Narrativa impresionista. Lecturas. Ejercicios, improvisaciones de impresionismo.

"You know what's weird?" Sam mused, flipping through the channels on the dusty old TV set in his grandpa's garage. His voice echoed through the cluttered space, punctuated by the static of dead airwaves. "What's that, buddy?" Grandpa Joe glanced up from his workbench, his hands stained with oil and grease. Sam leaned closer to the flickering screen, his curiosity piqued. "These TV shows, they're all from the 80s. And none of them are in color. It's like looking into a faded photograph." Grandpa Joe chuckled, wiping his hands on a stained rag. "Yeah, those were the days. Everything was simpler then, and we liked our TV that way too. Besides," he added, with a wink, "it's easier on the eyes, not so much junk to distract you." TV, focusing on the face of an actor in a show that looked like it had been recorded in a snowstorm. "Grandpa, what's happening to this guy's eyes?" Joe's smile faltered as he looked up. "What do you mean, Sam?" Sam pointed at the screen, his voice rising in alarm. "They're... changing. They're like, melting or something!" Joe's chuckle turned into a cough, and he abruptly set down his wrench. The image on the TV grew more disturbing as the actor's eyes began to ooze a thick, black substance, stretching and distorting like taffy in a nightmare. The skin around the eyes wrinkled and shriveled, revealing the raw, red flesh beneath. "Sam, turn that off," he said, his voice tight with an uncharacteristic urgency. But Sam was already on his feet, his hand hovering over the power button. The TV fizzled to silence, but the image remained burned into their retinas. "What the heck was that?" Sam whispered, his heart hammering in his chest. Grandpa Joe took a deep, shaky breath and met Sam's horrified gaze. "It's nothing to worry about," he said, but his trembling hands gave him away. "Just a glitch in the old set, I reckon." Sam wasn't convinced. The TV had never acted like this before. He stepped back, unable to shake the feeling that the actor's eyes had been staring directly into his soul. The garage felt suddenly claustrophobic, the air thick with a tension that seemed to pulse in time with his racing thoughts. "Grandpa, are you okay?" he asked, his voice cracking. Joe took another deep breath, his eyes darting around the garage as if searching for something unseen. "I'm fine, Sam. Just fine," he said, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. But Sam noticed his grandpa's hand was shaking as he picked up his wrench again. The silence that followed was heavier than the dust that clung to every surface. Sam couldn't help but stare at the darkened screen, the afterimage of the corroded eyes burned into his vision. He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the crawling sensation that had started at the back of his neck. "Grandpa," he began, his voice tentative. "Your eyes... they look a little... weird." Joe froze mid-motion, his hand hovering over the engine block of the ancient car he was working on. He reached for a dirty mirror propped against the toolbox and held it up to his face, examining his reflection with a furrowed brow. "Weird, how?" "They're... kind of sunk in, like the guy on the TV," Sam said, his voice quivering. Joe took a step closer to the mirror, tilting his head to get a better look. His eyes had indeed changed, the skin around them seeming to have receded slightly, leaving dark, sunken pits where his eyes should have been. The pupils had dilated, almost swallowing the irises. The sight made Sam's stomach churn, but he couldn't tear his gaze away. "It's probably just the light in here," Joe murmured, his voice strained. "Let's get out of this dingy old garage and into the fresh air." Sam nodded, eager to leave the suffocating atmosphere behind. As they stepped into the sunshine, the brightness made him blink rapidly, and for a moment, he thought he saw spots dancing in his vision—like the remnants of the TV's static. He followed his grandpa into the house, the sound of their footsteps echoing through the corridor. In the kitchen, Grandpa Joe poured them both a glass of lemonade, his hand trembling slightly. He took a long gulp before setting the glass down with a clink. "It's just old age playing tricks on us," he said with a forced chuckle, avoiding Sam's gaze. "You'll see things differently when you get to be my age." But the look on Joe's face told Sam a different story. His grandpa was scared, really scared. The lines around his eyes had deepened, and his skin had taken on a pallor that hadn't been there before. The TV's disturbing image had unsettled him more than he was letting on. The lemonade was sweet and tart, but it did little to wash away the bitter taste of fear that lingered in Sam's mouth. He watched his grandpa closely, noticing the subtle changes in his demeanor. The way Joe avoided looking directly at him, the way his eyes kept darting to the side as if expecting something to appear out of the corner of his vision. "Grandpa, tell me the truth," Sam said, his voice firm despite the quaver he couldn't quite control. "What's going on with your eyes?" Joe sighed, his shoulders slumping. He turned to face Sam fully, his eyes flicking up to meet his grandson's, then quickly away again. "It's... it's nothing, Sam. Just a little... condition I've got." Sam stared at him, not buying it. "A condition? Like what?" Joe took another sip of his lemonade, his hand shaking even more. "It's something I've had for a while," he said, his voice low. "But it's getting worse." Sam's eyes widened. "Worse? What do you mean, worse?" Grandpa Joe took a deep, shaky breath and leaned against the counter. "It's like... they're changing, Sam. They're not like they used to be. Sometimes, it feels like they're... consuming me." Sam's heart skipped a beat. "What do we do?" Joe rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, the gesture only making the wrinkles around them deeper. "There's nothing we can do, son. It's just part of getting old."

By Carlos del Puente

 In the quaint town of Harmony Grove, where the cobblestone streets whispered secrets with every step, there lived a peculiar man named Eliot. He was not peculiar because of his eccentric attire or his unconventional hobbies. No, Eliot was peculiar because he was known for his unparalleled ability to listen. His deep-set eyes held a gentle empathy that could make even the most stoic souls spill their deepest worries. His house, a cozy cottage nestled between an ancient willow and a blooming hydrangea bush, was a beacon for those in need of a comforting ear. One moonlit night, Eliot drifted into a restless slumber. As he descended into the abyss of dreams, he found himself in a vast, silent desert. The sand beneath his feet was warm and ever-shifting, and the stars above stretched out like a blank canvas yearning for a painter's touch. In the distance, a figure approached, cloaked in shadows and shrouded in mystery. The figure grew closer, its footsteps silent upon the desert floor, and as it reached Eliot, it reached out a spectral hand and gently cupped his throat. With a sudden jolt, Eliot awoke, his vocal cords paralyzed, his voice gone. The townsfolk, accustomed to his soothing voice, grew concerned as days turned to weeks without a single word from him. They gathered outside his cottage, sharing whispers of what might have happened. Some spoke of curses, others of malevolent spirits, but no one dared to broach the subject with Eliot himself. His eyes remained the same, brimming with understanding and compassion, but the absence of his gentle timbre cast a pall over their gatherings. Eliot, once the town's confidant, now found himself an outsider in his own life. He communicated through hastily scribbled notes, his handwriting a jagged dance of desperation across the page. His conversations with himself grew louder in his mind, a cacophony of unspoken words echoing in the vast, lonely cavern where his voice had once resonated. His dreams, however, grew more vivid. Each night, the cloaked figure returned, whispering riddles that seemed to hold the key to his lost voice, but the desert winds carried them away before he could grasp their meaning. Determined to solve the enigma, Eliot sought the wisdom of the town's oldest inhabitant, Mabel, whose eyes had seen more than a century of Harmony Grove's secrets. Her cottage smelled of dust and forgotten spells, the air thick with the scent of herbs and candle wax. She studied Eliot intently as he recounted his nightly torment, her weathered hands playing with a string of crystal beads. When he finished, she nodded solemnly and spoke of ancient lore, of dreams that bled into reality and voices stolen by the night's whispers. Mabel revealed that the cloaked figure was a silent guardian of the realm of slumber, a being known as the Sphinx of Somnus. It was said that the Sphinx could grant one's deepest desires, but only if the seeker could solve its riddles. In Eliot's case, the price was his voice, a currency he had never thought to bargain with. With a trembling hand, she handed him an aged parchment filled with incantations and symbols. "You must summon the Sphinx," she instructed, her voice a frail thread in the quiet room. "Demand your voice back, but beware, for the price it asks in return may be steeper than you wish to pay." Eliot took the parchment, feeling the weight of his predicament like a stone in his pocket. He knew he could not live in silence forever, not when the town needed him. That night, he sat before his crackling fireplace, the paper trembling in his grasp. He recited the incantation, each syllable a struggle, as if the very air resisted his silent voice. The flames grew taller, their light flickering, and a sudden gust of wind blew through his cottage, extinguishing the candles. The cloaked figure materialized, the shadows dancing around it like living ink. The Sphinx's eyes gleamed like polished onyx, piercing the gloom. "You wish for the return of your voice," it murmured, its voice like the rustle of leaves. "But to regain what you've lost, you must first understand its true worth." Eliot nodded, his heart racing. He had no idea what the creature had in store for him, but he was ready to face it. The Sphinx spoke again, its riddle floating in the air like a ghostly melody. "What is it that can bring forth both joy and sorrow, heal the deepest wounds yet cause the most profound harm, and is found in every heart, yet can be lost in a single night?" Eliot pondered, his mind racing. His gaze darted around the room, searching for clues in the flickering shadows cast by the fire. The answer danced on the tip of his tongue, but remained just out of reach. The Sphinx waited patiently, its cloak billowing with the rhythm of its silent breaths. It was as if the very fabric of the night held its breath, eager to hear his response. Finally, he spoke. "A word," he wrote hastily on a piece of parchment, offering it to the Sphinx. "A word can bring joy or sorrow, heal or harm, and is found in every heart, yet can be lost in a single moment of anger or despair."

