran sino trabajos escolares. En 1959 «cree que su librito sobre Antiguas literaturas germánicas no es más que la obra de un diletante mal informado y que sólo ahora comienza a tener algún conocimiento de la materia.»11 Los años habrían de persuadirlo de los errores de su estilo depurado resultaban más interesantes que sus certezas. Sus páginas perduran como una topografía de la literatura universal sin precedentes. No se trata de una obra de referencia, como una enciclopedia podría serlo. Sería injusto, asimismo, enfatizar su dimensión educativa, pues Borges vivió apasionadamente cada una de las páginas que leyó o escribió, y nuestra educación se asocia al rigor de la academia. En un ensayo de Otras Inquisiciones, Quevedo nos es presentado como «el literato de los literatos.»12 Esta valoración, si es que alguna vez existió, se adecua mejor al genio literario de Borges. Sus páginas señalan enciclopedias, idiomas y manuscritos abandonados. Su erudición puede aturdir al lector, pero en tal caso ese aturdimiento es motivado por nuestra ingenuidad o ignorancia, por nuestra imposibilidad de seguir a Borges en sus lecturas o invenciones; una cartografía eminentemente estética, poblada por escritores imaginarios o panfletos inconcebibles.

Sería banal, así mismo, tratar de asociar a Borges con la sociedad argentina de su época. Su tiempo y su espacio lo afligían. «Creo que leer a Berkeley, o a Shaw, o a Emerson es una experiencia tan real como ver Londres»13, decía. Pero ese Londres era atemporal. En un programa de televisión grabado en 1980 en Nueva York, Borges comentaba: «Pienso en Nueva York en las palabras de Walt Whitman, de O. Henry, y asimismo como mera belleza. La ciudad entera de rascacielos que brotan como manantiales. Es una ciudad bastante poética.»14 Su elogio, aunque propicio, fue recibido con frialdad por su entrevistador. Ya treinta años atrás Borges se había mofado de ese afán argentino por complacer a los extranjeros: «Nos quedamos muy sorprendidos al ver en ese primer número de una revista publicada en buenos aires [Sur], una fotografía de las cataratas del Iguazú, otra de Tierra del Fuego, otra de la Cordillera de los Andes y otra más de la providencia de Buenos Aires. Creo recordar que se trataba de una «vista de las pampas»… ¡en plural! Un verdadero manual de geografía. Victoria [Ocampo] lo hizo para mostrar nuestra Argentina a sus amigos de Europa, pero resultaba un poco ridículo en Buenos Aires.»15

El estilo informativo de los periódicos de Buenos Aires lo abatía. Prefería en su lugar la prosa clásica y los juicios pomposos y anacrónicos de Gibbon y Herodoto. Los países que visitaba, en otras palabras, le parecían menos reales que los textos que recordaba sobre esos países: «Espero viajar a China y a India. Ya estuve allí desde cuando leía Kipling y el Tao Te Ching (…) Mi memoria esta formada principalmente de libros. De hecho, apenas recuerdo mi propia vida. No le puedo dar fechas. Sé que he viajado a 17 o 18 países, pero no le puedo contar el orden de mis viajes (...) Todo es una masa de divisiones e imágenes (…) Siempre vuelvo a citar los libros. Me acuerdo que Emerson, uno de mis héroes, nos previene contra las citas. Él dijo: 'Tengamos cuidado. La vida se puede convertir en una larga cita.'»16 Poco o nada le inquietaba la economía de las gentes y naciones de finales del siglo veinte. Afirmó que escribía para sí mismo, o para sus amigos eruditos. Juzgaba que una obra, para perdurar, debía carecer de elementos jocosos y políticos, pues la risa y la política varían de una generación a otra. Ciego y agotado de vivir, postulaba y refutaba el solipsismo, una ilusión que lo persiguió desde los días en que escribió Las Ruinas Circulares. Umberto Eco se inspiró en La Biblioteca de Babel al escribir El Nombre de la Rosa. Su fascinación por la obra de Borges contrasta con el carácter de su personaje Jorge Burgos, un bibliotecario ciego y de memoria prodigiosa que envidia el buen humor de sus coetáneos. En Montevideo, de nuevo, cuando le preguntaron a Borges qué pensaba sobre el hambre, respondió: «Nunca tuve nada que ver con el hambre, fuera del último año de la primera guerra, así que no tengo un gran conocimiento.»17 Una actitud que exacerbó a los intelectuales latinoamericanos de su generación y que cohibiría a la Academia sueca de otorgarle el premio Nobel de literatura. Su apología a la obra de Kipling es una apología de sí mismo: «Es siempre injusto juzgar a un escritor por sus ideas.»18

Su vida tortuosa, sin embargo, da cuenta de la vitalidad de su obra. Cioran considera a Borges un subproducto del vacío latinoamericano y de la asfixia cultural argentina. Borges ya había corroborado este juicio, citando una y otra vez a Paul Groussac, quien escribió que ser famoso en Suramérica es ser famoso en ningún sitio. Equiparaba al escritor suramericano con el intelectual judío, pues sus raíces abarcan una cultura tan imprecisa como el universo. Recordemos que su maestro y alter-ego fue Rafael Cansinos-Asséns, judío español hablante de catorce lenguas, traductor al castellano de Las Mil y Una noches y de las obras dispares de Dostoievsky y Goethe.

