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letters V. Letters of Ripol

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In exile, on September 29 a year I'd rather not remember. Don Alvaro Caro

:

Today I was finally able to read your message. In the mountains did not have access to the Internet.

The last days I used to know the mystic Al-Andalus. You know very well the attraction I feel for the South.

heartfelt thanks for your answer and the good spirit that you took my words.

I received a letter from Silvia with a photo of your little page. I found a cute boy. So I think he has the eyes of his mother.

I have not liked the tone of your letter, be whipped, talks about his little value, its few merits and mediocrity. How I wish for a moment to celebrate, thanks to what life has given him and feel proud of their accomplishments. I hope that only a crisis of postpartum depression.

I held myself and I sing, and every atom of my body belongs to those who love you, Walt Whitman wrote. This time rehearse singing to it, sing its praise, in name of love.

confess that I missed in those days. I wonder when I will see her again. I do not know if she will do the same, but, I miss her so much. It must be that I still ...

... Yes, as Joan of Ibarbourou sang-that our American-Juana, blood and bone, with the eye that looks and encouragement ... and with this love that I drink the feeling, from the little laugh until cry from the wound witch until your kiss ...

Because if I loved her, if you still love her. What I loved, what I love? Certainly not a cowardly and timid girl. Not one that felt old and incapable of everything. No! I loved a young girl frank smile, my company was looking for because he admired the wisdom and intelligence dazzled him that together we wanted.

was a girl who was eager to science and truth. I forget his watchful eye, his eyes fixed on my lips waiting to be coveted words came out promptly. I'm not afraid to say it was our best companion at the time those books.

I liked the feel dependent, eager to learn things, always well kept in dress, often elegantly dressed, careful with her hair, which lad playing learning-not-to become lord.

Then came the fights. Yours, mine with her own with her, ours, those of the two, three. Began to fight, get mad, you get mad you, it came and went ... always returned, as if he needed to drink from my secret source.

Then it was like a protected species for me, took care of you and your herbs that decided never to try, support, kept him back if necessary. How often selflessly, the preferred deferring myself and my business to make room for hers, as she willingly and humbly accept the services offered and lavished in heart.

Half of our youth shared the exit vi my bathroom - remember? I've told you a long time ha-wrapped in a towel. Then for the first time, I wanted to consciously, deliberately and freely, but not much more fear and guilt. My flesh became shaky in front of her.

In the midst of my confusion, I opted for the truth, which would allow me to continue looking straight ahead. I told him everything. But to my surprise, that did not cause more wonder. Since then, she herself wanted to go further. And I loved

. For the first time and as anyone so far, I loved.

However, as dreams do not last but seconds, the problems were soon better not remember. Everything collapsed. Today I know that between the two, something more than friendship has no future. This was, we, decided. The deeply respect that, but sometimes it does not seem.

may still want. I want it!, Indeed. How to deny the obvious. Well

Freud said that love is humiliated. Because, believe me I feel in this limbo is humiliating and makes me suffer a lot. I wonder if the next night, if you deserve a kiss from his lips, only one of these piles has given those who refused or tried, which did not suffer, or wept for his love Incidentally, progesterone and puberty. Love that had no centimeter of poetry, tenderness, madness and tragedy that is mine.

no longer expect anything from it ... and yet, I hope. Please do not take it as impertinence, my dear Don Alvaro, these secrets that you do, or feel guilty, or not tell her this letter. Ultimately, if anyone deserves the condemnation me, for having given up and given the way I did. Again: do not feel guilty, but not stop me express my sweet complaint. I promise not to laugh at my corny words this time. More reminiscent of times when you were in love, remember the nonsense you said, the tricks you used, the dangers that went through an "I love you" or for a time of closeness or intimacy tender, and because of this, pardon my language, I know, makes you uncomfortable and sometimes annoying.

The culprit is this nameless feeling, I do not know how to keep quiet, I wake up in the morning, that puts her in my thoughts so often, that will never be matched, which makes me defy death, men of my tribe, before whom "blasphemous" God now trembles. Love is a hell to which marched with firm step and that not even want to know how to escape.