By Carlos del Puente 

 The character, in this troubled night, wandered according to his thoughts. An oppressive silence enveloped everything, as if the universe had decided to put an end to his words. The words that usually flowed from his lips mingled with the shadows of night visions, slipping away whenever he tried to grasp them. In this dream, he was frantically looking for a voice, a familiar melody, but only the echo of a void reigned. Distressed, he understood that this silent flight was only a prelude, a warning of the inaction that awaited his heart at the dawn of the coming day. The character felt a shiver run through him as the first light of dawn began to creep into the horizon casting ethereal shadows across the ground. Each step he took seemed heavier as if the weight of his untold stories clung to him like a shroud. He searched the sky for answers among the swirling clouds but found only uncertainties reflecting his own turmoil. Yet within that uncertainty flickered a spark of resolve igniting a determination he thought lost. He would not let the day break him nor allow the silence to drown his voice any longer. He would reclaim the narrative stolen from him by fear and doubt. With each breath he took, he could feel the pulse of life returning igniting the embers of hope that had long been dormant. The landscape around him transformed as the sun climbed higher painting the world in vivid colors. He stepped forward into the light ready to confront the shadows that had haunted him. A newfound clarity enveloped him as he embraced the possibility of change understanding that his story was not yet finished but merely waiting for the courage to be told. He paused at the edge of a forest bathed in golden sunlight where the trees whispered secrets of old. Each rustle urged him deeper into the heart of the unknown where his fears lay hidden beneath layers of leaves and memories. The path ahead seemed uncertain yet he felt an intoxicating pull that beckoned him to forge ahead. With resolve blossoming in his chest he stepped into the underbrush each footfall echoing like a heartbeat reminding him that he was alive ready to weave his tale amidst the wild beauty of the world around him. He inhaled the fragrant air filled with the scent of damp earth and blooming wildflowers. Each breath seemed to unlock a forgotten part of himself, layers of courage entwined with budding aspirations. As he ventured deeper, the sunlight filtered through the canopy casting playful patterns on the ground. Shadows danced around him, but this time they felt less like threats and more like companions guiding him forward. He understood then that within this wilderness lay not only his fears but also the chance to rediscover who he truly was, untethered and free to write his own destiny anew. He pressed onward feeling the energy of the forest intertwine with his resolve. The voices of the past echoed less sharply now replaced by the whispers of possibility that floated through the air. Each step carried him closer to a clearing where the trees parted to reveal an expanse bathed in radiant light. Here he felt the weight of the world lighten as if the very ground beneath him pulsed with promise. With a deep breath he opened his heart to the adventure ahead ready to embrace the unknown paths that would shape his story into something beautiful and real He felt a rush of exhilaration as he crossed into the clearing where the light embraced him wholly. In this sacred space, every leaf shimmered with potential and the air hummed with unspoken dreams. He knew this was a threshold moment a point where past and future collided. Empowered he began to move with intention each stride echoing his commitment to uncover the truths that lay buried inside. The world felt vibrant alive and as he stood amidst it the remnants of his fears started to dissolve revealing a canvas waiting for his brush to create a masterpiece full of hope and resilience. In that moment of clarity he closed his eyes letting the warmth of the sun wash over him stirring the dormant dreams within. He envisioned each path ahead as a brushstroke waiting to take form leading him to revelations yet unseen. With newfound courage he took a step forward and then another each one a declaration of his intent to live boldly. The clearing pulsed with energy as if affirming his choice urging him to trust the journey ahead. He was ready to face what lay beyond the horizon believing that every challenge would sculpt him into the person he was meant to be.

By Carlos del Puente 

  Decided one the day a tortuga, with a quick and quick decision,  to leave  from the bone of his turtle shell. In the heart of the sprawling, concrete jungle, there lived a man named Larry. He was an average Joe with a penchant for the peculiar, a trait that separated him from the mundane lives of his fellow city-dwellers. Larry had a secret, one that no one in the towering apartment complexes around him knew: every night, he transformed into something else entirely. Not a superhero, nor a creature of the night, but a creature of the daybreak. His apartment, a tiny sanctuary on the 15th floor, was a cluttered menagerie of feathers, seeds, and a solitary, oversized turtle shell. The shell wasn't just a quirky decoration; it was a gateway to a world that existed only in the quiet moments before dawn. Larry had stumbled upon this peculiar artifact during one of his many flea market expeditions. The vendor, a wizened old man with eyes that sparkled like ancient coins, had assured him that the shell was a rare and powerful talisman. "It grants the wearer the ability to transcend the boundaries of the ordinary," he'd whispered, his voice thick with the mystery of forgotten lands. Intrigued and slightly skeptical, Larry had bought the shell on a whim, and it had sat untouched in his apartment for weeks. Until the night the moon had hung low and full, casting an eerie glow through the cityscape outside his window. That fateful evening, unable to shake off a restlessness that had gripped him like a vice, Larry had approached the shell with trembling hands. He'd studied its intricate patterns, the grooves that told the story of a life long past, and made his decision. With a deep breath, he lifted it over his head and felt it settle around him, the edges conforming to the contours of his body like a second skin. A sudden jolt of energy shot through him, and the room swam in a sea of light and shadow. The concrete walls of his apartment blurred, and he was standing in a vast savannah, the smell of dew-kissed grass and the distant call of a nightingale filling his senses. The transformation was painless yet profound, as if his entire being had been unfurled and reassembled into something new. Larry looked down to see his legs, no longer the sturdy pillars that supported his human form, but sleek and muscular limbs that ended in sharp claws. His arms had become powerful wings, and a tail flicked behind him, balancing his newfound weight. He was a tortuga, a creature of myth and beauty, born from the bone of the turtle shell. The savannah stretched before him, an endless tapestry of greens and golds, punctuated by the silhouettes of towering acacia trees. The air was cool and crisp, and the world felt more alive than it ever had in his human life. Every blade of grass whispered a secret, every insect that flitted by held a story waiting to be told. The tortuga's eyes took in the grandeur of his new surroundings, and he felt a strange kinship with the creatures that roamed the land. The first few nights as a tortuga were spent exploring this alien yet exhilarating landscape. Larry discovered that his new form came with an unparalleled sense of freedom. He could run faster than the swiftest gazelle, leap higher than the most nimble antelope, and glide through the air with a grace that would make the most skilled falcon envious. His shell, once a symbol of his solitary existence, now served as both protection and a source of power, allowing him to navigate the world with newfound confidence. As the weeks passed, Larry grew accustomed to his nocturnal adventures. He'd slip into his shell at the first light of the moon and emerge in the savannah, leaving the worries of his human life behind. The creatures of the night accepted him as one of their own, and he found a strange comfort in their silent companionship. He felt a kinship with the owl that hunted with stealthy grace and the hyena that laughed in the moon's glow. One evening, as Larry the tortuga lounged by a tranquil watering hole, a sense of unease prickled his scales. A scent of danger lingered in the air, something primal and fierce. He scanned the horizon, his sharp eyes detecting a shadowy figure prowling the edge of the clearing. It was a leopard, its fur a mottled canvas of nightfall, eyes gleaming with hunger. Larry had always felt safe in his shell, but the predator's gaze sent a shiver down his spine. The leopard approached with the confidence of a creature accustomed to ruling the night. Its muscles rippled under the moon's soft light, and Larry knew he had to act swiftly. He took a deep breath and focused, willing the shell to grant him a new ability. To his astonishment, the shell's patterns began to pulse with an inner light, and he felt a surge of power. With a roar that shook the acacia trees, Larry shot forward, his powerful legs propelling him at a speed that left the leopard in a cloud of dust. The predator, caught off-guard, gave chase, its eyes never leaving the tortuga's retreating form. Larry's heart pounded in his chest, the beat echoing in the shell's hollow cavity. He pushed himself faster, his lungs burning with the effort, the wind rushing past his ears like a tempest. As the leopard closed the distance, Larry felt the shell's power surge again. He leaned into the turn, his newfound agility allowing him to dodge and weave through the underbrush with astonishing grace. The leopard's snarls grew closer, its paws pounding the earth with a relentless rhythm. Larry knew he had to outsmart the creature if he were to survive. He spotted a narrow ravine up ahead, too small for the leopard to follow. Without a second thought, he leaped into it, his shell scraping the rocky sides as he descended. The leopard skidded to a halt at the ravine's edge, peering down into the darkness. Larry could see the beast's silhouette, its tail twitching with frustration. He allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, his heart still racing in his chest. The shell's power pulsed around him, a warm embrace that seemed to whisper, "You're safe." He ventured deeper into the ravine, his senses on high alert. The air grew colder, and the ground beneath his clawed feet grew slick with moisture. He could feel the earth's heartbeat, steady and calming, as he descended further. The walls of the ravine closed in, the moon's glow dimming to a faint silver ribbon above. It was here that Larry discovered the shell had granted him not just speed and agility, but also the ability to navigate in the dark. His eyes, once limited by the shadowy veil of night, now pierced the gloom like twin spotlights, revealing a hidden world of scurrying critters and nocturnal blooms. The scent of the leopard faded, replaced by the rich, earthy smell of the ravine. He followed the path of a babbling brook, the sound of its flow a soothing balm to his racing thoughts. The water was cool and invigorating, and Larry took a moment to drink, the liquid trickling down his throat and filling him with vitality. As he drank, he felt the shell's power wax and wane, a gentle reminder of the balance between his two worlds. Deeper in the ravine, the air grew denser, carrying with it whispers of ancient wisdom. Larry's curiosity piqued, he followed the sound until he reached a cavern, its entrance obscured by a waterfall's veil. He ducked under the cascading water, feeling it cleanse away his fear and the dust of his escape. The cavern was vast, illuminated by a soft, bioluminescent glow from the fungi that clung to the walls. The air was thick with the scent of age and secrets long forgotten. At the center of the cavern, an ancient tortoise, larger than any Larry had ever seen, sat upon a pedestal of stone. Its eyes, ancient and wise, met Larry's, and a silent understanding passed between them. The tortoise spoke in a language that seemed to resonate within the very fabric of Larry's being, a tongue of the earth and the stars. It told him of the shell's origins, of a time when humans and mythical creatures lived in harmony, sharing the gifts of transformation and protection. Larry listened intently, his heart swelling with the weight of the tale. The tortoise spoke of guardians, individuals chosen to wield the shells of the ancients and maintain balance in the world. Each shell held a different power, tailored to the soul it chose. The shells were not mere artifacts but living legacies, born from the very essence of the creatures they represented. The ancient tortoise explained that Larry's shell had once belonged to a great hero, a tortuga whose valor had protected the savannah from the ravages of darkness. Now, it was his turn to carry on that legacy. A tremor of excitement rippled through him. He was not just a man in a turtle's form; he was a guardian of the night.