Sus versos a Alfonso Reyes son, como cada uno de sus poemas, una reflexión sobre su propia experiencia:

Supo bien aquel arte que ninguno
Supo del todo, ni Simbad ni Ulises,
Que es pasar de un país a otros países
Y estar íntegramente en cada uno

Su cartografía literaria comienza con Fervor de Buenos Aires (1923). Su barrio, Palermo, es descrito con minucia en Evaristo Carriego (1930). Este libro evidencia su intención estética: Borges quiere involucrarnos en la obra de Carriego. Persuadido por Plinio, de que no hay un libro malo sin una página buena, Borges se esfuerza por señalar las virtudes de un autor olvidado y una obra poética execrable. Años después Borges afirmaría que los versos de Evaristo Carriego eran tan desafortunados que hasta él mismo perdió interés en encomiarlo. En adelante destacaría los pasajes de autores más inmerecidamente olvidados. Ya en Inquisiciones (1925), Borges había perfilado su desinterés por las celebridades. Una postura que habría de sostener a lo largo de su vida, en países remotos y en diversas lenguas: «No creo en escuelas. No creo en cronologías. Jamás dato mis escritos. Pienso que la poesía debería ser anónima… Siempre estamos rescribiendo lo que los antiguos ya escribieron: una prueba fehaciente.»19

Cioran considera su curiosidad viciosa y monstruosa. Borges prefiere, de hecho, los libros raídos y las enciclopedias obsoletas. En una de sus entrevistas nos diría que le interesaba escribir sobre sitios olvidados. Escribió, por lo tanto, sobre Lugones y Quevedo para los estadounidenses, y sobre Emerson y Jonathan Edwards para los argentinos: «Pero en mi país, escribir sobre Emerson y Jonathan Edwards es igual que escribir sobre cualquier rincón olvidado.»20

A menudo desafió coordenadas firmemente establecidas. Consideró la obra de Henry James superior a la de Kafka, apodó a Proust y a Virginia Woolf, «escritores para mujeres», dijo que el Ulises de Joyce era una obra «de simetrías laboriosas e inútiles», desacralizó a Goethe afirmando que su obra era delicada y menos intensa que la de Joyce21, llamó a García Lorca un charlatán «que tuvo la suerte de ser ejecutado»,22 desacreditó, por último, los juicios estéticos de Ortega y Gasset: «él no aprendió inglés, y se cohibió, por lo tanto, de las mejores novelas del mundo.»23

Ante el bagaje intelectual abrumador de Borges, nuestro único paliativo sería el de la lectura. No en vano se vanagloriaba de haber vivido entre libros. Su celebridad en las universidades se debe, creo, a su entusiasmo por el aprendizaje aparentemente desinteresado. Una de mis primeras lecturas de su obra fue un comentario sobre el ensayo de Swift: «A modest proposal». Una ironía que, por mera casualidad, tuve la suerte de haber leído. Swift proponía en ésta solucionar el hambre del Reino Unido cocinando niños irlandeses, un escrito que, desde luego, asumí como un sarcasmo político o un relato de humor negro. Borges, por el contrario, veía en el una pesadilla. Sus páginas nos ofrecen interpretaciones disímiles; nuevas lecturas, relecturas. No sería atrevido escribir, de acuerdo a la trama borgiana, que Pierre Menard, un amanuense, y Funes el memorioso, un erudito, fueron los caracteres que crearon y encarnaron a Jorge Luis Borges.

Quizá el destino de Borges, a diferencia del de tantos escritores contemporáneos, no haya sido el de innovar la literatura, sino el de recuperarla. La ceguera le impidió—según nos dice—, estudiar a escritores contemporáneos. Aunque también confiesa cierto cansancio: «porque pienso en Menard como llegando al final de un largo período literario, llegando al momento en que se da cuenta de que no quiere abrumar al mundo con más libros.»24 Quería que lo conociesen como a un escritor inglés del siglo xix, contemporáneo de De Quincey, Kipling, Chesterton, Stevenson y Bernard Shaw.

Es difícil releer a Borges sin contagiarse de su pasión o su vicio por la lectura. Sus prólogos, esa veneración por tantos países y lenguas, predican el estudio de literaturas antiguas y remotas. Borges fue y es, sobre todo, un maestro. Sus páginas son, de un modo u otro, una compilación creativa sin precedentes, un mapa que inspira a otros escritores de naciones disímiles—para que la literatura no sufra la indolencia de los habitantes del imperio: «Menos Adictas al estudio de la Cartografía, las Generaciones Siguientes entendieron que ese dilatado Mapa era Inútil y no sin Impiedad lo entregaron a la Inclemencia del Sol y los Inviernos. En los desiertos del Oeste perduran despedazadas las Ruinas del Mapa, habitadas por Animales y Mendigos; en todo el País no hay otra reliquia de las Disciplinas Geográficas.»25

Chiastic Part 2 (drmardy.com copyright © 1999-2008 by Dr. Mardy Grothe)

What is Chiasmus? (Part 2): drmardy.com
What is Chiasmus? (Part 2)

From Chiastic Quotations to Chiastic Dialogue
Chauncey Depew

So far, you've seen how chiasmus shows up in single quotations. But chiasmus can also occur in interpersonal communication. It happens when one person reverses the words of another. A good example comes from a story told about Chauncey Depew, a 19th century railroad executive who served for a time as a U. S. Senator. Depew was a gifted orator who gained national prominence as an after-dinner speaker. On one occasion, the local chairperson of a group introduced Depew by saying:

"Chauncey Depew can always produce a speech. All you have to do is give him his dinner, and up comes his speech."

