A gift from a special woman: Cèlia, author of the blog "Transparència", in a special date: 2008's Catalonia day.
Xmas 2008 present:
Amazing image and words from Carme Rosanas, author of the blog "Col·lecció de moments".
Symbelmine award:
A magic present from Cèlia, author of the blog "Transparència".
The Internet. What a great invention. A friend tells me where to find the book, an order… and in a couple of days I have the precious thing in my hands (the book, not the friend).
Todays post reminds me of Ramon. He is actor and director, a good friend and my cleverest theatre teacher. Although sometimes I’ve had the pleasure of seeing him on TNC stage, his luck in the theatre world has not been as big as I think his talent deserves. Show business is as random as ungrateful.
Ramon has read lots of theatre scripts. He loves american authors like Tennessee Williams, Lillian Hellman or William Inge. He says they have the cleverness to tell ‘thick’ stories -in the emotional meaning of the word- in a subtle and light way, making things happen before you eyes without even noticing… and all of a sudden you realize your stomach is all in a knot and you won’t get rid of that feeling easily. He got me first engaged in the subject when I translated Picnic for him and he directed us afterwards. More translations followed, three pieces by Inge and one by Hellman (fantastic The children’s hour, adapted for the film with the same title).
That’s why I can say I agree with Ramon. And when I finished The dying animal I had the same feeling, some kind of emotional Stendhal Syndrome. The book had hit so many sore spots I was unable to say which one hurted more deeply. To put it clear, I liked it a lot. I will attempt to bring a little structure to my reasons:
The writing: Short, categorical sentences are used, but they’re soft at the same time. Can you be poetic using plain words? Sure. It’s a simple (well, not at all simple) matter of style. And Philip Roth succeeds.
Men: We could debate this subject for hours, but men -fortunately!- are not the same as women, neither physically nor in the brain. Let’s accept this from the beginning and be happier, instead of encouraging male chauvinism and feminism which simply shouldn’t exist, as equality as human beings should be taken for granted. The thing is that David Kepesh, the main character, speaks from his masculine point of view, clearly, sometimes in a hard way, without hypocrisy; you may agree or not with his attitudes, but this counterpoint to metrosexuality is surprisingly rewarding.
Women: Anthropology has its rules. The role of women in David’s life is so familiar that it does not surprise not even shock; he sometimes gives his partial oppinion about them, but also describes how the women in his social environment have lived their lifes, and he does it in an accurate, delicate way. He loves women, searches them, wants them to help him run away from what will chase him sooner or later; from what will find him, like all of us, alone.
Tenderness: In the end there’s a deep solitude, the absolute lack of warmth; the body is brave when it doesn’t need to pay attention to time passing. Sincerity remains, but the need has changed. Tenderness appears when seeing that the strong ones can be very weak, and men very childish, and women not girls anymore, sometimes… am I speaking on behalf of Mrs. anthropology now? Maybe.
The subjects: Politics, culture, love affaires, fear, sex, parents and sons, friends, health… I would rather say “life”. From one scene to another, using brilliant invisible transitions, you end up fanning yourself without knowing how you opened the fan.
My friend Japuso and el veí de dalt have already seen Elegy. They say it’s a good film and I trust their good taste, so I’ll see it as well, even though I guess it won’t impress me the way the book has.
It’s said that you always must reach a conclusion. To structure the emotions soup has been difficult, but conclusion is clear: All of us have been, or are, and definitely will be, dying animals.
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May
24
' '
Cary Grant: The biography, by Marc Eliot: To paint a life. 
This day in History:
Have I ever said that I dislike historical novels? It’s a very personal feature linked to the frustration of not having lived in the past nor being able to live in the future: I’m fed up with the tiny age range we are given to know facts first hand. I’d like to be able to admire the technological and scientific advances that will take place in the future as much as not to depend on what others (mainly the winners or, as a friend says, those who shout louder) have written about the past. Many historic facts we assume as Holy word are probably false. That’s why, when reading a historical novel, if I find something like: “Henry VIII scratched his beard calmly with one hand while bringing the other one close to his eyes to admire the rubied ring he was wearing and with a bitter smile said: “Go and decapitate Ann”", I can never manage to get engaged in the plot. I can’t help thinking that things were surely not like that, and therefore fantasy applied to real facts is not the least interesting for me. I’ll make an exception: Ken Follett’s The pillars of the earth, but must also admit I have not read part two not to spoil the good memory of the first one, which is more than probable.
The only thing I allow myself to read about past facts are history books that look fairly impartial (call it innocence!), and biographies. I love biographies. Of course you must also look for neutral writers, but nowadays quite good biographies can be found. And that of today’s review is one of them. Complete, realistic, quite neutral (uses to expound several possibilities to explain a fact), clear and unwilling to hide dark parts. In short: not suitable for mythomaniacs.