By Carlos del Puente

 In a cave of salt, of his own stubborn will, he locked himself in with a defiant attitude to question the duration of infinity. He sought answers in the cold, damp silence, where echoes of his thoughts ricocheted against the stone walls like lost souls searching for a way out. The flickering light of a lone candle cast shadows that danced, taunting him with glimpses of possibilities. Was infinity merely a vast emptiness, or did it cradle secrets untold? With each passing moment, the weight of his introspection bore down, transforming the cavern into a crucible of revelation. In solitude, he confronted the insignificance of the ephemeral against the eternal, wrestling with the notion that perhaps the truest understanding lay not in answers, but in the relentless pursuit of the question itself. The air thickened with uncertainty as he reached deeper into the abyss of his consciousness grappling with the fabric of existence threaded by longing and regret. Shadows twisted into familiar shapes whispering memories once thought forgotten and dreams abandoned for the sake of mundanity. Each flicker of the candlelight ignited a spark of resolve He would not succumb to despair Instead he would embrace the chaos around him recognizing that within this turmoil lay the fragments of truth waiting to be woven into his own narrative a tapestry of experience threaded with understanding that only came from daring to ask and to seek and to find meaning in the shadows. With renewed determination he stepped forward into the darkness his steps echoing like a heartbeat in the void. Each footfall ignited a flicker of hope a reminder that even in the bleakest corners of existence light could still be found. Sometimes it whispered through the cracks of despair sometimes it roared like a wildfire but he intended to welcome it all He raised his gaze to the flickering flame that cast a glow upon the visage of the unknown daring it to reveal itself. He would embrace the journey knowing that every question, every uncertainty was a stepping stone into the heart of his own becoming. And as he navigated deeper the shadows began to recede revealing glimpses of a broader horizon illuminated by an inner light he had long neglected. Each heartbeat resonated with the pulse of the universe igniting an understanding that he was both the seeker and the sought an intertwining of paths leading him to the realization that in the dance of questions and answers lay the essence of life itself. He moved forward no longer afraid of the darkness but fueled by a newfound clarity knowing that the journey was not just about finding light but learning to dance within its embrace. In this embrace he became alight with possibility every question a step in a grand ballet of existence weaving him into the cosmos itself. The stars above called to him drawing back the veil of isolation as he recognized the interconnectedness of all things. Each doubt transformed into a partner in this intricate dance guiding him toward understanding that every experience contributed to the symphony of his life He beckoned the darkness closer letting it swirl around him not as a threat but as a canvas on which to project his hopes and dreams fueling his ascent into the boundless expanse of self-discovery that awaited him. As he surrendered to this cosmic choreography a deep peace settled within him harmonizing with the rhythm of his breath. Each moment unfolded like petals revealing hidden truths that had remained dormant within the corridors of his mind. He was learning that the edges of his fears could soften into opportunities and that vulnerability was not a weakness but a bridge toward profound connection. With each question he asked the canvas transformed swirling with colors of understanding illuminating the once impenetrable shadows as he realized that in every inquiry there lay not just an answer but a new realm of existence waiting to be explored. He felt the universe pulse around him an ever-expanding tapestry woven from the threads of curiosity and understanding As he embraced the questions that lingered like whispers in the twilight he sensed the shifting nature of reality itself. Each inquiry drew him closer to the heartbeat of existence revealing patterns in the chaos that had eluded him before. In this sacred space he began to see that every heartbeat echoed with echoes of ancient wisdom that transcended time and space urging him to continue this dance with the unknown. For within every uncertainty lay the promise of transformation waiting to be unveiled. And so he twirled within this vastness allowing the rhythms of the cosmos to guide him embracing the fluidity of his journey. Each step a ritual of awakening unlocking doors within his spirit that he never knew existed. He understood that the dance was not merely for himself but for all who had come before and those yet to tread this path. Together they formed a circle of seekers bound by the threads of inquiry illuminating the way forward. With every inhale he drew in the fragments of experience scattered like stardust across the universe and with every exhale he released his fears transforming them into the very light that would lead him home. He moved with grace through the currents of time and space where questions wove themselves into constellations guiding the lost and weary each step pulsating with the energy of creation. He felt the essence of each moment crystallizing into pearls of wisdom that shimmered in the abyss urging him to listen to the silent language of the universe that spoke in riddles and dreams. As he surrendered further into this dance he found joy rising within like the dawn breaking through the night illuminating the path ahead. He was not merely a seeker he was the embodiment of the quest itself a living testament to the power of inquiry and the eternal search for meaning. With each revelation he became more attuned to the harmony around him tracing the contours of existence as they unfolded like a grand symphony. Each note resonated with uncharted possibilities calling him to embrace the unknown as a companion rather than a foe. He realized that the questions he had once feared were the very keys to unlocking the doorways of understanding the gateways to deeper connections with others and the cosmos He surrendered to the flow feeling the pulse of life course through him intertwining destinies in a collective journey where every question ignited a spark of creation together lighting the way into an endless horizon of potential.