Depew got up from his seat, walked to the podium, and wowed the audience by saying:

"I only hope that it isn't true that if I give you my speech, up will come your dinner."

Depew's reply demonstrates the essence of a chiastic come-back: it literally reverses the words of a preceding speaker. If the topic of chiastic dialogue interests you, you may want to take a look at the chapter on "Chiastic Repartee" in Never Let a Fool Kiss You or a Kiss Fool You. You can also find a more extended discussion of the topic in Types of Chiasmus.

Chiasmus: A Figure of Speech and a Rhetorical Device

Many dictionaries and encyclopedias refer to chiasmus as a figure of speech and describe it as an example of figurative language. But what exactly is a figure of speech? And what does it mean to use figurative language?

Figurative language is language that is deliberately different from the way people normally speak or write. An individual figure of speech—and there are dozens of them—is any particular method people use to express themselves figuratively. Some figures, like metaphors or similes, are so common they don't appear to depart much from standard usage; in fact, unless grandly phrased, they don't necessarily stand out. But others, like alliteration and oxymoron, generally do stand out. And, of course, so does chiasmus.

Figurative language is an important part of what brings richness and beauty to poetry, writing, and oratory. When Lord Byron wrote, "Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure" he wasn't trying to write the way people normally speak. He was consciously using chiasmus to craft a line that was rhythmic, evocative, and memorable.

John F. Kennedy did the same with his immortal line, "Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country." People don't generally talk this way in everyday conversation. But an inaugural address to an entire nation was the perfect occasion for figurative language—and Kennedy took full advantage of it. The Kennedy quote demonstrates something else about chiasmus. Because it can be such a powerful oratorical tool, it is frequently referred to as a "rhetorical device."

But chiasmus is much more than a mere figure of speech or rhetorical device. In fact, I believe there's something almost archetypal about it. Let me explain.

A Vehicle For Expressing Great Truths
Niels Bohr

Niels Bohr, the Danish physicist, was fond of talking about a treasured piece of wisdom he learned from his father. According to Bohr, his father said:

"There are trivial truths and great truths.
The opposite of a trivial truth is plainly false.
The opposite of a great truth is also true."

I believe this insight helps to explain why chiasmus holds such deep interest for many people. When you look at the two components of many chiastic observations, both assertions seem true. Take the French proverb:

"Love makes time pass,
time makes love pass."

The first line contains what all people would regard as a great romantic truth. When people are deeply in love, time flies by. The second line describes a less romantic but equally compelling "truth." As time goes by, the ardor of love—and frequently even love itself—fades away. It's a perfect example of what Bohr's father was talking about.

The same could be said about many other chiastic observations:

"Charm is a woman's strength …
strength is a man's charm. — Havelock Ellis

"When they are alone they want to be with others, and
when they are with others they want to be alone.
After all, human beings are like that." — Gertrude Stein

"The instinct of a man is
to pursue everything that flies from him, and
to fly from all that pursue him." — Voltaire

As is the case with so many chiastic quotes, the second part of each expression complements the first in a memorable and thought-provoking way. And, in each case, both thoughts seem equally true.

This kind of thing happens again and again with chiasmus. In his 1966 book Papa Hemingway, A. E. Hotchner credits Ernest Hemingway with saying:

"Man can be destroyed but not defeated.
Man can be defeated but not destroyed."

When you stop to think about it, the saying captures two tragic realities. Throughout history, many courageous people have chosen to die at the hands of conquerors, tyrants, and persecutors rather than give up deeply-held beliefs. And, throughout history, even larger numbers of people have abandoned their beliefs so they wouldn't die at the hands of conquerors, tyrants, and persecutors. This sentiment is yet another example of this intriguing phenomenon: by reversing a profound truth, you create a statement that is equally true.

Here's one more example. An Italian proverb says:

"In man, mortal sins are venial;
in woman, venial sins are mortal."

There's never been a more profound statement of "the Double Standard," and the age-old tendency for men to trivialize their major sins and women to magnify their minor ones. The proverb says it all about how men and women judge themselves.

The kind of thing I've been describing here doesn't happen all the time with chiasmus. But it happens often enough that chiasmus must be regarded as more than just a figure of speech or rhetorical device. Sometimes, it may be seen as a method for communicating great truths, and doing so in very few words.

Chiasmus and Related Terms

Let me bring this discussion of chiasmus to an end by briefly describing a few other literary terms—often called "figures of repetition" by scholars—that are related to chiasmus. You may be familiar with some of them, others not, some are even more obscure than chiasmus. But knowing these terms will enhance your understanding and appreciation of chiasmus.