Since I cannot read all the biographies I find, I choose them by inspiration of the attraction I feel towards the described character. I had always thought Cary Grant was a great actor. I don’t believe that British actor’s good reputation is a tall tale; in fact I like many of them especially. And we can say Cary belonged to the old school: he began as acrobat in a travelling troupe in his homeland and still as an acrobat he flied to the States. It’s well known that he always cared to have a charming and elegant look, but perhaps he would not gone far in his career had Hitchcock not discovered that his eyes could transmit the darkness that also accompanied him in his whole life, from a childhood marked by a lost mother to whom he was always willing to come back.
The book gave me surprises in the shape of magnificent details that I didn’t know. Moreover, the author gives us a perfect vision of the cinema’s world in those years, from the big studies and their business to the parties beautiful people gave. Ambition, the courage to stay alone with his own decisions, homosexuality, immaturity, vanity… are many of the topics Marc Eliot deals with as far as this man is concerned, a man complex enough to be one of howard Hughes’ personal friends and at the same time so insecure that simply could not breathe out of his character.
Above all, there’s the feeling that Archibald Alexander Leach’s life was always like his first movies: in black and white. Cary Grant put in his hands the paint and the brush. And I still think he used them wonderfully.
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May
18
' '
A dues llengües i quatre mans, by Progula: Wilt with “botifarra”.
This day in History:
It was my biannual visit to the hairdresser’s. While I was waiting, they handed me a supposed to be glamourous magazine for fashionable women. These publications and I have never got on well. And the bloody bitch seemed to know: it definitely was overweight, even considering its thirty hundred pages: I had it on my thighs and they were beginning to go to sleep!. I counterattacked using the table under the mirror as a stand. The Laura who was staring at me had a funny wet look, but for once was determined to win the battle: I would leaf through it all, from beginning to end. And so I did. For some endless minutes an entire world passed before my eyes: perfums, supermodels, luxurious hotels, impossible but apparently very fashionable and expensive dresses, handbags, jewellery, shoes, cosmetics, perfumes, supermodels, luxurious hotels, impossible but apparently very fashionable and expensive dresses…I had never felt attacked by full-color images to such aggressive levels. Occasionally, an isolated accessory interview intended to hide the evil aim of the magazine: stun skirted staff so deeply that they had no choice but to buy something. Although perhaps the nature of that something was not clear at all. I came to think that maybe these magazines are supported by aspirin factories, because I turned the last page needing to swallow a whole tube of them.
The truth is that for the first time in my life, I had a complete look at one of those magazines. A milestone that, on the other hand, had the only consequence of making the arrival of my tiny restless hairdresser more desirable, waving a pair of scissors and a stylish comb in his ready-for-the-exorcism look.
But the man didn’t turn up, and then I remembered I was carrying in my bag a book I had purchased a while ago: A dues llengües i quatre mans (”Two-languaged and four-handed”). Yes, -virile- members of Progula: whithout knowing, I gave you a huge advantage, because in my zonked-by-commercials state of mind, I just began to read and started to feel better. Armies of hard penises and hungry vaginas surrounded me flowing happily out of the pages, all of them wrapped in such excessive humour that I couldn’t help bursting out laughing. The poor hairdresser did not understand my hatred glance when he finally appeared, thus preventing me from reading more.
Since that day, the book and I had a voracious sexual relationship, waiting for the slightest occasion for me to get it out of the bag and, alone at last, find eachother overwhelming in pleasure. I held it in my hands and it remained totally open and eager to give me everything: excellent bibliophilic sessions worthy of an episode of the work itself.
As for the book’s weaknesses -everything must be said- I have to mention some misspelling (or typographical errors) and a situation which I found a little recurrent, as it comes back in two stories. I will not say which one it is, not to disclose the plot. And as a curiosity, there is an emotion that many of the characters share: the thirst for revenge, which makes room for black humour in a handful of scenes.
There are many things I have liked of this book. Even the alternative use of Catalan and Spanish is virtually nil for us bilingual readers and it sometimes helps following the tales. The authors have a witty way of linking stories and characters, some of whom have carefully as well as succesfully chosen names.
Of course it is not a book for readers of all ages, not even for all adult readers. I bet more than a few people would take offence on behalf of their sensitivities, beliefs or convictions. I think that you always, but even more in this case, ought to read without any inhibitions or pretended innocence, ready to laugh at everything and everyone. I had sometimes the same mindless-fun feeling I had when reading Wilt, by Tom Sharpe, at 18. But this time, with a catalan touch. A Wilt… with beans and a gorgeous “botifarra”.