 There was for some years, during the Middle Ages, in Europe, a maleficent epidemic of rabies, of animal origin, which spread the fury of thirst both in villages, cities, along roads, throughout the expanse of forests. The inhabitants, terrified, began to see in every shadow a possible carrier of the disease, and paranoia took over hearts. The peasants, dressed in the rags of their poverty, locked themselves in their houses, while the once bustling villages turned into echoes of despair. The moon, which used to illuminate the paths, was now a silent witness of the spreading fear, because, with each night, tales of horrifying transformations arose. The insatiable thirst, a symbol of the delirium that accompanied the infected, spread like a shadow, threatening to erase the line between the being and the monster. In the marketplace, once filled with laughter and trade, only whispers of dread lingered, as if the air itself had thickened with the weight of impending doom. The elders gathered in the dim light of the tavern, their faces pale and drawn, sharing tales of those who had succumbed to the plague. With each passing day, the crops withered, and even the river seemed to murmur in anguish. Desperate minds turned to ancient superstitions, rituals long abandoned, seeking a glimmer of hope in the darkness that enveloped them, striving to reclaim the light of their forgotten humanity. As the chill of despair deepened, a figure cloaked in tattered robes appeared at the edges of the village, a whisper of salvation or further peril. The air crackled with anticipation as the villagers regarded the newcomer with a mix of suspicion and longing. "I have seen the darkness and the light," the figure proclaimed, their voice a haunting melody that drew the frightened hearts closer. With trembling hands, they produced a vial filled with a shimmering liquid, promising a cure but shrouded in uncertainty. Hope flickered briefly, yet dread lingered, as the choice weighed heavily against the backdrop of their agitation. In that moment, the crowd held its breath, caught between the allure of salvation and the fear of deception. Perhaps this elixir was a balm for their suffering or a siren's call to their doom. The elders exchanged wary glances, their wisdom battling with desperation. Was this stranger a healer or a harbinger of more despair? As whispers swirled around the gathering, a child stepped forward, drawing gasps from the crowd. With wide eyes, untainted by fear, they reached for the vial, embodying a courage that had long been buried under the weight of despair. The village held its breath, waiting. The figure paused, their gaze softening as they looked down at the child, a flicker of recognition passing like a fleeting shadow. "Courage," they murmured, "Is both a gift and a burden." The villagers felt the tension shift, hearts yearning for the innocence that the child represented. With trembling resolve, the child grasped the vial, lifting it high as if to pierce the veil of dread that enveloped them. "Let us choose hope," the child declared, their voice ringing clear and true, igniting a spark in the collective heart of the crowd. Slowly, others began to step forward, emboldened by the purity of that single act. A ripple of energy coursed through the crowd, igniting long-buried hopes. One by one, the villagers stepped forward, their voices blending into a chorus of resolve. "We will not cower in fear," they proclaimed. "We will seize this chance." The figure nodded, understanding their unspoken bond. As the moonlight bathed them in silver, the weight of the vial fell less heavily in the child’s hand. With a deep breath, the child uncorked the vial, a brilliant light spilling forth, illuminating faces that once wore masks of despair. In that moment, the darkness began to retreat, trembling before their unity. As the light danced around them, revealing the once-hidden beauty of their surroundings, the villagers felt an awakening. Laughter, long silenced, began to rise in joyous notes, mingling with the light as it breathed life into their weary spirits. The figure smiled, seeing hope blossom where fear had taken root. "Remember," they urged, "courage is a choice—and together, you possess the strength to forge a new path." With a renewed sense of purpose, the villagers gathered around the light, ready to face the shadows that still loomed, united in their determination to reclaim their lives and heal their land. Yet, as the first rays of dawn broke through the remnants of the night, a lingering doubt clung to the air. Shadows still lingered at the edges of their hearts, whispering of lurking dangers. The village elder, wise and aged, stepped forward, his voice steady yet soft. "Let us not forget the lessons of the past," he cautioned, "for the road to recovery is fraught with trials." The villagers nodded, feeling the weight of his words. They resolved to stand vigilant, embracing their hope while preparing for the many challenges ahead, ready to nurture the fragile light they had ignited. They began to forge a plan, uniting their skills and strengths, determined to confront whatever darkness might still threaten their home. Women gathered herbs from the surrounding woods, men reinforced the borders of the village, and children filled the air with laughter, their innocence a shield against despair. In the heart of the village, they planted seeds, not just in the soil but in their hearts—a promise to nurture life together. Each sunrise became a testament to their resilience, a reminder that hope, once sparked, could ignite a fire powerful enough to burn away the shadows that had haunted them for too long. As the weeks passed, the village transformed, each day unfolding a tale of renewal. The crops flourished under the careful hands of the villagers, laughter woven into the fabric of their daily lives. Yet whispers of the past still coursed through the air, a reminder of what they had overcome. One evening, as the sun dipped low, casting golden hues over the horizon, the figure returned, standing at the edge of the village. "You have done well," they said, their voice resonating like a gentle breeze. "But remember, the journey of healing is endless. Always cherish your unity."

By Carlos del Puente

Vamos a encontrar las entrecortadas casas. Obtener lo que nos viene. De su vida de casas. De su cuerpo de paredes. Su saliva chorrea las paredes. Miran impasibles como las plantas se mueren. De amor lloran pues están enamoradas de lo verde. Van metamorfoseando su color por mimetismo hacia el amarillo. Las partes donde la tierra se refleja se mantienen color tierra, a veces húmedo, a veces seca. A medida que el polvo entra toman el color de los callejeros trozos a la misma altura por donde van flotando. Mismo mimetismo para las plumas y pelusas. Cuando el animal doméstico se mueve o reposa mimetiza sus correspondientes elementos, incluidos los restos de su cloaca, o aliento o baba. Enfin, hasta los gases imitan las paredes.

Carlos del Puente

 Mirarse en el espejo tiempo. Dismorfia. Se paran los días y miran. Desigual cara. Nariz movida. Frente empequeñecida. Algo se menciona en el espejo. Los contornos mirados. Variación agitadas de las formas. Desagradables percepciones. Provocadas por el espejo. ¿Qué quiere? Se hace enigma. Enfatiza la apariencia. Hace luminosas señales. Se deforman los contornos. La persistencia del espejo. Al describir defecto físico. Absurda definición . La imagen enfatizando su persistencia. Absorbe toda la atención. Fenómenos de observación. Buscar la expresión facial, la postura, el andar conforme a la armonía. Para el imaginario disimulo. Delante de los otros espejos. Hundidas  mejillas sin hueso. Cuya piel agujeros. Inflaba el cuerpo para rellenar las partes hundidas. Con cuchillas corta los pliegues. Espejo en derecho bolsillo y bajo la almohada. De noche, cada equis tiempo, entre fase REM y fase REM, verificación de que la presión de la cama no ha deformado alguna parte del rostro. En el trabajo, continuos escapes al WC. Por la calle utilizar cualquier superficie reflectante. Y la forma de la propia sombra, estudiada durante años para corregir mentalmente su natural deformidad. Estudios específicos sobre los efectos en diferentes climas, bajo diferente luminosidad: en tiempo nublado, en tiempo con lluvia, en tiempo con sol según las diferentes horas y latitudes, en tiempo al anochecer, en tiempo al amanecer, con iluminación eléctrica de intensidad variable según las calles en diversas ciudades visitadas. 

Carlos del Puente

 Llevan una sola vida. Respondiendo a órdenes completas parasitarias de lo vivido. Sobre la pena incierta de su origen. La influencia de un entorno aislado nunca perdido propicio para todo hospedaje de las aisladas carreteras del amplio territorio americano. A cuya identificación se procederá. El huésped le dará, ocasionalmente, hospedaje si el registro de su nombre responde a la regularidad. Pues su nombre debe responder a ciertos criterios. A la mínima desviación se anula anticipadamente su inscripción en la reserva de espacio. No podrá instalarse en ninguna de las superficies disponibles en el local. Y si en ese momento se presenta alguna posible duda sobre la identidad, se emprenderá una investigación a través de los medios digitales disponibles. Debe venir con acompañante para cotejar el último punto de origen. Y confiemar con los medios del gps de su dispositivo que no se ha desviado por desviaciones prohibidas.

Carlos del Puente.

 Obras

Novelas

Lispector, Clarice (1944). Perto do coração selvagem. Río de Janeiro: Editôra Sabiá. OCLC 12084396. Trad. como Lispector, Clarice (2002). Cerca del corazón salvaje. Madrid: Siruela. ISBN 9788478445981. Trad. Basilio Losada.

Lispector, Clarice (1946). O lustre. Río de Janeiro: Agir. OCLC 3006394. Trad. como Lispector, Clarice (1977). La araña. Buenos Aires: Corregidor. OCLC 852837356. Trad. Haydée Jofré Barroso. También trad. como Lispector, Clarice (2006). La lámpara. Madrid: Siruela. ISBN 9788478442430. Trad. Elena Losada.

Lispector, Clarice (1948). A cidade sitiada. Río de Janeiro: A. Noite. OCLC 27458857.

Lispector, Clarice (1961). A maçã no escuro. Río de Janeiro: F. Alves. OCLC 11835031. Trad. como Lispector, Clarice (1974). La manzana en la oscuridad. Buenos Aires: Subamericana. OCLC 755063821. Trad. Juan García Gayo.

Lispector, Clarice (1964). A Paixão segundo G.H. Río de Janeiro: Editôra do Autor. OCLC 1203647. Trad. como Lispector, Clarice (1969). La pasión según G.H. Caracas: Monte Avila. OCLC 432477847. Trad. Juan García Gayo.

Lispector, Clarice (1969). Uma aprendizagem ou O livro dos prazeres. Río de Janeiro: Sabiá. OCLC 253534562. Trad. como Lispector, Clarice (1973). Un aprendizaje o el libro de los placeres. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana. OCLC 852837295. Trad. Juan García Gayo.

Lispector, Clarice (1973). A imitação da rosa. Río de Janeiro: Artenova. OCLC 248314247.

Lispector, Clarice (1973). Água viva. Río de Janeiro: Artenova. OCLC 248458000. Trad. como Lispector, Clarice (1973). Agua viva. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana. OCLC 3143243. Trad. Haydée M. Jofre Barroso.

Lispector, Clarice (1977). A hora da estrela. Río de Janeiro: Livraria J. Olympio. OCLC 4464583. Trad. como Lispector, Clarice (1989). La hora de la estrella. Madrid: Siruela. ISBN 9788478440092. Trad. Ana Poljak.

Lispector, Clarice (1978). Um sopro de vida: pulsações. Río de Janeiro: Nova Fronteira. ISBN 9788478444724.

Novelas para niños

Lispector, Clarice (1978). Quase de verdade. Río de Janeiro: Rocco. OCLC 5107717.

Lispector, Clarice (1967). O mistério do coelho pensante. Río de Janeiro: José Alvaro. OCLC 6233796.

Lispector, Clarice (1968). A mulher que matou os peixes. Río de Janeiro: Sabiá. OCLC 1362812.

Lispector, Clarice (1974). A vida íntima de Laura. Río de Janeiro: Olympio. OCLC 1988437.

Lispector, Clarice (1987). Como nasceram as estrelas: doze lendas brasileiras. Río de Janeiro: Rocco. ISBN 9788532510167.