Inverted Parallelism. A popular synonym of chiasmus is "inverted parallelism." To understand it, you must first understand what parallelism means. The distinction between the two became clear to me early in my research, when I happened on a wonderful line from Robert Frost:

"Love is the irresistible desire
to be irresistibly desired."

Technically, this is an example of parallelism, a literary device where the same or similar phrases are repeated in successive clauses. In Frost's quote, "irresistible desire" shows up again as "irresistibly desired." There's a repetition, but no inversion.

As I looked at Frost's observation, it occurred to me that a slight modification could turn it into a nifty little example of chiasmus. So I modified it:

"Love is the irresistible desire
to be desired irresistibly."

In this version, there's both repetition and inversion, which makes it chiastic. As I examined my edited version, I felt proud of my efforts. Examining it, I actually preferred it to the original. I even got a little cocky, thinking, "I wonder why Frost didn't lay out the original thought in chiastic form?"

My bubble was burst a few months later when I discovered that somebody else beat me to the punch. At a 1968 poetry reading in New York City, the father of beat poet Allen Ginsberg—a New Jersey high school teacher and part-time poet named Louis Ginsberg—offered the identical chiastic version I had come up with to the folks in his audience. I'm sure he was inspired by the Frost quote, just as I was. I was initially disappointed, but that feeling was short-lived as I came to appreciate why chiasmus is often referred to as "inverted parallelism."

Sometimes, the elements of a parallel expression are set in sharp opposition to each other. When this happens, parallelism can also become an example of antithesis.

Antithesis. While it commonly means "in direct contrast or opposition," antithesis is another popular figure of speech and rhetorical device. In antithesis, there is a juxtaposition of contradictory or strongly contrasted ideas. Antithesis is sometimes even called "antithetical parallelism."

Most examples of antithesis are not chiastic:

"Charm strikes the sight,
but merit wins the soul." — Alexander Pope

"A wise son makes a glad father,
but a foolish son is a sorrow to his mother." — Proverbs 10:1

But many are:

"You can give without loving,
but you cannot love without giving." — Amy Carmichael

"In peace sons bury their fathers,
but in war fathers bury their sons." — Croesus (6th century B.C.)

In the 18th and 19th century, many writers used the expression antithesis to describe what we would now refer to as chiasmus. However, the two terms are not synonymous, even though they often share the qualities of repetition and contrast. Most examples of antithesis don't contain the reversal of words or ideas that is the distinguishing feature of chiasmus. When they do, it is more accurate to describe them as examples of chiasmus, as opposed to the more general term, antithesis.

Antimetabole. Another synonym of chiasmus is the tongue-twisting word, antimetabole (pronounced AN-tie-muh-TAB-oh-lee). The Oxford English Dictionary defines antimetabole as, "A figure in which the same words or ideas are repeated in inverse order." The word comes from a Greek word meaning, "to turn about in the opposite direction." While the word first appeared in English writings in the 1600's, it is now used rarely (and when it is, generally by classical scholars or students of rhetoric).

While antithesis is more general than chiasmus, antimetabole is more restrictive. In antimetabole, "the same words or ideas" must be repeated in reverse order. That's why these are examples of antimetabole:

"All for one, and one for all."

"Eat to live, not live to eat."

And these aren't:

"Here's champagne for our real friends
and real pain for our sham friends."

"I'd rather have a bottle in front of me
than a frontal lobotomy."

Merriam Webster's Encyclopedia of Literature

But all are examples of chiasmus. In fact, one could say that all examples of antimetabole are chiastic, but not all examples of chiasmus are antimetabolic. Quite appropriately, Merriam Webster's Encyclopedia of Literature describes antimetabole as "A type of chiasmus."

Antimetabole and its adjective, antimetabolic, are words that don't exactly roll off the tongue. For this reason alone, I can't imagine them ever catching on. And they really don't have to, since the slightly broader umbrella of chiasmus is able to include all examples of antimetabole under it. I prefer chiasmus—and chiastic—because they're easier to say and sound a whole lot better when people use them in speech.

Antistrophe. Another word that probably won't catch on—for the same reason we just discussed— is the next synonym of chiasmus: antistrophe. When used in rhetoric and grammar, antistrophe (pronounced ann-TIS-tro-fee) is defined by the OED as "the repetition of words in inverse order." The word appeared in English for the first time in 1625, and may be traced to a Greek word meaning, "a turning about." In 1728, Chamber's influential Cyclopedia included this entry:

"Antistrophe is a figure in grammar, whereby two terms or things, mutually dependent upon one another, are reciprocally converted. As if one should say, the master of the servant, and the servant of the master."

While the example cited by Chambers is clearly chiastic, the word antistrophe never took hold, even with scholars, because the word means something else in another setting. In Greek lyrical drama, antistrophe refers to the second part of the drama, in which the chorus reverses the movement of the first part (called the strophe).
The New Language of Politics

Contrapuntal Phrases. In his book, The New Language of Politics, political speech writer and language maven William Safire included an entry on "contrapuntal phrases," which he defined this way:

"A phrase-making technique that uses a repeated rhythm with an inversion or substitution of words for emphasis."

