o caderno dourado; limiar

capa da 1º edición orixinal
1962

The shape of this novel is as follows:

There is a skeleton, or frame, called Free Women, which is a conventional short novel, about 60,000 words long, and which could stand by itself. But it is divided into five sections and separated by stages of the four Notebooks, Black, Red, Yellow and Blue. The Notebooks are kept by Anna Wulf, a central character of Free Women. She keeps four, and not one because, as she recognizes, she has to separate things off from each other, out of fear of chaos, of formlessness — of breakdown. Pressures, inner and outer, end the Notebooks; a heavy black line is drawn across the page of one after another. But now that they are finished, from their fragments can come something new, The Golden Notebook.

Throughout the Notebooks people have discussed, theorized, dogmatized, labelled, compartmented — sometimes in voices so general and representative of the time that they are anonymous, you could put names to them like those in the old Morality Plays, Mr Dogma and Mr I-am-Free-Because-I-Belong-Nowhere, Miss I-Must-Have-Love-and-Happiness and Mrs I-Have-to-be-Good-At-Everything-I-Do, Mr Where-is-a-Real-Woman? and Miss Where-is-a-Real-Man?, Mr I’m-Mad-Because-They-Say-I-Am, and Miss Life-Through-Experiencing-Everything, Mr I-Make-Revolution-and-Therefore-I-Am, and Mr and Mrs If-We-Deal-Very-Well-With-This-Small-Problem-Then-Perhaps-We-Can- Forget-We-Daren’t-Look-at-The-Big-Ones. But they have also reflected each other, been aspects of each other, given birth to each other’s thoughts and behaviour — are each other, form wholes. In the inner Golden Notebook, things have come together, the divisions have broken down, there is formlessness with the end of fragmentation — the triumph of the second theme, which is that of unity. Anna and Saul Green the American ‘break down’. They are crazy, lunatic, mad — what you will. They ‘break down’ into each other, into other people, break through the false patterns they have made of their pasts, the patterns and formulas they have made to shore up themselves and each other, dissolve. They hear each other’s thoughts, recognize each other in themselves. Saul Green, the man who has been envious and destructive of Anna, now supports her, advises her, gives her the theme for her next book, Free Women — an ironical title, which begins: ‘The two women were alone in the London flat.’ And Anna, who has been jealous of Saul to the point of insanity, possessive and demanding, gives Saul the pretty new notebook,The Golden Notebook, which she has previously refused to do, gives him the theme for his next book, writing in it the first sentence: ‘On a dry hillside in Algeria a soldier watched the moonlight glinting on his rifle.’ In the inner Golden Notebook, which is written by both of them, you can no longer distinguish between what is Saul and what is Anna, and between them and the other people in the book.

This theme of ‘breakdown’, that sometimes when people ‘crack up’ it is a way of self-healing, of the inner self’s dismissing false dichotomies and divisions, has of course been written about by other people, as well as by me, since then. But this is where, apart from the odd short story, I first wrote about it. Here it is rougher, more close to experience, before experience has shaped itself into thought and pattern — more valuable perhaps because it is rawer material.

But nobody so much as noticed this central theme, because the book was instantly belittled, by friendly reviewers as well as by hostile ones, as being about the sex war, or was claimed by women as a useful weapon in the sex war.

I have been in a false position ever since, for the last thing I have wanted to do was to refuse to support women.

To get the subject of Women’s Liberation over with — I support it, of course, because women are second-class citizens, as they are saying energetically and competently in many countries. It can be said that they are succeeding, if only to the extent they are being seriously listened to. All kinds of people previously hostile or indifferent say: ‘I support their aims but I don’t like their shrill voices and their nasty ill-mannered ways.’ This is an inevitable and easily recognizable stage in every revolutionary movement: reformers must expect to be disowned by those who are only too happy to enjoy what has been won for them. I don’t think that Women’s Liberation will change much though — not because there is anything wrong with its aims, but because it is already clear that the whole world is being shaken into a new pattern by the cataclysms we are living through: probably by the time we are through, if we do get through at all, the aims of Women’s Liberation will look very small and quaint.

www.lettersofnote.com

The Golden Notebook

Doris Lessing

1962

texto traducido ao galego por Eva Almazán e publicado como

o caderno dourado

Vigo, Galaxia, 2009

A forma desta novela é a seguinte:

Hai un esqueleto, ou unha armazón, que baixo o título Mulleres liberadas constitúe unha novela breve convencional, dunhas 60.000 palabras, e que podería sosterse por si mesma. Aparece dividida, non obstante, en cinco partes, mediante a intercalación das fases dos catro cadernos, negro, vermello, amarelo e azul. Os cadernos escríbeos Anna Wulf, unha das protagonistas de Mulleres liberadas. Redacta catro cadernos, e non un, porque percibe a necesidade de discriminar, movida polo temor do caos, da amorfia, da desintegración. As presións, tanto internas coma externas, marcan a fin dos cadernos: unha grosa raia negra acaba atravesando a páxina de todos eles, un detrás do outro. Xa abandonados, non obstante, dos seus fragmentos pode xurdir algo novo: O caderno dourado.