Cuentos

Lispector, Clarice (1952). Alguns contos. Río de Janeiro: Ministério de Educaçaão e Saúde, Serviço de Documentação. OCLC 1360788.

Lispector, Clarice (1960). Laços de família. São Paulo: F. Alves. OCLC 1353572. Trad. como Lispector, Clarice (1973). Lazos de familia. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana. OCLC 3594109. Trad. Haydée M. Jofre Barroso.

Lispector, Clarice (1964). A Legião estrangeira. Río de Janeiro: Editôra do Autor. OCLC 728357603.

Lispector, Clarice (1971). Felicidade clandestina. Río de Janeiro: Sabiá. OCLC 249031752. Trad. como Lispector, Clarice (1988). Felicidad clandestina. Barcelona: Grijalbo. ISBN 9788425319365. Trad. Marcelo Cohen.

Lispector, Clarice (1974). A via crucis do corpo. Río de Janeiro: Artenova. OCLC 1348432.

Lispector, Clarice (1974). Onde estivestes de noite. Río de Janeiro: Artenova. OCLC 863341447. Trad. como Lispector, Clarice (2012). Dónde estuviste de noche. Buenos Aires: Cuenco de Plata. ISBN 9789871772452. Trad. Teresa Arijón y Bárbara Belloc. También trad. como Lispector, Clarice (1988). Silencio. Barcelona: Grijalbo. ISBN 9788425319969. Trad. Cristina Peri Rossi.

Lispector, Clarice (1979). A bela e a fera. Río de Janeiro: Nova Fronteira. OCLC 819707087.

Lispector, Clarice (2002). Cuentos reunidos. Madrid: Alfaguara. ISBN 9788420451343. Prólogo de Miguel Cossío Woodward y traducciones de Cristina Peri Rossi, Juan García Gayó, Marcelo Cohen y Mario Morales.

Otras

Lispector, Clarice (1978). Para não esquecer: crônicas. São Paulo: Ática. OCLC 896116960. Trad. como Lispector, Clarice (2007). Para no olvidar: crónicas y otros textos. Madrid: Siruela. ISBN 9788498410785. Trad. Elena Losada.

Lispector, Clarice (1984). A descoberta do mundo. Río de Janeiro: Nova Fronteira. OCLC 249030592. Trad. como Lispector, Clarice (2004). Revelación de un mundo. Buenos Aires: Hidalgo. ISBN 9789871156030. Trad. Amalia Sato. Crónicas.

Lispector, Clarice; Tavares Sabino, Fernando (2001). Cartas perto do coração. Río de Janeiro: Record. ISBN 9788501914330. Correspondencia con el escritor Fernando Sabino.

Lispector, Clarice (2002). Correspondências. Río de Janeiro: Rocco. ISBN 9788532514868.

Traducciones

Premios

1943: Graça Aranha Prize.33​

1961: Premio Jabuti de Literatura por Laços de Família en la categoría Contos, Crônicas, Novelas.34​

Referencias

 López, Alberto (10 de diciembre de 2018). «Clarice Lispector, la escritora incalificable en estilo y en forma». El País. Consultado el 15 de noviembre de 2021.

 Moser, 2009, p. 32

 Moser, 2009, p. 42

 Moser, 2009, p. 47-48

 Racciatti, Emilia (8 de diciembre de 2020). «A cien años de su nacimiento, un viaje al universo libertario de Clarice Lispector». www.telam.com.ar. Consultado el 9 de diciembre de 2020.

 Clarice Lispector. Felicidad Clandestina y Otros Relatos.

 Moser, 2009, p. 125

 Moser, 2009, p. 21

 Moser, 2009, p. 420

 Moser, 2009, p. 208

 Moser, 2009, p. 1

 Moser, 2009, p. 283

 Carrión, Jorge (7 de enero de 2018). «La pasión según Clarice Lispector». The New York Times. ISSN 0362-4331. Consultado el 9 de diciembre de 2020.

 «Traduções feitas por Clarice» (en portugués). Archivado desde el original el 23 de septiembre de 2014. Consultado el 9 de diciembre de 2020.

 Moser, 2009, pp. 282-284

 Peixoto, 1994, p. xx

 Moser, 2009, p. 383

 Moser, 2009, p. 384

 «Arquivo Clarice Lispector». www.casaruibarbosa.gov.br (en portugués). Consultado el 10 de diciembre de 2020.

 «Clarice Lispector». Instituto Moreira Salles (en portugués de Brasil). Consultado el 10 de diciembre de 2020.

 Galarraga Gortázar, Naiara (5 de diciembre de 2020). «Clarice Lispector: una biblioteca de secretos». EL PAÍS. Consultado el 10 de diciembre de 2020.

 Elena Losada Soler. «CLARICE LISPECTOR: LA PALABRA RIGUROSA».

 Fitz, 1985, p. 41-51

 Fitz, 1985, pp. 41-51

 Fitz, Earl E. (1985). Clarice Lispector. p. ??.

 Gutiérrez Giraldo, Rafael (1 de diciembre de 2020). «La búsqueda de Clarice Lispector». Letras Libres. Consultado el 9 de diciembre de 2020.

 Peixoto, Marta (1994). Passionate Fictions: Gender, Narrative, and Violence in Clarice Lispector. p. ??.

 Vieira, Nelson H. (1995). «Clarice Lispector: A Jewish Impulse and a Prophecy of Difference». Jewish Voices in Brazilian Literature: ??.

 Klobucka, Anna (1994). «Hélène Cixous and the Hour of Clarice Lispector». SubStance, University of Wisconsin Press. Vol. 23, No. 1, Issue 27: ??.

 Romero, Joaquín Mª Aguirre (2013). «Editorial: Clarice Lispector». Espéculo: Revista de Estudios Literarios. No. 51: ??.

 Rosenbaum, Yudith (24 de julio de 2020). «Las metamorfosis del mal. Centenario de Clarice Lispector». Brecha.

 Friera, Silvina (9 de diciembre de 2020). «Clarice Lispector, la escritora que escribía en medio de la vida | Se cumplen mañana 100 años de su nacimiento». PAGINA12. Consultado el 9 de diciembre de 2020.

 Marting, Diana E. (1993). Clarice Lispector: a Bio-Bibliography. p. 5.

 «Premiados 1961.62º Prêmio Jabuti». premiojabuti.com.br. Consultado el 7 de setembro de 2020.

Bibliografía

Battella Gotlib, Nádia (2013). Clarice. Uma vida que se conta, Editora da USP: Sao Paulo, ISBN: 978-85-314-1439-8.

Cixous, Hélène (1990). Reading with Clarice Lispector. Mineappolis: Université de Paris at Saint Denis.

Fitz, Earl E. (1985). Clarice Lispector. Boston, MA: Twayne. ISBN 9780805766059.

Marting, Diane E. (1993). Clarice Lispector: a Bio-Bibliography. West Port, Connecticut.

Merrell, Floyd (2012). Clarice Lispector: From A Process-Orientated View. New Jersey: Hansen Publishing Group, LLC.

Moser, Benjamin (2009). Why This World: A Biography of Clarice Lispector. Oxford: Oxford University Press. ISBN 9780195385564.

Peixoto, Marta (1994). Passionate Fictions: Gender, Narrative and Violence in Clarice Lispector. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. ISBN 9780816621583.

Vieira, Nelson H. (1995). Clarice Lispector: A Jewish Impulse and a Prophecy of Difference. Gainesville, Florida: Jewish Voices in Brazilian Literature.

Enlaces externos

Sitio web oficial sobre Clarice Lispector (en portugués)

https://jwa.org/encyclopedia/article/lispector-clarice (en inglés)

https://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/the-true-glamour-of-clarice-lispector (en inglés)

https://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/10607727/Clarice-Lispector-Morbidly-insensitive.html (en inglés)

https://www.lanacion.com.ar/lifestyle/clarice-lispector-la-escritora-que-cambio-para-siempre-la-literatura-brasilena-nid2080150/ (en español)

https://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clarice_Lispector#Obras

 Dans le marché aux puces. Pasan las oblicuas miradas delante de una plancha de madera de conglomerado de serrín sobre dos patas desplegables.

De bajada el encuentro. Desde su pequeño tamaño, las botas tacones planos hasta las rodillas semejantes a la altura del amor idealizado por la fascinación. Se trataba de saltar hacia la vacuna piel, de un impulso de ágil atleta. Subir hasta el borde del calzado y entre entre los hilos de las gruesas medias azul marino. Cloc cloc sonaba estridente los pies al andar; tal vez por la leve humedad en el interior acumulada. Descubrió en su nocturno deambular que dicha prenda cubría la carne hasta la cintura.

Carlos del Puente 

     Iba siguiendo el olor de su amo. Se abrió la última calle ante su baja vista. Lo vio, a unos cincuenta metros de noche, oliéndose con otros. Cara a cara. Alegres. Sin tocarse.

    Dio media vuelta buscándose con rabia el rabo. Saltaba como si le mordiesen miles de chinches el vientre y las ubres y sus ambas pudendas traseras partes. Sus patas impulsaban su torso en arco hacia arriba. Estuvo sin parar dando saltos durante cada día y cuatro años. Hasta que descubrió su ignorancia.