According to Safire, "Good speechwriters reach for contrapuntal phrases" in their efforts, adding that John F. Kennedy used the device more than any other president. Some of the contrapuntal phrases Safire cites are not chiastic—but are good examples of parallelism— like JFK's:

"While we shall negotiate freely,
we shall not negotiate freedom."

And some are clearly chiastic, like JFK's famous "Ask not what your country can do for you" line. While a good effort, Safire's expression didn't catch on. He first introduced it in 1968 and so far he's the only person I've seen use it. If there had been a void, Safire's expression might have filled it. But, as you've seen, there are a number of expressions that describe phrases in which there is a reversal of word order, the best of which is chiasmus.

In this section, we've taken a closer look at the word chiasmus and the phenomenon it describes. Considering what you knew when you first got here, you've actually become quite knowledgeable on the subject. You know the etymology of the word, and understand why all chiastic quotations can be "marked with an X." You realize that chiasmus can show up in interpersonal dialogue as well as in single quotations. You've learned that chiasmus is not only a fascinating figure of speech and rhetorical device, but also a marvelous method for communicating some of life's great truths. And, finally, you've been exposed to some synonyms of chiasmus and other related terms. If you have any questions or comments, feel free to contact Dr. Mardy.

drmardy.com copyright © 1999-2008 by Dr. Mardy Grothe

Chiastic

What is Chiasmus? (Part 1): drmardy.com
What is Chiasmus? (Part 1)
The Oxford English Dictionary

The Oxford English Dictionary (OED), the world's greatest dictionary, defines chiasmus as, "A grammatical figure by which the order of words in one of two of parallel clauses is inverted in the other."
The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms

The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms by Chris Baldick provides a more extensive description:

chiasmus [ky-AZ-mus] (plural -mi), a figure of speech by which the order of the terms in the first of two parallel clauses is reversed in the second. This may involve a repetition of the same words ("Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure" —Byron) or just a reversed parallel between two corresponding pairs of ideas … . The figure is especially common in 18th century English poetry, but is also found in prose of all periods. It is named after the Greek letter chi (x), indicating a "criss-cross" arrangement of terms. Adjective: chiastic.

As you can see, the proper adjective is chiastic and not "chiasmic" or "chiasmatic," as I've heard some say. Technically, the plural is chiasmi, (as with hippopotamus). However, saying chiasmi can come across as pretentious, so you'll want to do that rarely.

According to the OED, chiasmus made its first published appearance in English in 1871 when a British scholar named A. S. Wilkins wrote about an observation from Cicero:

"This is a good instance of the … figure called chiasmus … in which the order of words in the first clause is inverted in the second."

The word goes back to the ancient Greeks and their fascination with language and rhetoric. The "chi" comes from chi, the letter "X" in the Greek alphabet. The word itself comes from the Greek word khiasmos, meaning "crossing." Khiasmos, in turn, is derived from the Greek word khiazein, meaning "to mark with an X."

"To Mark With an X"

One of the most fascinating features of chiasmus is this "marking with an X" notion. Take Mae West's signature line, "It's not the men in my life, it's the life in my men." By laying out the two clauses parallel to each other, it's possible to draw two lines connecting the key words:

It's not the men in my life
X

it's the life in my men.

The lines intersect, creating an "X." This quote, and all the chiastic quotations you've seen so far on this site, can be "marked with an X." Here are two more examples:

Home is where the great are small
X

and the small are great

One should eat to live
X

not live to eat

If you're ever wondering whether a particular quote is chiastic, simply lay it out in this manner. If you can mark it with an X, it is. If you can't, it probably isn't.

The ABBA Method

One other interesting way to view chiastic quotes is the ABBA method. Let's go back to the Mae West quote. If you assign the letters A and B to the first appearance of the key words and A' and B' (read "A prime" and "B prime") to their second appearance, they follow what is referred to as an ABBA pattern:

A It's not the men
B in my life
B' it's the life
A' in my men

Here's how the other two quotes would be laid out:

A Home is where the great
B are small and
B' the small
A' are great


A One should eat to
B live, not
B' live
A' to eat

Chiasmus can be achieved by reversing more than two key words. This observation from the 18th century English writer, Charles Caleb Colton, is a good example:

"How strange it is that we of the present day are constantly praising
that past age which our fathers abused,
and as constantly abusing that present age,
which our children will praise."

Laid out schematically, it looks like this:

A How strange it is that we of the present day are constantly praising
B that past age
C which our fathers abused,
C' and as constantly abusing
B' that present age,
A' which our children will praise

Another good example comes from Genesis 9:6:

A Whoever sheds
B the blood
C of man
C' by man shall
B' his blood
A' be shed

Technically, it doesn't make any difference how many words are reversed. Some scholars believe that a chiastic structure can be found in much larger passages, including entire sections of the New Testament and other ancient sacred writings. But that's getting ahead of ourselves. Here, I just wanted to show you how the order of words—any number of words—in the first part of an expression can be reversed in the second.