Nas páxinas dos cadernos a xente teoriza, dogmatiza, etiqueta, compartimenta, as veces con voces tan xerais e tan representativas da súa época que resultan anónimas, que poderían recibir nomes ao modo das moralidades medievais, o señor Dogma e o señor Son-libre-porque-non-teño-lugar-fixo, a señorita Teño-que-atopar-o-amor-e-a-felicidade e a señora Teño-que-sobresaír-en-todo-canto-fago, o señor Onde-van-asmulleres-de-verdade e a señorita Onde-van-os-homes-de-verdade, o señor Estou-tolo-porque-os-demais-din-que-o-estou e a señorita Vivir-é-experimentalo-todo, o señor Fago-a-revolución-logo-existo e o matrimonio Se-resolvemos-moi-beneste-problemiña-daquela-igual-damos-esquecido-que-non-ousamos-enfrontarnos-aos-grandes. Mais esas persoas tamén se reflicten entre si, son facetas uns dos outros, paren os pensamentes e os comportamentos dos demais, son os outros, forman totalidades. No caderno dourado do interior encáixase todo, esboróanse as divisións, chega a amorfia coa fin da fragmentación; é o triunfo do segundo motivo, a saber, a unidade. Anna e o americano Saul Green "esboróanse". Están tolos, loucos, dementes: chámaselle o que se queira. "Esboróanse" e os anacos dun mestúranse cos do outro, caen dentro doutras persoas, rachan coas pautas falsas en que converteron o seu pasado, disólvense os modelos e as fórmulas que os dous crearon como apuntalamento de si mesmos. Oen os pensamentos do outro, recoñecen o outro en si mesmos. Saul Green, o home que envexou a Anna e desexou destruíla, apóiaa agora, dálle consello, fornécea dun tema para o seu seguinte libro, Mulleres liberadas -irónico título-, que comeza así: "As dúas mulleres estaban soas no piso de Londres". E Anna, cuxos celos por Saul chegaron ao extremo da demencia, que se mostrou posesiva e esixente, regálalle a Saul o precioso caderno novo, o cadera dourado que anteriormente lle negara, e proporciónalle o tema do seu seguinte libro ao escribirlle nel a primeira frase: "Na ladeira reseca dun monte alxeriano, o soldado contemplaba o escintileo do luar no rifle". No caderno dourado do interior, que escribiron entrambos os dous, xa non se pode distinguir o que é Saul do que é Anna, nin separalos a eles das outras persoas do libro.

Este tema do "esboroamento", a idea de que ás veces a "crebadura" das persoas constitúe unha forma de autocuración, o motivo do eu interior que desbota as falsas dicotomías e divisións, xa foi tratado desde entón, non cabe dúbida, por outros escritores, entre eles eu mesma. Mais este texto foi o primeiro -con excepción dalgún relato breve- en que escribías sobre ese tema. O tratamento é máis basto, máis próximo á experiencia, antes de que adoptase forma de idea e modelo; talvez por ser un material menos elaborado sexa tamén máis valioso.

Mais ninguén chegou sequera a recoñecer que ese era o tema central do texto, pois o libro foi degradado instantaneamente, tanto polos críticos eloxiosos coma polos hostís, á categoría de novela sobre a guerra de sexos, ou foi brandido polas mulleres como arma práctica nesa guerra.

Desde entón encóntrome nunha situación comprometida, porque o último que desexei nunca foi negarlles o meu apoio as mulleres.

capa da edición galega

Saquemos definitivamente do medio a cuestión da liberación feminina: estou a favor, por suposto, porque as mulleres somos cidadás de segunda, tal e como elas mesmas están a expresar con enerxía e competencia en moitos países. Pódese dicir que a iniciativa ten éxito, aíndá que so sexa porque conseguen que as escoiten e as tomen en serio. Todo tipo de persoas que no pasado as vían con hostilidade ou con indiferenza din agora: "Eu apoio os seus obxectivos, pero desagrádanme as súas voces estridentes e os seus insidiosos malos modos". Trátase dunha fase inevitable e perfectamente recoñecible de calquera movemento revolucionario incipiente: os reformadores han de contar co repudio daqueles que gozan con grande alegría do que outros conquistaron para o seu beneficio. Con todo, non creo que a liberación feminina vaia mudar demasiado as cousas, e non por haber eivas nas súas metas, senón porque xa quedou claro que o mundo enteiro está a acomodarse nun novo modelo por obra das sacudidas cataclísmicas que experimentamos: para cando saiamos desa fase, se algún día saímos, é probable que as, metas da liberación feminina nos parezan insignificantes e pintorescas.

bon-bon

Bon-Bon

Quand un bon vin meuble mon estomac, 

Je suis plus savant que Balzac ---

Plus sage que Pibrac;

Mon brass seul faisant l'attaque

De la nation Cossaque,

La mettroit au sac;

De Charon je passerois le lac,

En dormant dans son bac;

J'irois au fier Eac,

Sans que mon coeur fit tic ni tac,

Présenter du tabac.