Well, I must confess that I've seen people more attractive, better proportioned, perhaps more beautiful than Silvia yet the sight of nude members prefer not to any other. The passion that it takes away the feel better than anyone.

But I mostly believe in the profound goodness of his heart. In this generosity that would spare no effort for me when necessary. For I know that if tomorrow I fall down, if sick, if left alone, his strong arm, a woman and a mother of empty guts seduce me, go and get me. With it no shame, no need for me less ugly secrets or less negligible. So that I never feel for her, my footprint is unlikely to remove it from its path. Tomorrow will go away, marry (this is less likely. Hate routines and the seriousness of life), have other children, but when I heard my name, my very expensive, something will move in, there where very few have come in his life where very few will come later.

How long do we stay? I do not know. What I have of course is and how it hurts-so fragile that it will end and the thin line of things that unite us, end up breaking. At the end will be a nice or a bad memory. In a few years, if we turn to see, maybe history will repeat another night, the next day, our sin will again be our secret. For oaths and saying what to do specifically that provided resolutions fail because, you know, life takes care of us swallow the wine to the dregs we swore never suck and not without reason, the ancients said that coal has been grilled over a low fire is lit. You can attest to what I say.

Meanwhile, as I have and I have and I have you, fight together. She is capable of many things.

hear from my mouth has a long time (in that famous university exposure, embarrassed on behalf of cannabis), this axiom of Protagoras: Man is the measure of all things, which are (this love and tragedy ) and they are not (the future she has ahead).

(Here The Pilgrimage ends. What follows is written with a different color ink on a sheet torn from a notebook, which suggests it was written days later.)

had not been able to finish my letter. Time is running out in this exile I have so much fear! Leave and to stay, others and myself.

I feel like a thousand years Europe, populated by heresies and immense confusion, misery and loss crowded in tremendous uncertainty facing the future. Like the millenarian hope the zero hour where everything will start again in a kind of morbid expectation and exalted. Struggle not to lose hope, then, for the first time, I wished death me ...

And what could say to yourself? You are young, my friend, and that the world is kneeling before you. Take it between your hands, grab a good time the reins. Become master of yourself, that it makes, perhaps Socrates said, does more than he who conquers a city. Ea

then! A fight! I scream from the bleachers with all my strength while running in the stadium, I myself will pluck the laurel branches of tightening your head. Those who love you will applaud. There will also be Silvia and his squire.

Take care, well baby. Tell her strange.

will send some money. I do not like begging him the coward of her lover, who gave him a son and went galloping.

I leave here in a week. I have no fixed destination yet. I think I'll go to the Maghreb (I have some contacts in Casablanca). So for now my letters do not wait.

Fraternally,

El Peregrino.

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IV.

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letters Ripol III.

series: click here .
First delivery: click here .

Charter II. Spring diatribe.

in exile. On 2 April. My very expensive

Don Alvaro:

This is one of those long afternoons of tedium weak-willed they do not feel like doing anything except write, but to good weather and the garden is in bloom.

Nothing extraordinary has happened and in your life or mine since the last time. Easter I have spent at home. On Easter Day, I passed a church and went into it. No prayed, if ever I stopped to look at the stained glass and polychrome.

Your response to my last letter made me laugh. Preserved the grace and freshness as ever. But mostly you're still that wonderful gourmet met, but sometimes I guess in you a great sadness.

Your text made me remember what I wrote Pio Baroja: "When the rich lexicon is enforced, learned, is worth little, gives an impression of artifice, and now, when natural, spontaneous is another thing. " I like this simple and delicious fluidity with which you write, I like your words concatenated, orderly and correct.