Reversing More Than Just Words

Chiasmus doesn't just involve the reversal of single words, as you've seen in the quotations so far. Chiasmus can also be achieved by reversing complete phrases, individual letters of words, sounds of words, and occasionally even numbers. Let's examine each of these chiastic variations.

Phrase Reversal. Below are two quotes in which phrases rather than single words are reversed (I'll highlight the key elements being reversed to make them more apparent):

"Lust is what makes you keep wanting to do it,
even when you have no desire to be with each other.
Love is what makes you keep wanting to be with each other,
even when you have no desire to do it."

— Judith Viorst

"Some have an idea that the reason we in this country
discard things so readily is because we have so much.
The facts are exactly opposite—the reason
we have so much is simply because we discard things so readily."

— Alfred P. Sloan

Letter Reversal. Chiasmus can also be achieved by reversing the individual letters of words, as in this anonymous saying, which I recall hearing decades ago:

"A magician is a person who pulls rabbits out of hats.
An experimental psychologist is a person who pulls habits out of rats."

Without question, though, the most impressive example of chiasmus by letter reversal comes from a poem called "Sylvan Spring" by Alfred Kohn. I haven't yet received formal permission to reprint the poem, but it includes seven distinct letter reversals, including these:

* "soggy grounds" gets transposed to "groggy sounds"
* "a doe and fawn" hide from "their foe at dawn."
* on a "dreary lake" is found a "leery drake"
* robins gathering "reed for nest" later have a "need for rest"

I'm trying to get permission to reprint this chiastic tour de force, which I originally found in Willard Espy's 1989 book, The Word's Gotten Out. I wanted to include the poem in my Never Let a Fool Kiss You book, but the publisher of Espy's book—Clarkson N. Potter—wanted to charge me a hundred and fifty bucks to reprint the poem (of course, I passed!). I'm trying again, hoping I can convince them to let me bring long-overdue acclaim to a fabulous poem. (By the way, I've also been unsuccessful in tracking down the author of the poem. If you can help me locate the mysterious Alfred Kohn, I'd be grateful.).

Sound Reversal. Because it allows for the reversal of sounds, chiasmus has a special appeal to wordsmiths and others interested in the playful use of language:

"I find Paul appealing
and Peale appalling."

— Adlai Stevenson

"I'd rather have a bottle in front of me
Than a frontal lobotomy."

— Randy Hanzlick, title of song

And while we're on the subject of sounds, chiasmus especially lends itself to the reversal of homonyms:

"Why do we drive on a parkway
and park on a driveway?"

— Richard Lederer

"Here's champagne for our real friends
and real pain for our sham friends."

— Edwardian Toast
Samuel Taylor Coleridge

During my research, I discovered that the opening line of Coleridge's poem Xanadu—one of the most famous lines in the history of poetry—is an example of phonetic chiasmus. In the Collier's Encyclopedia entry on chiasmus, "In Xanadu, did Kubla Khan" is described as an example of chiasmus. I didn't see it at first, and wouldn't be surprised if you don't either. But as soon as I sounded it out, it became apparent. Let me lay it out schematically—and phonetically—for you:

In Xan-a-du
X

did Ku-bla-Khan


In Zann-uh-doo
X

did Koo-bluh-Kann

Number Reversal. Finally, chiasmus can achieve delightful results by simply reversing numbers:

"A lawyer starts life giving $500 worth of law for $5
and ends giving $5 worth for $500."

— Benjamin H. Brewster

"Errol Flynn died on a 70-foot boat with a 17-year-old girl.
Walter has always wanted to go that way,
but he's going to settle for a 17-footer with a 70-year-old.

— Betsy Maxwell Cronkite, wife of Walter Cronkite.

Okay, let's review. Chiasmus—a reversal in the order of words in otherwise parallel expressions—can also be achieved by reversing phrases, letters of words, sounds, and numbers. There's one other fascinating variation on the chiastic theme. Let's take a look at it now
.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

John Keats: Ode to a Nightingale

Web Concordance - Keats, the Odes of 1819
Ode to a Nightingale
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness -- That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvèd earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm south, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stainèd mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim -
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs, Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards. Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain -- To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music -- Do I wake or sleep?


9: Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron; thou shalt dash them in pieces like a potter's vessel. 9pasces eos in virga ferrea ut vas figuli conteres eos Ты поразишь их жезлом железным; сокрушишь их, как сосуд горшечника'. Ps.2:

Chess: “Hippocrene”
Peg’asos (Greek; Pegasus, Latin). The inspiration of poetry, or, according to Boiardo (Orlando Inamorato), the horse of the Muses. A poet speaks of his Peg’asus, as “My Pegasus will not go this morning,” meaning his brain will not work. “I am mounting Pegasus”—i.e. going to write poetry. “I am on my Pegasus,” i.e. engaged in writing verses. 1 Peg’asus or Peg’asos, according to classic mythology, was the winged horse on which Beller’ophon rode against the Chimæra. When the Muses contended with the daughters of Pi’eros, Hel’icon rose heavenward with delight; but Peg’asos gave it a kick, stopped its ascent, and brought out of the mountain the soul-inspiring waters of Hippocrene [Hip’-po-creen].
O for a beaker full of the warm south,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, KEATS: Ode to a Nightingale

Monday, July 21, 2008

Literatura

Esto está tomado de el blog 2everywakinghour"





In A Spacious Place: The Discarded Image
Sunday, July 20, 2008
The Discarded Image
I just finished reading CS Lewis's The Discarded Image. Very good read. I promised myself the happiness of typing out this quote from Chesterton, which Lewis uses to front his chapter on the "Longaevi", or the "faerie folk":

"There is something sinister about putting a leprechaun in the workhouse. The only solid comfort is that he certainly will not work."

