Hace poco, creo que en la cena con mi generación de LRI, estábamos recordando materias y maestros. Al hablar de las clases de Literatura: Mexicana, Latinoamericana y Mundial me acordé de los trabajos, las exposiciones e incluso de las bromas de clase. Aunque creo que fue demasiada literatura para una carrera, me fue bien y realmente aprendí, pero descubrí que no me gusta leer obligatoriamente.
Para Literatura Mundial, la maestra nos asignó por parejas una obra para leer y exponer. Como yo estaba fuera de a ciudad, me tocó el libro que sobró junto con Marce V: The Ballad of the Sad Café de Carson McCullers. Realmente no tenía idea de qué se trataba, pero compré el libro y lo leí. Me encantó la historia del extraño triángulo amoroso, medio triste pero hermosamente escrito. Creo que Marce y yo fuimos de las pocas suertudas que expusimos una obra que nos gustó, hasta nos esmeramos en la presentación y nos fue muy bien.
Así que les dejo un fragmento del libro que me gusta, aunque no quiero creer 100% en lo que implica. En él, la autora, con el trasfondo de su vida bastante trágica (¿qué escritora o poetisa no la tiene? sigo preguntándome eso...), define el amor.
First of all, love is a joint experience between two persons- but the fact that it is a joint experience does not mean that it is a similar experience to the two people involved. There are the lover and the beloved, but these two come from different countries. Often the beloved is only a stimulus for all the stored-up love which has lain quiet within the lover for a long time hitherto. And somehow every lover knows this. He feels in his soul that his love is a solitary thing. He comes to know a new, strange loneliness and it is this knowledge which makes him suffer. So there is only one thing for the lover to do. He must house his love within himself as best he can; he must create for himself a whole new inward world—a world intense and strange, complete in himself. Let it be added here that this lover about whom we speak need not necessarily be a young man saving for a wedding ring—this lover can be man, woman, child, or indeed any human creature on this earth.
Now, the beloved can also be of any description. The most outlandish people can be the stimulus for love. A man may be a doddering great-grandfather and still love only a strange girl he saw in the streets of Cheehaw one afternoon two decades past. The preacher may love a fallen woman. The beloved may be treacherous, greasy-headed, and given to evil habits. Yes, and the lover may see this as clearly as anyone else—but that does not affect the evolution of his love one whit. A most mediocre person can be the object of a love which is wild, extravagant, and beautiful as the poison lilies of the swamp. A good man may be the stimulus for a love both violent and debased, or a jabbering madman may bring about in the soul of someone a tender and simple idyll. Therefore, the value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself.
It is for this reason that most of us would rather love than be loved. Almost everyone wants to be the lover. And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many. The beloved fears and hates the lover, and with the best of reasons. For the lover is forever trying to strip bare his beloved. The lover craves any possible relation with the beloved, even if this experience can cause him only pain. (McCullers, 1941:27-27)
Para Literatura Mundial, la maestra nos asignó por parejas una obra para leer y exponer. Como yo estaba fuera de a ciudad, me tocó el libro que sobró junto con Marce V: The Ballad of the Sad Café de Carson McCullers. Realmente no tenía idea de qué se trataba, pero compré el libro y lo leí. Me encantó la historia del extraño triángulo amoroso, medio triste pero hermosamente escrito. Creo que Marce y yo fuimos de las pocas suertudas que expusimos una obra que nos gustó, hasta nos esmeramos en la presentación y nos fue muy bien.
Así que les dejo un fragmento del libro que me gusta, aunque no quiero creer 100% en lo que implica. En él, la autora, con el trasfondo de su vida bastante trágica (¿qué escritora o poetisa no la tiene? sigo preguntándome eso...), define el amor.
First of all, love is a joint experience between two persons- but the fact that it is a joint experience does not mean that it is a similar experience to the two people involved. There are the lover and the beloved, but these two come from different countries. Often the beloved is only a stimulus for all the stored-up love which has lain quiet within the lover for a long time hitherto. And somehow every lover knows this. He feels in his soul that his love is a solitary thing. He comes to know a new, strange loneliness and it is this knowledge which makes him suffer. So there is only one thing for the lover to do. He must house his love within himself as best he can; he must create for himself a whole new inward world—a world intense and strange, complete in himself. Let it be added here that this lover about whom we speak need not necessarily be a young man saving for a wedding ring—this lover can be man, woman, child, or indeed any human creature on this earth.
Now, the beloved can also be of any description. The most outlandish people can be the stimulus for love. A man may be a doddering great-grandfather and still love only a strange girl he saw in the streets of Cheehaw one afternoon two decades past. The preacher may love a fallen woman. The beloved may be treacherous, greasy-headed, and given to evil habits. Yes, and the lover may see this as clearly as anyone else—but that does not affect the evolution of his love one whit. A most mediocre person can be the object of a love which is wild, extravagant, and beautiful as the poison lilies of the swamp. A good man may be the stimulus for a love both violent and debased, or a jabbering madman may bring about in the soul of someone a tender and simple idyll. Therefore, the value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself.
It is for this reason that most of us would rather love than be loved. Almost everyone wants to be the lover. And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many. The beloved fears and hates the lover, and with the best of reasons. For the lover is forever trying to strip bare his beloved. The lover craves any possible relation with the beloved, even if this experience can cause him only pain. (McCullers, 1941:27-27)