I, as you said it, a passion for English, they speak my parents and grandparents and they spoke many of my ancestors whose generations are lost in time. As stated in Vallejo, I think in English, dream in English, speak English, English blasphemous and I will die in English, in the final impenitence conceived in English words. Borges said it well: "language is our common homeland."

a kid, I liked to sit and listen to old stories to tell. Many of them were simple peasants, almost illiterate, and almost all are now dead. But I still rattle in his ears the music of their accents and that sweet time with the words coming out more uniquely, many of them now due to disuse. It was then natural to call Jacinta, Concepción, Toribio or Froilan and the stupid habit of baptizing with foreign names, the most bizarre of the time, had not been popular. I wonder if this will be but a facet of cultural decay we are experiencing or other cultural bovarysme expression of Latin American this will always be what we are not, denying the poor relations. Are we done anything about suicide, ie, destroying ourselves and what's more we like Flaubert Bovary? Or is it rather an unconscious protest of thousands of people condemned to misery by an unjust society and little or no equity?

When all exalt nationalism prefer showing the undeniable benefits of our land and our people, I prefer to cultivate a healthy self-criticism. Perhaps it is that if we want to improve, as I said David Sanchez Juliao, we must be ruthless with ourselves, recognize that we have ended up being mediocre and we are very far away and far below of the great examples of nobility, sacrifice and courage of many who have preceded us. I hate complacency

sweet and masturbatory and narcissistic patriotism. I laugh at the literary obscenity, enjoy it, and yet I believe in respect, compassion and solidarity. I'm kind of Marx and Nietzsche together. In a mystic Eckhart, in aesthetically pleasing Céline, in tastes, an unorthodox relapse. As humble as Moses, as egotistical as De Gaulle. So shit and so none of the above and all of them.

April 8.

I left unfinished letter last week. I received a call and I got distracted. I would like to share you

some things that have happened to me in recent days in which to earn some money in this strange land, I have dedicated myself to the work of copy-editor and reader of English.

I was blessed with an excellent teacher of Castilian in the early years of high school and almost born with a natural taste for reading. Also, I think the correction never shied away when it is fair and justified. At least that might show up as an example. My mind is restless, wanting to know.

-and allow me to begin the lengthy quotation from Vallejo again, I put no reference at all because I feel mine, 'I want to know the ancient Chinese, the Ming dynasty, which overthrew the Manchus. I want to know the Icelandic language in which anonymous poets wrote the "Edda." The land routes of prehistoric hunter Sea route of Odysseus. The cycle of glucose, the orbitals of the atom, the operation of the magnetron. Don Juan's lovers and lovers of Verlaine. And not only the past haunts me: I'm obsessed with the future, I'm obsessed with the conditional.

"... I know the thousand feats Camoens sang, and the bland lies invented by chroniclers. Uroaltaicas languages I speak and read in the Japanese original of Shikibu Monogatari Ghenji without the slightest nuances escape me. I want to penetrate the profound meaning of 'Lost Guide "of Maimonides, which case I find myself to get lost once in the labyrinths of the Talmud. I am interested in old English grammar Nebrija, and the current Catalan Pompey Fabra. The legends of the Abencerrages explorations of Livingstone, the wars of Catalonia ... I want to keep in mind the equation of Kepler, the Tolkappiyam, the rude song of the dawn of minnesinger and sweet love song of the troubadours .... But this To begin with, is what I'll never know. "

So much bother me the people who, to paraphrase Thomas Merton, "only knows cars and film (I would add: and soccer) of what's in the fridge, what the newspapers say (sometimes not even that) and what neighbors are going to divorce.

Stupid, unthinking bourgeois life! Damn stubborn and hobby of mine wanting to know everything, everything!

Returning to Merton (I quote from memory), "the great temptation of modern man is not solitude, but immersion in the mass of men, in that ocean report irresponsible. The man then, and know you are alone or living in community. What is loaded is diffuse and anonymous anxiety, fear unspeakable appetites petty and intolerable and all hostilities that fill the ubiquitous society. "

These harsh words are valid for all, for you and me.

Sartre said that the great paradox is the duty to be critical of the bourgeoisie and the time to live in and live as bourgeois. Because today, they are bourgeois, even many of those who inhabit the slums of our great American suburbs. One can live in a suburb and act upon the lifestyle of the rich and according to its system of exploitation of another.

