Hoy tuve realmente un día libre… curioso siendo el día de la independencia. Curiosa palabra con tanta carga política. Mi independencia la ejercí leyendo y viendo películas de mi elección nada sugerida o parte de mis sylabos.
Cambiando de canales me encontré a Billy Cudrup, rapado, con unos kilitos de más y una actitud misógina. El soundtrack cuasi caricaturesco fue el gancho. Hasta el final de la película supe que se llamaba Dedication (2007-08), creo que la catalogarían como Drama-Comedia-Romance “Chick Movie” Dirigida por Trararán: Justin Theroux
Henry Roth, un escritor para niños,el personaje de Cudrup está de duelo aunque eso sólo aumenta su ya agrio estilo. Solitario, lleno de manías; una de ellas dormir con libros (a quién no le gusta me pregunto). La escena me recuerda los versos de Darío luego hace desfilar /cuatrocientos elefantes/a la orilla de la mar. Esa desfile siempre lo he visto como una columna vertical que casi alcanza el cielo. Pues Henry a veces necesita más o menos peso en el pecho. Su compañero de fórmula, el ilustrador, Tom Wilkinson, murió de un Tumor y sigue apareciéndosele y guiándolo. Mandy Moore es la ilustradora suplente, enamorada, con el corazón partido y sin saber qué hacer aparentemente es la más vulnerable de todos. Me encanta ver gente con manías que pueden llevarse a la pantalla grande y no verse ridículas ni exageradas…sino hasta aceptadas socialmente aunque sea por algunos cuantos…Son esperanzadoras.
Henry: You'll be fine. We'll both be fine Rudy.
Rudy Holt: That's life Henry.
Henry: Yep.
Rudy Holt: You know what life is?
Henry: Life is a horrible little giggle in the midst of a forced death march towards hell.
Rudy Holt: No it isn't.
Henry: An interminable wale of grief...
Rudy Holt: No. Life is a single skip for joy.
Henry: I know.
Henry: I can only stir things counterclockwise, and I know that if I don't, something bad will happen. I take size eleven-and-a-half shoe. I don't have a favourite book. Umm... Oh... What's crucial? Oh, I don't drive or ride in cars. Statistically speaking, you have a 100% chance of being in an accident in your lifetime. They're death boxes. I give to Amnesty International on the off chance I'm ever imprisoned and tortured for my political beliefs. Paradoxically, I have no political beliefs. Umm... life is pain. Black kids are cuter than white ones. What's important? Uh... I didn't mean it when I compared you to our waitress. I was only trying to hurt you. I could've been meaner about your looks, and what I would've said would have made you cry. Umm... I have a towel I can't throw out 'cause it may have feelings. When I ejaculate, I go into deep depressions. Though by any standard you're a nice person, I deeply resent having to work with you. I love Japanese monster movies. Gamera, specifically.
De allí releí la Invención de la soledad su primer libro únic
amente y decidí extraer algunos pasajes que para harían con ciertos conectores un cuento corto de esta primera parte de la novela:
Sólo para contextualizar la narración, está dividida en dos partes, donde el tema central es la relación entre paternidad y soledad. En la primera parte –El hombre invisible-, Paul Auster nos habla de la relación –o falta de ella- con su padre, quién acaba de morir. La ausencia y la soledad se entremezclan con los reproches y el intento de justificación. En la segunda parte, El libro de la memoria, Auster encadena la reflexión acerca de su papel como hijo con su propia paternidad y la soledad del escritor.
I knew that I would have to write about my father. I had no plan, had no precise idea of what this meant (4p).
The house became a metaphor of my father’s life, the exact and faithful representation o this inner world. For although he kept the house tidy preserved it more or less as it had been, it underwent a gradual an ineluctable process of disintegration (7p).
Twenty times a day the phone rang, and twenty times a day I told someone that my father was dead (10p)
More than seeing the coffin itself being lowered into the ground, the act of throwing away the ties seemed to embody for me the idea of burial. I finally understood that my father was dead (11p)
It was a life that suited him, and I can see why he went back to it after his marriage broke up. For a man who finds life tolerable only by staying on the surface of himself, it is natural to be satisfied with offering no more than this surface to others (13p).
My father’s capacity for evasion was almost limitless. Because the domain of the other was unreal to him, his incursions into that domain were made with a part of himself he considered equally unreal, another self trained as actor to represent him in the empty comedy o the world-at-large (13p).