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Apr
27
' '
Elected Elegy.
This day in History:
St George’s day was near and I could say media pressure had influenced me, but that’s simply no excuse. The real thing is I liked My life without me, by Isabel Coixet. Its melodrama features did not become a damp patch on the script. It has sad and joyful, tender and hard moments, just like the life we live and the one that slips away. That’s why I read the comments about Isabel’s last film, Elegy. I found the leading actress frightening (Pe’s expressivity is an interesting subject we’ll discuss some other day), but on the other side I found it interesting to learn that the film is based on a novel by Philip Roth. I had read none of Roth’s novels and thought it was a good chance to start. Moreover, there were quite positive comments about the novel. Its title in Spanish is El animal moribundo. At that time I didn’t know what the title in English was.
Don’t know if I’ll finally make my mind up and see the film, but I doubtlessly wanted to read the book, so I went to a shopping center which I could say is like a ship with Faulty New Awful Crew. You can easily imagine my state of excitement walking along endless rows of books which longed to be read. I bought a nice one about horses for a present and went to a counter where a young boy was supposed to be helping the clients. I guess he was deeply proud of his dark curly hair, as it was all that could be seen of him in his hanging-down-head position. Of course there’s also the possibility that lower parts of that shop counters are absolutely fascinating. I’ll tell you if I ever work there. Anyway, I asked in a loud clear voice:
- “Please, I’m looking for the novel by Philip Roth in which the last film by Isabel…”
He wouldn’t let me finish. With amazing abbility and without even changing position, -and of course with hanging down head- he stretched his arm towards the shelf near him (an elastic arm perhaps?) and he produced a novel by Roth that in its spanish version was titled Elegy (yup, in English). I looked at the first page in order to see the original title: Everyman.
The young boy was still pondering whether the floor was clean enough.
- “Ahem!” -I tried to catch his attention.- “Oh well, the thing is, I thought the novel was called El animal moribundo.”
- “Is this one.”
- “Are you sure? Funny thing changing its name, isn’t it? In fact, Elegy is the name of the film, but not that of the nov…”
- “Is this one.” This time he raised his head, for it was the only way for me to appreciate his tired sight in all his sneering-at power.
I had the strong temptation of asking him what the worst shop in the world was, just to see if he answered “Is this one” as well, but I didn’t succumb to it. I took the book between my thumb and my finger, the way we take filthy objects, with the nasty feeling of having been fooled. But it was plain for me to see the the boy was not going to be of any help.
About to make a complete fool of myself, as I was close to the cash desk, I went up to the books floor again and looked for somebody cleverer or, at least, more charitable. A friendly girl told me as politely as possible that the book I had in my hands was not the one I was looking for.
Feeling highly self-confident, I got out of the shop and asked for the novel in another one where books are always full of joy. They wanted me to buy Elegy as well.
Back in the street, I was astonished and breathless. You could call it conspiration. I left some room for doubt and at home I got stuck on the chair in front of my PC display and searching the web. There I found, of course, Roth’s bibliography. Here’s the link, if you feel like having a look. And here are the two titles it’s all about:
The Dying Animal (2001)
Everyman (2006)
The novel I’m looking for, The dying animal, is very likely sold out. If some of you have the intention of buying it, don’t let anybody fool you. Wait until people stop talking about the film. I will. Once I’ve finished the book, I’ll tell you my impressions. Maybe I’ll raise the conclusion that it’s no worth me struggling to find it.
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Apr
6
' '
Un burka por amor, by Reyes Monforte: Sophisticated masochism.
This day in History:
The first time I saw this book I found it appealing but didn’t buy it. I did next time and must say it was a good deal and a better reading. Let’s be realistic: you won’t find a bit of skill or poetry in its style, the kind Ruiz Zafón has got us used to. But the book becomes priceless if you see it as an historical witness. Bar from the countless times you’ll be about to make the main character an injury regarding the way she treats the only thing that is worth to preserve (i.e: one’s life), Un burka por amor (A burka for love) is a cruel as well as realistic account which leads us through the hard life of women (well, not only women) in Afghanistan.
On basis of this book, you could make many judicious statements about difficult childhoods, non-overcome adolescences, family relationships, massochism dressed in love and all that stuff. I just recommend it to all of you, specially to women who open their mouths instinctively every morning as they put on their make up, just the way I do, while far away other women are bleeding to death after a difficult childbirth without any surgery. Because when women in Afghanistan need medical treatment they are allowed to be touched only by other women, but there are not female doctors because studying is banned for women. Paradox and cruelty at the service of law.
I won’t make any summaries. Just read the book. You must not be afraid of knowing what’s going on in the world. Although it certainly looks like the darker nightmare in too many occasions.
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