What criticize and hate, is often the germ within us ... Pardon

last phrase, this time directed against yourself, Ripol: I feel so often that talk is put chess pieces on deaf ears. "Margaritas before Porcos', as the Gospel.

Half of this reflection I stop to think what will write? Believe me, I wonder more by fear than by distrust or condescending. Do not serve this to sink deeper into mental tangles that often get lost? To increase the hysteria and delusions that often attack me? Should I shut up, go out?

saying this is not likely to go to produce in you a furious confusion, a strong reaction or feeling of being railed, maligned, underappreciated, misunderstood me, proud and arrogant?

I'm afraid to show her this letter to Silvia. I know this phrase and will not, but perhaps she who is between your stuff and read it. The last time did not accept my criticisms, which, you know, were completely fair. I want her to know that I insist on seeing beyond. See maybe the girl who still lives in his heart, very poor, very hidden, using the language of García Lorca, and is afraid of being hurt, being taken away, to grow.

How to call this feeling of solidarity that binds me to her? It is perhaps a kind of magnetic attraction, to qualify in some way. Stealing back the words of one, a mixture of mutual fascination and seduction aesthetics, but which, in essence, is like a love story, unfortunate for the impossibility of accomplished and, simultaneously, sweeping by the same cause.

But not only foreign to Silvia, sometimes I grab the homesickness of the soil. Europe certainly has its magic, but, you know well the deep ties that bind me to the South. Like the great Fatherland (Matria!) Mine, America. Just a matter of walking around the streets of their cities to realize the diversity of faces, races and backgrounds.

do I like, for example, the old Santa Fe de Bogota, the smog cold, the mountain wind. The sordid tenth race, their ancestry, their hands of English girl, their faces, people going fast, the high trees of its mountains, its prostitutes, their fags. Sometimes I miss the old Candelaria where a story is always the English elegance and Chapinero Teusaquillo noisy night owl. I think in the far Fontibón with their puddles, in the Suba of narrow streets, inner-city and ruddy cheeks Infantino. Review the affluent north, south forgotten, their faces sad, almost hopeless. City

all, no man's land, crying her loneliness, her splendid sunny mornings, their afternoons in the rain blurs the old windows, the tingling of his ironmonger ... Only

dead Monserrate, who watches me with his eyes and arms stiff extinct, you know what it costs me to be away.

Send me a photo of Silvia. I see her in her pregnancy. I hope to see you soon, more to see her than to see you.

With my most cordial greetings,

El Peregrino.

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letters Ripol II. Ripol

(For the explanation of the series click here ).

Letter I. The Pilgrim reread his life and tells her story.

in exile. Sunless morning of February 6.

My good friend Don Alvaro Ripol:

Two nights ago I had a strange dream, with great shock and then I opened my eyes was very hard to sleep again. Irrelevant to tell the dream, but tell you that in the long vigil that followed, you were-you-indiscreetly Silvia and present in my mind, therefore, conceived the idea right there you head a few words in a letter. Now when I sit down to write some lines, I wanted to tell you to start with since it was at that moment when I remembered something that I promised you the last time we talked. I hope that you will have enough literary sensibility to distinguish and appreciate the beauty of language written, beyond the coolness of the leaves.

By far, so good. This week I had a lot of work, meetings and more meetings, as I continue with my readings and try to acclimatize.

As many relatives, friends and acquaintances have sent me letters, this week I've taken on the task of responding. Just yesterday I finished sending the last reply. Why do not you had written, as I had promised.

I realize that the time of year when more writing is winter. As if to sharpen the intelligence and coolness favored intellectual work. Also, I've been very lonely in those days. In the wilderness of isolation, looking back, I have reread my story.