Carlos del Puente

 “Writing Techniques:

This is certainly how Burroughs's narratives work, no more, no less,

like the fatrasic montages of Philippe de Beaumanoir,

medieval satires,

lists copied from Rabelais,

the 17th-century burlesque transvestite novels (Scarron),

Gadda's macaronism,

Denis Roche's memoirs,

Michel Vachey's newsrooms,

the set of pictographic traces that Maurice Roche calls “asemic stereography”,

Joyce's sinuous polyglotism,

Pound's polycultural collages,

Cut-cut-Kodak by Cendrars boning and poetically re-kneading Gustave Lerouge's Doctor Cornelius,

the conversation-poems of Apollinaire,

the "words in the hat" of Dadaism,

the sarcastic amusements of the necessary plagiarist Lautréamont,

even that reassembly, editing, remixing of the Tradition that the Classics called “Imitation”.

Found on the web.

 “Técnicas de escritura:

Así funcionan sin duda las narrativas de Burroughs, ni más ni menos,

como los montajes fatrásicos de Philippe de Beaumanoir,

sátiras medievales,

listas copiadas de Rabelais,

las novelas travesti del burlesque del siglo XVII (Scarron),

el macaronismo de Gadda,

las memorias de Denis Roche,

las redacciones de Michel Vachey,

el conjunto de huellas pictográficas que Maurice Roche denomina “esterografía asémica”,

el sinuoso poliglotismo de Joyce,

los collages policulturales de Pound,

Cut-cut-Kodak de Cendrars deshuesando y reamasando poéticamente al Doctor Cornelius de Gustave Lerouge,

los poemas-conversaciones de Apollinaire,

las "palabras en el sombrero" del dadaísmo,

las diversiones sarcásticas del necesario plagiario Lautréamont,

incluso ese remontaje, edición, remezcla de la Tradición que los Clásicos llamaron “Imitación”.

Encontrado en la web.

 “Esas artes y esas técnicas escritura suponen, en efecto

(1) que las proposiciones verdaderamente importantes aparezcan en forma completa muy pocas veces en una obra (eventualmente nunca); 

(2) que, por regla general, las proposiciones frecuentemente repetidas no lo sean sin cierta variación, eventualmente ínfima, pero siempre reveladora; 

(3) que las proposiciones repetidas en forma estrictamente idéntica (cuando existen) se designen por dicho carácter como inesenciales o fragmentarias; 

(4) que el carácter principal de las proposiciones repetidas (con o sin variación) sea casi siempre su chatura, su inadecuación grosera respecto de los datos más evidentes, cuando no su incoherencia (éstos son los rasgos que han de suscitar la atención y justificar una lectura de «segundo tiempo»);

(5) que una obra compuesta de esta manera esté tejida mayoritariamente de proposiciones inesenciales, anodinas e ilógicas (en esto reside el enigma que ha de desentrañarse); 

(6) que en general toda proposición de una tal obra, para ser referida a lo importante, coherente y no trivial, deba ser leída como un fragmento por completar; el método consiste en conectarla con otras proposiciones de la obra, aparentemente poco compatibles, si no contradictorias, con la proposición estudiada, pero igualmente igualmente parciales.”

Leo Strauss, Persecution and the Art of Writing (1953).

 Le pintaba piececitos de elefante a las patas de la silla de madera. Sentado de espaldas a la cabeza, comía sobre la  mesa que presentaba la rectangular parte posterior del lomo del elefante, mientras esperaba de frente (hacia el ) (cara a), el carnicero salto del tigre evocado por los aventureros recovecos de la espesa y sombría selva.

Carlos del Puente

  Shakespeare ses miroirs dans chaque un des personnages de Hamlet

Todo aquello que se dice de cada personaje es Hamlet.

Hamlet no sabe aparentar.

¿Quién está ahí? ¿Hamlet, su sombra, o el muerto que se prepara para su propia ejecución? 

¿Se ha vuelto a aparecer aquella cosa esta  noche? Hamlet y el padre como cosa o desecho. Esa imagen de Hamlet que le adelanta lo que es ser un fantasma ya muerto.

¿No es enteramente parecido al Rey? Ese arnés que la imagen ata alrededor de nuestro cuerpo en el doble del espejo.

Hamlet la catástrofe del reino:

Hamlet se niega a aceptar la humana realidad. Destruye a todos para aniquilarla.

«¡Oh! ¡Si esta demasiado sólida masa de carne pudiera ablandarse y liquidarse, disuelta en lluvia de lágrimas! ¡O el Todopoderoso no asestara el cañón contra el homicida de sí mismo! 

¡Oh! ¡Dios! ¡Oh! ¡Dios mío! ¡Cuán fatigado ya de todo, juzgo molestos, insípidos y vanos los placeres del mundo! Nada, nada quiero de él, es un campo inculto y rudo, que sólo abunda en frutos groseros y amargos.»

Hamlet el padre: 

Querrá Hamlet que le hablen? O se irá, como despreciándonos, como el fantasma sin hablar a los extraños que no hacen espejo? Se pasea con ademán guerrero contras todos los otras, todos los espejos rotos que acabarán en la tumba. Este espíritu hablará con él, con su otro especular.

Siendo él un Soberano en hacer demostraciones de violencia.

«Era un hombre tan cabal en todo que no espero hallar otro semejante.» Ni al padre ni a Hamlet.

«Una figura, semejante a vuestro padre, armada según él solía de pies a cabeza.» Armados ambos contra el otro.

«La Sombra volvió en efecto.» Hamlet, la sombra.

« Sí señor, yo le hablé; pero no me dio respuesta alguna.» Solo habla con su doble.

Hamlet Ofelia:

Laertes hermano de Ofelia:

El joven Fortimbrás:  

Recobrar con violencia y a fuerza de armas los mencionados países que perdió su padre. Hamlet pretende lo mismo por la fuerza contra las personas sus dobles imágenes quienes le han arrebatado sus otros. Hamlet, visión espantosa destructora. 

Hamlet espíritu errante:

Su tío Claudio:

Como delincuente, como el tío infractor de la ley. «Ni es natural en el hombre tan permanente afecto; que anuncia una voluntad rebelde a los decretos de la Providencia, un corazón débil, un alma indócil, un talento limitado y falto de luces.»

«... quiero que seas otro yo...»

Gertrudis, madre de Hamlet:

¿Sabe aparentar como normal o no sabe aparentar? ¿Está captado por el semblante o Hamlet hace como si? ¿Está en las exterioridades de sentimiento o realmente sufre? 

«Yo tenía doce años y hasta mucho después ignoraba todos los asuntos sexuales.»

«Recuerdo una lamida que me dieron ─en las piernas, ¡porque azotar las nalgas excita la sensualidad de la víctima!─ quince minutos de oración, quince golpes de bastón, quince minutos más de oración, quince golpes más ... ¡y más oración para colmo!»

«...la idea de la comunión íntima con "Jesús" estaba constantemente presente en mi mente.»

«Así que formulé la ambición de convertirme en una luz brillante en el cristianismo al hacer algo que aún no se había hecho.»

«Soy totalmente incapaz de interesarme en hacer algo que se haya hecho antes. Pero háblame de una supuesta imposibilidad; y la salud, la riqueza, la vida misma no son nada. Estoy dispuesto a hacerlo.»

«...en la narrativa del evangelio no despertó dudas en mi mente en cuanto a la verdad literal de cualquiera de los textos.»

«Simplemente me pasé al lado de Satanás; ya esta hora no puedo decir por qué.»

«Quería un pecado espiritual supremo; y yo no tenía la menor idea de cómo hacerlo.»

«Porque (evidentemente) mi posición era sumamente precaria. Me opuse a un Dios omnipotente; y por todo lo que yo sabía en contrario, Él podría haberme predestinado a ser salvo. No importa cuánto no creyera en Jesús, no importa cuántos crímenes acumulé, Él podría atraparme a pesar de mí mismo. La única posibilidad de burlarlo era traerlo contra Su propia promesa de que este pecado en particular nunca debería ser perdonado, con un certificado del ángel registrador de que lo había hecho debidamente.»

«Además de esto, nunca tuve un momento de inclinación a tomar el mundo material en serio.»

«Mis sentidos y mi juicio racional crearon un sentimiento subconsciente de inquietud ante la posibilidad de que el sobrenaturalismo no fuera cierto. Esto insultó mi más íntima conciencia de mí mismo. Pero la respuesta no fue aceptar lo falso por verdadero, sino determinar hacerlo verdadero. Resolví apasionadamente llegar a las causas espirituales de los fenómenos y dominar el mundo material que detestaba por sus medios. No me contenté con creer en un demonio personal y servirle, en el sentido corriente de la palabra. Quería ponerme en contacto con él personalmente y convertirme en su jefe de personal.»

«...para mí era completamente ininteligible. Frecuenté a los muchachos cuya reputación de maldad estaba mejor establecida, y mi investigación me dirigió aún más un sentido intuitivo de magnetismo o apreciación de la fisonomía. Pero el reino del terror estaba tan firmemente establecido en la escuela que a nadie le importaba decirme directamente la naturaleza de este pecado, incluso cuando se admitía su conocimiento.»

