LEZAMIANS (FROM OPPIANO LICÁRIO)
The house, now without the inhabitants who had left like incubi at dawn, looked like a spotlight on the sea, its whiteness refracted, split, it had something of an empty tax office, an underwater grotto...............zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...............It's the house or the forest where the tip of the umbrella holds the compass magnet. It's the supernatural power of ozone, of the magnetic wind in the desert, of the deer that reaches the cliff zzzzzzzzzzzzz.............But at the same time, the sound of the water being interrupted showed the birth of the spirals, the molluscoidal mantle assumed by the sun over the hills. The water basin had smoke and sound; these characters were enough for the origin of worlds. The house was becoming transparent; he believed that the water, rising through the sand, reached the whitewashed walls, giving them irregular brushstrokes, stains, clouds. The clouds, detached inside the house, managed to make it float, favoring its levitation. He now felt the house weightless; the water penetrated its foundation and moved it like an ark. The house now stood above the waves, and the lunar power dictated the laws of its movements. All the houses were one house, crystalzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
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ResponderExcluirSometimes he took pleasure in presenting himself as a deceiver, a fairground magician, when he was a truth-teller, a tempter, and a tribal sorcerer. A truth-teller because of the gravitational pull of the unknown that had arrived. He understood why, after having seen some minstrels achieve miracles, isolate themselves in towers to decipher distant writings, declaim with the dialectical cynicism of a mole: everything has its trickery, everything is a game. Faced with so many people willing to believe them from the start, Licario made them blush by announcing: Tell the truth, you are in a state of grace, there is no game at all. The minstrels were frightened and changed markets. In today's world, minstrels prefer to declare themselves liars rather than glimpse their state of grace. They prefer to manifest impossible deception rather than the possibility of grace. A Greek would have done the exact opposite; he would have chosen the proton pseudos, the first lie, to a daemon that ceased to be good company, to become an enemy in presence and a friend in essence.
Lezama Lima from OPPIANO LICARIO
ExcluirPost script
ResponderExcluirMorellian Apocrypha (8)
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Chapter 95b
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Of all Morelli's notes, Perico preferred this one ("For a day, the old man rose poetic," he said):
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Lakes and seas are made of Horatii and Mages; but I am speaking to you of the open ocean. How did von Balthasar know what was going to happen to my work, even before it was published?
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Certainly, even the spirit of the beholder, which enters into mysterious harmony with the spirit of the beheld, cannot but influence, as the spirit of the individual or of the age (or even as the evil spirit of the latter), the operative life of beauty; Works of art can die when they are the target of too many soulless gazes (…) But this is nothing more than a minor illness, which can be cured by purifying the heart, bringing back to the surface what had been buried.
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(Hans Urs von Balthasar, Gloria. A Theological Aesthetic)
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Lakes and seas are made of Horatii and Mages; I am speaking of the immense ocean!
https://teoriadelentusiasmo.blogspot.com/2011/06/apocrifas-morellianas-8_4740.html
Excluirmarioingenito51@yahoo.com.ar July 6, 2011, 2:04 PM
ExcluirPlease excuse this digression and even opacity, especially preceding words filled with hieratic virtue, but it happens that one is afraid to confront what you propose and therefore incurs in loopholes like this:
More than anything, I was attracted to your analogies between CORTÁZAR and CASTANEDA (perhaps not explicit, but certainly insinuated) and your use of Castaneda-esque elements to reinforce access to HOPPSCOE and its AUTHOR. We too, lightly and vaguely, have been suggesting analogies between CORTÁZAR, BORGES, CASTANEDA, and a bit of CARLOS FUENTES (because of Borgesian imminence and Castaneda's chacmol). Therefore, I now dare to ask you to elaborate on this trivial consideration: It is almost universally qualified to consider BORGES the PATRON SAINT OF THE INTERNET and its DEMIURGE; some say that the INTERNET emerged from the labyrinths and meanders of BORGES, and others from a particular syntagm of THE ALEPH.
Borges's THE ETHNOGRAPHER also has a relationship with THE TEACHINGS OF DON JUAN in which it's not easy to determine what the HYPOTEXT is (I'm not referring to the logical or chronological points of view, but to the ones that really matter). Well, there's much more to it, and you'd probably know better.
ExcluirI transcribe here a consideration that I have posted in the forum tales of eternity about the fact that Castaneda foresaw and wanted a continuation in this 5th book of the symphonic business and the analogical parallelism with Cortázar, that although he has not made anything explicit about it, there are plenty of connotations that he was one with the FOAL that GALLOPS from PATMOS to GOTTINGA and there is, at least one from BORGES as proof of recognition that ALL HIS STAFF had been taken by the one who did what he could never do: intertwine such everyday and convincing realities with the PORES through which ETERNITY bursts in (Borges renamed as PORES, in the case of Cortázar, what since Yeats, Joyce, Proust and Cortázar had been called epiphanies, fissures, interstices, minutes liberated from time, and that Borges himself called cracks) Thus, also, Cortázar points to the 5th book that has emanated from Borges.
Consequently, the only truly valid method to corroborate my assertions is to carry out an enthusiastic reading.
ResponderExcluirPost script
ResponderExcluirzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzan immense transfigurative possibilityzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzAlways the seal of its survival. Pouring our faith into the other, that faith we only have shattered, wandering, or conjunctive in ourselves, is a participation in the Word, for we can only touch a word at its center through a hypertelic, monstrous faith in the metamorphoses of the reader through secularityzzzzzzzzz
ResponderExcluirLezama Lima OPPIANO LICÁRIO
Licario arrived at Cathedral Square. He had spent the day wandering through bookstores and libraries, and when night fell, he began to tumble aimlessly until he reached the magic square of the foundation. Let us rejoice that it is a square, not the shell of a fountain or the tail of a circle burning in the air. The main house and three houses opposite it, enclosing the square. But his joy was even greater; inside the square, there was something like a choir at midnight. In one of those palaces, cemented by the rudeness of its owners, who were no longer its inhabitants, the barretinas were beginning to give way to their former beautiful arcades, joyful once again as they received the coldness of the waning moon. The masons, as at medieval festivals, were more aware of this jubilee than the timidity of the excited choir, unable to break into a festive mood, while the monks of the Cathedral extended their banal hypnosis to the farthest reaches, unaware of what was happening there. The bells were not rung, nor were they distributed among the choir, adding to the silence the senseless scarcity, the wine that does not intoxicate, and the perfumed bread. The slenderness of the columns, like the glory of a body in the sea, once again proclaimed the nobility of their original space.
ResponderExcluirLezama Lima OPPIANO LICÁRIO
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzIt's been a while since my laughter had such a jaw-opening, it's what you call the triumph of the Word, words had never made me laugh zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
ResponderExcluir