But that is a bit of an incidental in this post, which is more about Lewis' "Short Course" (really, a series of lectures) on the Medieval "Model". By "model" he means how things looked from the perspective of the medieval author and thinker. He traces the thinking from the classical days up to how it manifested itself in the medieval and Renaissance literature. Maybe putting the leprechaun in the workhouse is a bit similar by analogy to the common fallacy Lewis describes and tries to get us past in the book -- the fallacy is taking some image or expression of times past and trying to understand it strictly in terms of our modern sensibility and intellectual context. This fallacy is almost the mark of ignorance -- parochialism, defined as "narrowly restricted in scope or outlook; provincial" -- and we are all subject to it, but ought to try and acknowledge it and at least attempt to get beyond it. I'm preaching a bit here, but Lewis does not preach in this book, though he does try to make a point about the advantages of the more respectful approach -- more about that later. The bulk of The Discarded Image deals in a scholarly, meticulous fashion with the details and big picture of the medieval "Model", so much like a cathedral with the abundance of detail and the soaring vision. With the background given in this book, it is much easier to understand allusions and themes in Chaucer, Milton and Spenser, among others, which simply pass by our radar without the understanding of the context which Lewis gives.

As he writes:

Hence to look out on the night sky with modern eyes is like looking out over a sea that fades away into mist, or looking about one in a trackless forest--trees forever and no horizon. To look up at the towering medieval universe is much more like looking at a great building. The "space" of modern astronomy may arouse terror, or bewilderment or vague reverie; the spheres of the old present us with an object in which the mind can rest, overwhelming in its greatness but satisfying in its harmony. That is the sense in which our universe is romantic, and theirs was classical.

I requested the book because of the Seven Liberal Arts couplet and so found that chapter the most directly interesting to me, though the section on the medieval universe was also absorbing. Here's a bit on the subject of "Grammar" -- he states that Grammar meant Latin grammar, of course, but:


"While Grammar was thus restricted to a single tongue, in another way it sometimes extended far beyond the realm it claims today. It had done so for centures. Quintilian suggests literatura as the proper translation of Greek grammatike, and literatura, though it does not mean "literature", included a good deal more than literacy. It included all that is required for "making up' a 'set book'; syntax, etymology, prosody, and the explanation of allusions. Isidore makes even history a department of Grammar. He would have described the book I am now writing as a book of Grammar. Scholarship is perhaps our nearest equivalent.

In popular usage Grammatica or Grammaria slid into the vague sense of learning in general; and since learning is usually an object both of respect and suspicion to the masses, grammar, in the form grammary comes to mean magic. Thus in the ballad of King Estmere, 'My mother was a western woman learned in grammarye.' And from grammary, by a familiar sound-change, comes glamour --- a word whose associations with grammar and even with magic have now been annihilated by the beauty-specialists."


As for Dialectic:

"Dialectic in the couplet 'teaches words'; an obscure saying. What is really meant is that, having learned from grammar how to talk, we must learn from Dialectic how to talk sense, to argue, to prove and disprove. .... Everyone who has tried to teach mere Logic knows how difficult it is, especially with an intelligent pupil, to avoid raising questions which force us into metaphysics."



A bit about Rhetoric:

"Chaucer's apostrophe to 'Gaufred, dere mayster souverain; has kept alive the memory of Geoffrey de Vinsauf who...wrote the Nova Poetria, a work whose value lies in its extreme naivety.

He divides "Ordo" (which some call Dispositio) into two kinds, Natural and Artificial. The Nature follows the King of Hearts' advice by beginning at the beginning. The Artificial is of three kinds. You ccan begin at the end (as in the Oedipus Rex or a play by Ibsen); or in the middle (like Virgil and Spenser); or with a Sententia or Exemplum. Chaucer begins with a Sententia or maxim in the Parlement, the Hous of Fame, the Prologue to the Legen, the Legend of Phillis and the Prioress's Tale. I cannot remember that he ever begins with an Exemplum, but no one needs to be reminded how frequent they are in his work...

And I like this section:

Here Geoffrey is dealing with a real problem, which we have all faced though few of us would pose it so bluntly. The Natural Order will not always serve. And the plan of beginning with a Sententia, or something like it, is still an unlaid ghost. It 'walks' in that fatal opening paragraph with which schoolboys are apparently taught to begin their essays.

On Amplificatio he is almost embarrassing. He calls the various method of 'amplifying' you piece, quite frankly, morae (delays); as if the art of literature consisted in learning how to say much when you have little to say. That, I suspect, was how he really regarded it. But this means not that the morae he recommends are all necessarily bad but that he misunderstands -- I do not profess to understand it fully myself -- their real function.