«Se dieron pistas misteriosas; y por fin un chico llamado Gibson me dijo qué acción hacer, pero no me dijo a qué objeto aplicar el proceso. Parece extraordinario que la naturaleza no me haya dado ninguna indicación. No conecto el órgano de reproducción con ningún acto voluntario. Hice conjeturas dictadas por consideraciones puramente intelectuales y realicé experimentos basados ​​en sus resultados; pero fueron absolutamente mal dirigidos. Nunca adiviné qué órgano estaba en cuestión.

El descubrimiento se retrasó durante años.»

«También estaba poseída por el demonio del litigio y se imaginaba agraviada por varios miembros de la familia.»

«Su personalidad me atraía mucho y ocupaba en mis afectos ese lugar que yo no podía darle a mi madre.»

«Siempre he sido intensamente leal incluso a mis enemigos, y (por lo que sabía) el juez podría enviar a mi madre y a su hermano a la cárcel.»

Aleister Crowley, Las confesiones

 «No aceptaría el favor ni el honor de nadie menos que Jesucristo.»

«No tiene miedo de ser golpeado o cortado; pero la idea de ser traspasado le perturba los nervios. Tiene que recomponerse con mucha fuerza incluso en el caso de una jeringa hipodérmica.»

«...una vez le preguntó a su primo: "Sé cruel conmigo".»

«La actitud del niño hacia sus padres es uno de los hechos más notables de sus primeros años de vida. Su padre era su héroe y su amigo, aunque, por una razón u otra, no había una intimidad o comprensión consciente real. Siempre le disgustó y despreció a su madre. Había una repulsión física y un desprecio intelectual y social. La trataba casi como a una sirvienta. Quizás sea por eso que no recuerda prácticamente nada de ella durante este período. Ella siempre lo enfureció. Recuerda un domingo cuando lo encontró leyendo a Martin Rattler y lo regañó. Edward Crowley tomó su parte. Si el libro era lo suficientemente bueno como para leerlo cualquier día, ¿por qué no el domingo? Para Edward Crowley, todos los días eran el Día del Señor; el sabbatarianismo era el judiasmo.»

«No recuerda a ninguno de los muchachos...»

«Totalmente impenitente, comenzó a desear la muerte del Viejo Habershon. Curiosamente, esto ocurrió en unas pocas semanas; y sin vacilar se atribuyó el mérito a sí mismo.»

«El intelecto del niño era asombrosamente precoz.»

«Es un poco difícil explicar la psicología del niño en este período. Probablemente estaba determinado por su admiración por su padre, el líder de hombres grande, fuerte y cordial, que influyó en miles de personas con su elocuencia. Sinceramente deseaba seguir esos poderosos pasos y por eso se esforzó por imitar al gran hombre lo mejor que pudo. En consecuencia, pretendía ser el seguidor más devoto de Jesús en la escuela. No fue hipócrita en ningún sentido.»

«El primero ha dejado numerosas huellas, principalmente de carácter visual;»

«...el carácter de un niño normalmente travieso con cierta habilidad para jugar con la psicología de otras personas.»

«La satisfacción suprema es poder despreciar al prójimo...»

«No conocía a ningún superior que no fuera su padre;»

«...pero el resultado principal fue indudablemente estimular su orgullo y ambición en un grado muy malsano. Su posición social y financiera, la obvia envidia de sus asociados, su indudable destreza personal, física e intelectual, todo se combinaba para que le fuera imposible estar satisfecho de ocupar cualquier lugar del mundo que no fuera la cima.»

«El niño no podía aspirar a convertirse en primer ministro o incluso en rey; ya estaba aparte...»

«Es como si el evento que ocurrió en ese momento creara una nueva facultad en su mente. Había surgido un nuevo factor y su nombre era muerte.»

«Su padre se había puesto enfermo.»

«...cáncer de lengua.»

«El 5 de marzo de 1887 murió Edward Crowley.»

«Durante los años que siguieron, el niño y el hombre soñaron repetidamente que su madre estaba muerta; pero el día de su muerte él, entonces a tres mil millas de distancia, tuvo el mismo sueño, salvo que se diferenciaba de los demás por poseer esta peculiar cualidad indescriptible pero inconfundible que recordaba en relación con la muerte de su padre.

Desde el momento del funeral, la vida del niño entró en una fase completamente nueva. El cambio fue radical.»

«Este fue el primer síntoma de un cambio total de su actitud ante la vida en todos los aspectos. Parece obvio que la muerte de su padre debe haber estado relacionada causalmente con ella. Pero aun así, los hechos siguen siendo inexplicables.(...) casi increíble que sea el mismo niño.

Antes de la muerte de Edward Crowley, los recuerdos de su hijo, por vívidos o detallados que sean, le parecen extrañamente impersonales. Al volver su mente a ese período, siente, aunque la atención suscita constantemente nuevos hechos, que está investigando el comportamiento de otra persona. Solo a partir de este punto comienza a pensar en sí mismo en primera persona. A partir de este punto, sin embargo, lo hace; y es capaz de continuar esta autohagiografía en un estilo más convencional hablando de sí mismo como "yo".»

«Por supuesto, la ausencia de casta determina la pérdida de virilidad y viceversa.»

«Las opiniones religiosas de mi padre habían tendido a alejarlo de su familia;»

«Dentro de sus límites, era un hombre de aguda inteligencia y gran capacidad ejecutiva y organizativa. Un Manning más una sinceridad intolerante; un Cotton Mather sin imaginación; se podría incluso decir que un Pablo privado de habilidad lógica, y este defecto suplido por una arrogancia invulnerable. Era inaccesible a la duda; sabía que tenía razón en todos los puntos.»

«Obedeció ciegos impulsos salvajes y los tomó por las sanciones de el Todopoderoso.

A las glándulas lagrimales de un cocodrilo añadió las entrañas de la compasión de un rinoceronte de hierro fundido; con la mezquindad y crueldad de un eunuco combinó la avaricia calculadora de un judío escocés, sin el whisky de uno ni la imaginación compasiva de Pérfido e hipócrita como el jesuita de la fábula protestante, era untuoso como Uriah Heep, y por lo demás poseía los vicios de Joseph Surface y Tartuffe; sin embargo, sin las debilidades humanas que los hacen posibles, era un hombre más virtuoso y por lo tanto un villano más odioso.

"En el aspecto de un simio afeitado, en la figura de un perro salchicha dislocado, su apariencia personal era a primera vista poco atractiva.»

«De inigualable astucia, su discurso fue plausible;ocultó su genio bajo una máscara de inigualable mediocridad y su fuerza intelectual bajo el manto de la piedad.»

«Asociado de criaturas de una Providencia inescrutable como Coote y Torrey, superó a uno en santurronería, al otro en intolerancia, aunque siempre pensó que el chantaje era demasiado arriesgado y la calumnia un error táctico1.

«No más fanático cruel, ni villano más mezquino, jamás pisó esta tierra. Mi padre, a pesar de lo descabellado que era, tenía humanidad y cierto grado de sentido común; tenía una mente lógica y nunca confundió lo espiritual con lo material.»

No sé si mi tío Tom pudo haber encontrado algún argumento en contra de esta teoría, pero en la práctica le horrorizaba lo que llamaba pecado, exagerado casi hasta el punto de la locura. Su talento, casi puedo decir que su genio2, le dieron una tremenda influencia. En su propia casa era un tirano mezquino y despiadado; y fue en esta guarida de amarga esclavitud que de repente fui arrojado de mi posición de aire fresco, libertad y herencia.»

«...me sabía la mayor parte de Hamlet de memoria.»

«...que siempre me llenaba de intensa repulsión física.»

«Una anécdota arroja una luz curiosa sobre mi personaje en estos primeros días y también revela que ella posee un cierto sentido del humor. Algunos años antes, en el andén de Redhill con mi padre, había visto en la librería Across Patagonia de Lady Florence Dixie. El nombre largo me fascinó; Le rogué que me lo comprara y lo hizo. El nombre se me quedó y decidí ser Rey de la Patagonia. Los psicoanalistas se enterarán con agrado de que el nombre de mi capital era Margaragstagregorstoryaka. "Margar" se deriva de Margaret, reina de Enrique VI, quien fue mi personaje favorito en la historia. Esto es muy significativo, ya que indica el tipo de mujer que siempre he admirado. Quiero que sea perversa, independiente, valiente, ambiciosa, etc. No puedo colocar el "ragstag", pero probablemente sea eufónico.

"Gregor" es, por supuesto, mi primo; "historia" es lo que entonces era mi forma favorita de diversión. No puedo colocar el "yaka", pero probablemente eso sea eufónico.

No puedo imaginar por qué, a esta edad tan temprana, cultivé una profunda aversión y desprecio por la reina Victoria. ¡Simplemente, quizás, el instinto limpio y decente de un niño! Anuncié mi intención de liderar las fuerzas de la Patagonia contra ella. Un día, mi tía Ada me llevó a tomar el té en casa de Gunters; y me entregaron un documento oficial de aspecto importante. Fue la respuesta de la reina Victoria. Iba a hacer pedazos mi capital y a tratarme personalmente de una manera muy desagradable. Este documento fue sellado con una etiqueta marcada con un ancla para sugerir espanto naval, tomada para este propósito de la punta de un carrete de algodón. Pero me tomé el documento muy en serio y estaba terriblemente asustado.»