Yes, I am born with some palm trees near the Caribbean Sea, from oblivion. One afternoon, amid the suns and unbearable heat, I make my way by my mother's vagina nubile to defiantly open its eyes and close them again soon.

was born dying. A month later I was evicted. But the life and ill will were stronger. Survived. I grew up. Here and there. Without many things but with many dreams and terrible longing to be free.

lived locked and medical care are redoubled. It was then I learned to sniff books, without even knowing read. On the great atlas of my father, riding my miniature Volkswagen (the best Christmas present I ever had) toured the East and Europe, passing the Bosphorus on a jump, down to the Peloponnese and then cheating, bordering the Adriatic crossing Po, Lucerne was a twist on castles and dragging me towards the Pyrenees. Memorized the rivers of Spain and the towns they passed the Guadalquivir, the Tagus, Douro, Ebro, Sanlúcar, Andujar, Sevilla, Córdoba.

When I got a boat, for my birthday, I undertook the expedition, and Danube in, I lost in the mysterious Dacia. In the distance was Transylvania, hidden and creepy. Cheating

, as always, out of the mess: in the Black Forest and had my Wolskwagen brought down from heaven and sat on the boat up to the doors of the Rhine, he did disappear again. Rolling, rolling, finishing my fantasies in the Netherlands and went to dinner.

hated soups. Creamed vegetables, onions, fresh meat, chicken, bananas, none pleased me.

When it rained out the window and count the drops. I think it was the rain that taught me what it is melancholy.

the evening, very early, said my prayers and fell asleep to the sound of the Fathers. "My guardian angel, my sweet company" ... and my restless eyes dimmed.

spent all this at high speed. Very early, as always, I left early from the mother's lap, the warmth of home to go find you, you and Silvia, in the mountains, announcing one morning with an unbearable shame, the heavy afternoon rain. We

respectively sixteen, seventeen and eighteen years out of puberty in a hurry, we had the same problems and shared the same fears. Thus, half way to this life of mine, more or less turbulent, we started our studies at that university in the care of the clergy.

As my old atlas, forgotten, consumed in moisture and mold, I flew with Verne, with Garcia Marquez, Flaubert, with Unamuno. Dostoevsky taught me the heart and meanness of the free world Sartre, Nietzsche saw his folly and Kierkegaard its brevity. Plato taught me to love poetry and Aristotle to hate God. Aquinas discovered the old Latin and French of Molière Malebranche. Augustine made me recover the ardent faith of children and their inconsistencies Marx. I spent my best years: reading. Read without prudence, without prejudices.

I think for my personal situation, by having a mind so restless, and then be able to establish contacts since childhood with people and foreign ways, I always kept a little distance from the tastes and habits of the lumpen words. "Sometimes I feel more in this exile-as distinct and distant, something of a foreordained. Perhaps a new Joan of Arc called to a great mission. I also hear voices. As the poet says: "voices that say, here come your troubles. Broken voices: your days are past now. They are ghosts, crowds of drunken ghosts. "

For people of my race I am full of outrageous sins. You see, when my ancestors, hungry for gold, settled near the sea, is believed convicted to die there forever. Pigs that gave light to lewd conqueror, who learned to live lost in the marshes, was born poor and shabby offspring of my father. Later generations lost in spectral time my mother was born without caste or lineage of its predecessors. Until I came along, the son of this spurious history. Of mine, I feel at times like this the most seasoned in the glory and the honor of men.

In a world that tends to uniformity, something in me insists on making a difference. It hurts my men, my brothers. It hurts the world and its misery. It hurts, it hurts immensely

Africa ... Would you 've noticed that this February we met seven years to have met? Have you noticed that since then life has changed a lot? One day, without realizing it, we discover that we're old and still not get anywhere. A life that condemns us: a distressing and harrowing sense of being and feeling always, always on the road. We walked and walked and the horizon remains the same, untouched in front of our eyes as the first day. There is perhaps another way out, but loving the journey and enjoy the thrill of the road. Perhaps in the end, when we fall exhausted and lifeless from our trip, some larger hands will pick us up and we will rest forever.

I feel somewhat ashamed to speak this way. It is my personal style, which I use with those I can understand my heart.

I hope your things are going well and you feel better in your new job. A secular school is best for you.

My friend and spiritual closeness accompany you. My thought is often you.

I await your response. Tell Silvia to write me, I do not hold grudges, I could not. I miss her so much. Be sure to take care. We need now more than ever.

With best wishes,

El Peregrino.