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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.

A Little Brown Mucus Discharge Before Period

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.

Background Music Taekwondo

letters I.

First Delivery: Reason name.

To begin, I thank the readers who have closely followed the "Bogotá Tours below." Pilgrim, thank you for the space given to me. The last three installments are as yours and mine.
Moreover, I have not had time (or money!) To continue to enter those corners lost in the Colombian capital. Marianne
has not recurred. It was escorted by the wind, in complicity with the night, intoxicated with words ... and gins. Two weeks ago I do not know anything about it.
So while it appears, we will publish a series entitled "Letters of Ripol" honoring his name to the book by Fernando Gonzalez in which collects the written correspondence that Otraparte philosopher at the end of his life, had with his friend, the Benedictine monk Andrés María Ripoll. In October 2003 I discovered this beautiful text ever since I was impressed.
The master's house was not far from the Abbey of Santa Maria, home of the priest (still there and the school farm, with its monastery, halfway between Medellín and Envigado). Thus, the two friends looked at least once a week, holding long conversations at each meeting. Fernando Gonzalez was writing, however, the church, long and deep letters placed under the sign of the ambiguity and misunderstanding the book's title (which should just call it as this, "Letters to Ripol).
When the religious habits and part hanging abroad, Gonzalez leaves this world, making "Ripol letters" in his latest book, later published as a posthumous work.
By happy coincidence, the Pilgrim, during his exile abroad, had with his friend Don Alvaro Quintero Ripol (only the name has been changed, not the last) a constant postal communication.
By implication of the Don Alvaro, now publish these letters will show us thinking Our friend administrator of this blog, his love, ghosts and dreams. In tribute to Fernando Gonzalez and because of the apparent coincidence, we call this series "The Letters of Ripol." Here we will learn
Don Alvaro, his licentious life and existential ties that bind the pilgrim. Silvia also know, the old and eternal love of it and protected it, who is the other major recurring character in the series. The events referred to are real and occurred in Colombia at the time the reader want.
Don Alvaro is still alive and fights together against death haunts him through cancer, despite his youth. Silvia lives in Spain, in a people whose name I remember, in the middle plains of Castile, where he went to study anthropology with her little Damian. Has a desire to return to America, but has found a vet Madrid has been in love with her, much to the chagrin of our hapless and Pilgrim. The three did together studies at a university in the country, which joined almost teenagers. The series we will be revealing the details of this beautiful friendship.