There is a bit more about Geoffrey de Vinsauf here, and here.

Personally, I wonder whether "delays" as an artifice weren't a matter of pacing.... of suiting the delivery to the occasion. I see that mora is a linguistic and metric term, and I don't see why it shouldn't extend out to the actual syntax and substance when the occasion calls for it.

Elsewhere Lewis writes (in The Influence of the Model, the last chapter):

Rhetoric recommended morae -- delays or padding. Does all this science and 'story' come in simply longius ut sit opus, 'that the work may be longer'? But this perhaps overlooks that fact that Rhetoric explains the formal, not the material, characteristic. That is, it may tell you to digress; not what to put into your digressions. It may approve Common Places; it can hardly decide what shall achieve the status of a Common Place.

OK, I had better stop now because I keep finding more things to quote. Anyway, the book was interesting in more ways than I can find time to describe here.

I thought the examples of morae and sententiae brought up to today's schoolboy essays had applicability to some of the criticisms of the SAT essays.

Thursday, July 10, 2008

WALL-E

Una verdadera joya estética - lanacion.com


Una verdadera joya estética







FOTO

Los geniales artistas de Pixar redoblan la apuesta con un film audaz y virtuosoLas desventuras de un robot chatarrero de ojos tristes, en un mundo arrasado por la contaminación


WALL-E (Estados Unidos/2008). Guión y dirección:
Andrew Stanton. Música: Thomas Newman. Edición: Stephen Schaffer.
Diseño de producción: Ralph Eggleston. Producción animada de Pixar
Animation Studios, presentada por Walt Disney Company Argentina en
versión original subtitulada o doblada al castellano. Duración: 98
minutos. Apta para todo público. Previamente se proyecta el
cortometraje Presto (5 minutos).
Nuestra opinión: excelente



Con cada nueva película que realizan, los geniales artistas de Pixar
redoblan la apuesta por el riesgo y la experimentación. Sus películas
son cada vez más ambiciosas desde lo temático, más virtuosas desde lo
narrativo, más espectaculares desde lo visual y, en medio de semejante
búsqueda, el resultado final no se resiente en lo más mínimo. Estos
creadores visionarios en el campo de la animación logran como ningunos
otros combinar la solvencia de un producto pensado para el
entretenimiento masivo con la inteligencia de una reflexión sociológica
bastante provocativa y un enorme lirismo para, en definitiva, llegar
con igual eficacia a grandes y chicos.



Si alguien le contara al padre de un niño pequeño que los dos protagonistas de WALL-E
prácticamente no hablan en toda la historia y que en los primeros 40
minutos del film casi no hay diálogos ni aparece un humano (sólo el
robot chatarrero del título y una única "mascota", que es... ¡una
cucaracha!), ese adulto -con toda razón- dudaría bastante antes de
llevar a su hijo al cine. Pero hay que advertir que esa primera mitad
del film de Andrew Stanton no sólo hace gala de una gran audacia
formal, sino que resulta una verdadera joya estética y dramática en su
descripción de un planeta Tierra, que, en pleno siglo XXIX, se ha
convertido en una viva imagen del apocalipsis: un mundo arrasado por la
contaminación en el que la gente ha sido reemplazada por gigantescas
montañas de basura.


La segunda mitad resulta algo (sólo un poco) más convencional, pero
en otro terreno alcanza cimas poéticas y románticas infrecuentes en el
cine de animación familiar. WALL-E conocerá el romance gracias a una vieja copia en video del clásico Hello, Dolly!
(sí, hay hasta un homenaje al cine musical) y luego se enamorará de
Eva, una robot enviada por los humanos -que se han transformado en
obesos que subsisten completamente alienados e incomunicados en
gigantescas naves, mezcla de cruceros con shoppings, que deambulan por
el espacio exterior- en busca de algún vestigio de vida que permita un
eventual regreso a la Tierra.


Sin obviedades

Con el asesoramiento de Roger Deakins, uno de los más talentosos
directores de fotografía del cine contemporáneo, y con un guión propio
que trabaja con inteligencia y sin obviedades los distintos matices e
implicancias de su historia (desde la denuncia de corte ecologista
hasta la alegoría religiosa, pasando por los abusos de las
corporaciones o el retrato desencantado y al mismo tiempo con cierto
sesgo esperanzador sobre el devenir de la humanidad), el director de Buscando a Nemo construye algo así como la 2001, odisea del espacio
de las películas animadas. Y la referencia al influyente film de
Stanley Kubrick no es antojadiza, ya que aquí los homenajes son varios
y concretos, a tal punto que hasta en la banda sonora se confunden
algunos acordes de la introducción de Así habló Zarathustra , de Richard Strauss. Si algo faltaba para que el disfrute de WALL-E fuese completo, antes de la película se proyecta Presto
, el corto que cada año propone Pixar como complemento de su nuevo
largometraje. Las desventuras de un mago durante una caótica función
por el enojo de su famélico conejo constituyen otro prodigio tanto
desde lo visual como desde lo narrativo. Los dos grandes pilares de una
factoría que no deja de sorprender y que nunca se termina de admirar.



Diego Batlle