May 2012
18 posts
April 2012
11 posts
“That’s the way the stomach rumbles
That’s the way the bee bumbles
That’s the way the needle pricks
That’s the way the glue sticks
That’s the way the potato mashes
That’s the way the pan flashes
That’s the way the market crashes
That’s the way the whip lashes
That’s the way the teeth knashes
That’s the way the gravy stains
That’s the way the moon wanes” —Tom Waits, “That’s the way”
That’s the way the bee bumbles
That’s the way the needle pricks
That’s the way the glue sticks
That’s the way the potato mashes
That’s the way the pan flashes
That’s the way the market crashes
That’s the way the whip lashes
That’s the way the teeth knashes
That’s the way the gravy stains
That’s the way the moon wanes” —Tom Waits, “That’s the way”
Efectos morales de una vasectomía fallida
Tienes 18 años y estás a punto de comenzar tu carrera universitaria. Eres el hijo menor de tres. Te enteras por una indiscreción que tu padre se hizo la vasectomía un par de años antes de que tú nacieras. Es tu padre, eso es un hecho, pero solo porque la vasectomía falló. Eres un chiripazo. Un “acto de Dios”. En la indiscreción se revela que, enfurecido, tu padre demandó a los médicos responsables de la operación y estos accedieron, luego de una larga pelea legal, a indemnizarlo con el pago de la manutención de su tercer “hijo no solicitado”. La manutención incluyó alimentación, gastos médicos y educación hasta la mayoría de edad. Es decir, terminó recientemente. Fuiste patrocinado por un error médico, a diferencia de tus hermanos mayores. ¿Cómo te hace sentir eso? ¿Qué dice de la responsabilidad y la autoridad de tu padre sobre ti? ¿Por qué nunca te dijo la verdad?
“As you know, the question we writers are asked most often, the favourite question, is; why do you write? I write because I have an innate need to write! I write because I can’t do normal work like other people. I write because I want to read books like the ones I write. I write because I am angry at all of you, angry at everyone. I write because I love sitting in a room all day writing. (…) I write because I love the smell of paper, pen, and ink. I write because I believe in literature, in the art of the novel, more than I believe in anything else. I write because it is a habit, a passion. I write because I am afraid of being forgotten. I write because I like the glory and interest that writing brings. I write to be alone. Perhaps I write because I hope to understand why I am so very, very angry at all of you, so very, very angry at everyone. I write because I like to be read. I write because once I have begun a novel, an essay, a page, I want to finish it. I write because everyone expects me to write. I write because I have a childish belief in the immortality of libraries, and in the way my books sit on the shelf. I write because it is exciting to turn all of life’s beauties and riches into words. I write not to tell a story, but to compose a story. I write because I wish to escape from the foreboding that there is a place I must go but – just as in a dream – I can’t quite get there. I write because I have never managed to be happy. I write to be happy.”
—Orhan Pamuk, “My Father’s Suitcase”