«...la muerte de mi padre había aumentado enormemente el fanatismo religioso de mi madre;»

«...me devané los sesos para descubrir algunos crímenes realmente abominables que cometer.»

«Creo que ella tenía miedo de criarme...»

«No puedo soportar a personas que son superiores o inferiores a otras, sino solo a aquellas que, cualquiera que sea su posición en la vida, son conscientemente únicas y supremos.»

«...rara vez me siento en casa, a menos que esté con un genio supremo como Augustus John.»

«Las personas que realmente han hecho historia son los mártires.»

«Pero siento tan profundamente la urgencia de hacer mi voluntad...»

«Tendría que dar cuenta de "cada palabra ociosa". Le horrorizaba pensar que podría ser atrapado por la Segunda Venida en un momento en el que no estaba activa e intensamente comprometido en la obra que Dios le había enviado al mundo para hacer. Este sentido de la importancia del acto más ligero, del valor de cada momento, ha sido un factor trágicamente intenso en mi vida. Siempre he lamentado el tiempo necesario para comer, dormir y vestirme. He inventado disfraces con el único objetivo de minimizar la pérdida de tiempo3 y la distracción de la atención que conlleva. Nunca uso ropa interior. El "magnetismo" de hombres y mujeres tiene como base física el sudor: en la salud este es escaso y muy fragante. Cualquier defecto debe remediarse instantáneamente: no hay señal de peligro más segura que la transpiración fea o excesivamente profusa.»

«Del mismo modo, nunca pude memorizar las "repeticiones" ordinarias de la poesía griega y latina.»

«Parece que tengo un instinto para apreciar las relaciones de números puros y pude encontrar factores por intuición.»

«Mi actividad intelectual siempre ha sido intensa. Precisamente por eso no podía soportar perder un momento en temas que me parecían ajenos a mi interés, aunque no tenía ni idea de cuál era ese interés.»

«También tenía un plan para fabricar diamantes. Por varias analogías llegué a la conclusión de que se podría hacer...»

Aleister Crowley

 «Otro grupo de incidentes de la primera infancia.»

 «...ha amado los vertederos desde entonces.»

 «Y recuerda el primer indicio de que su mente era de orden lógico y científico.»

 «Nunca ha sido capaz de pronunciar la "R" correctamente.»

 «Las mujeres no tienen piernas.»

 «...el cínico tal vez pueda rastrear la raíz de un cierto humor sarcástico.»

 «...los incidentes más insignificantes de la vida se interpretaron necesariamente como parte de un plan preestablecido,...»

 «...jugar solo en el jardín.»

 «Pero saltó a la conclusión de que "el Señor había venido", y que él se había quedado atrás ". Se entendía que no había esperanza para las personas en esta posición. Aparte de la Segunda Venida, siempre era posible ser salvo hasta el mismo momento de la muerte; pero una vez que los santos fueron llamados, el día de gracia finalmente terminó.»

 «Por otro lado, los inconversos fueron al lago de fuego y azufre que arde por los siglos de los siglos.»

 «...su delirio agonizante había dejado una profunda impresión en el hijo de la casa.»

 «Su viuda continuó enviando folletos, etc. Durante años después de su muerte.» “Añadido por mi:(de su padre Edward Crowley)”.

 «Como predicador, Edward Crowley fue magníficamente elocuente y habló con el corazón.»

 «El niño, que en este período fue llamado por el terrible nombre de Alick, supuso que era una ley de la naturaleza que la reina Victoria nunca moriría...»

 «A los cuatro años podía leer perfectamente bien. Lo extraño de esto no es tanto su precocidad como el hecho de que estaba mucho menos interesado en las narraciones bíblicas que en los largos nombres hebreos.»

 «A menudo se pregunta si este rasgo curioso fue sintomático de sus logros...»

 «La idea era "evitar incluso la apariencia del mal";»

 «Otro recuerdo temprano. El 29 de febrero de 1808, Alick fue llevado a ver el cadáver de su hermana, Grace Mary Elizabeth, que solo había vivido cinco horas. El incidente le causó una curiosa impresión. No veía por qué debía ser molestado tan inútilmente. No podía hacer nada bueno; el niño estaba muerto; no era de su incumbencia. Esta actitud continuó a lo largo de su vida. Nunca ha asistido a ningún funeral, salvo al de su padre, que no le importaba, ya que se sentía el verdadero centro de interés. Pero cuando otros han muerto, aunque en dos casos al menos su corazón fue desgarrado como por una bestia salvaje, y su vida realmente arruinada durante meses y años por la catástrofe, siempre se ha apartado de los hechos necrológicos y las orgías habituales. Puede ser que tenga una convicción innata profundamente arraigada de que la conexión de una persona con su cuerpo es puramente simbólico. Pero también existe la sensación de que el hecho de la muerte destruye todo interés posible;»

 «Ni siquiera se uniría al grupo de búsqueda después del accidente de Kangchenjunga. ¿Qué objeto había en sacar cadáveres congelados de debajo de una avalancha? Los cadáveres mismos no lo repelen;»

 «Otro grupo de incidentes de la primera infancia.»

 «Estaba confundido en su mente con "Monstruo".»

 «Por otro lado, ¿el recuerdo subconsciente de encarnaciones anteriores, o el alma oriental de él, o el hecho de que lo tomó después de haber aprendido la tontería del miedo?»

 «...la pregunta de su padre: "¿Me creerás en mi palabra o prefieres aprender por experiencia?" Él respondió: "Preferiría aprender por experiencia",...»

 «...siempre le ha disgustado viajar en vehículos inusuales a menos que él mismo tenga el control.»

 «Es muy importante mencionar que la mente del niño era casi anormalmente normal.(...) Estaba fascinado por los pasajes misteriosamente proféticos, especialmente los del Apocalipsis.»

 «Prefería el Dragón, el Falso Profeta, la Bestia y la Mujer Escarlata, por ser más emocionantes. Se deleitaba con las descripciones del tormento. Se puede sospechar, además, una cepa de masoquismo congénito. Le gustaba imaginarse a sí mismo en agonía; en particular, le gustaba identificarse con la Bestia cuyo número es el número de un hombre, seiscientos tres con seis. Solo se puede conjeturar que fue el misterio del número lo que determinó esta elección infantil.»

 «Muchos de los recuerdos, incluso de la primera infancia, parecen ser los de un individuo bastante adulto. Es como si la mente y el cuerpo del niño fueran un mero médium que se prepara para la expresión de un alma completa que ya existe.»

 «Este sentimiento es muy fuerte; e implica una convicción inquebrantable...»

 «La explicación difícilmente puede dejar de implicar la existencia de un espíritu inmanente (el verdadero yo) que usa encarnaciones, y posiblemente muchos otros medios, de vez en cuando para observar el universo en un punto de enfoque particular, tanto como un telescopio resuelve. una nebulosa.»

 «El masoquismo congénito del que hemos hablado exige una mayor investigación. Toda su vida ha sido casi indebidamente sensible al dolor, físico, mental y moral. No hay perversión en él que lo haga placentero, sin embargo, la fantasía de desear ser lastimado ha persistido en su imaginación despierta, aunque nunca se manifiesta en sus sueños. Es probable que estas peculiaridades estén relacionadas con ciertos hechos anatómicos curiosos.»

 «Si bien su masculinidad está por encima de lo normal, tanto fisiológicamente como atestiguado por su poderoso crecimiento de barba, tiene ciertas características femeninas bien marcadas. No solo sus extremidades son tan delgadas y elegantes como las de una niña, sino que sus pechos están desarrollados en un grado bastante anormal. Hay, pues, una especie de hermafroditismo en su estructura física; y esto se expresa naturalmente en su mente. Pero mientras que, en la mayoría de los casos similares, las cualidades femeninas aparecen a expensas de la virilidad, en él se añaden a un tipo masculino perfectamente normal. El efecto principal ha sido permitirle comprender la psicología de la mujer, mirar cualquier teoría con ojos comprensivos e imparciales y dotarlo de instintos maternos en los planos espirituales.»

 «Ha sabido filosofar sobre la naturaleza desde el punto de vista de un ser humano completo; ciertos fenómenos siempre serán ininteligibles para los hombres como tales, otros, para las mujeres como tales. Él, al ser ambos a la vez, ha podido formular una visión de la existencia que combina lo positivo y lo negativo, lo activo y lo pasivo, en una única ecuación idéntica. Finalmente, a medida que la salvaje pasión masculina por crear...»

 «La presente investigación debe tener un valor ético extraordinario, ya que debe ser una circunstancia poco común que un sujeto con cualidades tan anormales tan claramente marcadas se haya entrenado para el autoanálisis íntimo y haya mantenido un registro casi diario de su vida y trabajo que se extiende a lo largo de casi todo el mundo. un cuarto de siglo.»

Aleister Crowley