French Vaudeville.

THAT Pierre Bon-Bon was a restaurateur of uncommon qualifications, no man who, during the reign of ---------, frequented the little Câfé in the cul-de-sac Le Febvre at Rouen, will, I imagine, feel himself at liberty to dispute. That Pierre Bon-Bon was, in an equal degree, skilled in the philosophy of that period is, I presume, still more especially undeniable. His patés à la fois were beyond doubt immaculate; but what pen can do

justice to his essays sur la Nature --- his thoughts sur l'Ame --- his observations sur l'Esprit ? If his omelettes --- if his fricandeaux were inestimable, what littérateur of that day would not have given twice as much for an "Idée de Bon-Bon" as for all the trash of "Idées" of all the rest of the savants ? Bon-Bon had ransacked libraries which no other man had ransacked --- had more than any other would have entertained a notion of  reading- had understood more than any other would have conceived the possibility of understanding; and although, while he flourished, there were not wanting some authors at Rouen to assert "that his dicta evinced neither the purity of the Academy, nor the depth of the Lyceum" --- although, mark me, his doctrines were by no means very generally comprehended, still it did not follow that they were difficult of comprehension. It was, I think, on account of their self-evidency that many persons were led to consider them abstruse. It is to Bon-Bon --- but let this go no farther --- it is to Bon-Bon that Kant himself is mainly indebted for his metaphysics. The former was indeed not a Platonist, nor strictly speaking an Aristotelian --- nor did he, like the modern Leibnitz, waste those precious hours which might be employed in the invention of a fricasée or, facili gradu, the analysis of a sensation, in frivolous attempts at reconciling the obstinate oils and waters of ethical discussion. Not at all. Bon-Bon was Ionic --- Bon-Bon was equally Italic. He reasoned a priori --- He reasoned also a posteriori. His ideas were innate --- or otherwise. He believed in George of Trebizonde --- He believed in Bossarion [Bessarion].

Bon-Bon was emphatically a --- Bon-Bonist. I have spoken of the philosopher in his capacity of restaurateur. I would not, however, have any friend of mine imagine that, in fulfilling his hereditary duties in that line, our hero wanted a proper estimation of their dignity and importance. Far from it. It was

impossible to say in which branch of his profession he took the greater pride. In his opinion the powers of the intellect held intimate connection with the capabilities of the stomach. I am not sure, indeed, that he greatly disagreed with the Chinese, who held that the soul lies in the abdomen. The Greeks at all events were right, he thought, who employed the same words for the mind and the diaphragm.* By this I do not mean to

insinuate a charge of gluttony, or indeed any other serious charge to the prejudice of the metaphysician. If Pierre Bon-Bon had his failings --- and what great man has not a thousand? --- if Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, had his failings, they were failings of very little importance --- faults indeed which, in other tempers, have often been looked upon rather in the light of virtues. As regards one of these foibles, I should not even have mentioned it in this history but for the remarkable prominency --- the extreme alto relievo --- in which it jutted out from the plane of his general disposition. He could never let slip an opportunity of making a bargain.

Bon-bon

Edgar Allan Poe

publicado no Philadelphia Saturday Courier, decembro 1832

traducido por Eva Almazán

Bon-bon

Galaxia, 2009

Quand un bon vin meuble mon estomac,Je suis plus savant que Balzac, 
Plus sage que Pibrac; 
Mon seul bras faisant l’attaque 
De la nation Cossaque 
La mettroit au sac; 
De Charon je passerois le lac 
En dormant dans son bac; 
J’irois au fier Eac, 
Sans que mon coeur fit tic ni tac, 
Présenter du tabac. (Vaudeville francés)

Non creo que ningún dos parroquiáns que, durante o reinado de... frecuentaban o pequeno café no cul-de-sac Le Febre, en Rúan, esté disposto a negar que Pierre Bon-Bon era un restaurador de notable capacidade. Paréceme aínda máis difícil negar que Pierre Bon-Bon era igualmente ben versado na filosofía do seu tempo. Os seus pâtés de foies eran intachables, pero, ¿qué pluma podría facer xustiza aos seus ensaios sobre a Natureza, aos seus pensamentos sobre l’âme, as súas observacións sobre l’esprit? Se as súas omelettes, se os seus fricandeaux eran inestimables, ¿qué literato da época non daría o dobre por unha idea de Bon-Bon que pola despreciable suma de todas as ideas dos savants? Bon-Bon explorara bibliotecas que para outros homes eran inexploradas; lera máis do que outros podían chegar a concebir como lectura, comprendera máis do que outros houberan imaxinado posible comprender; e se ben non faltaban na época do seu florecemento algúns escritores de Rúan para quenes «a súa dicta non evidenciaba nin a pureza da Academia, nin a profundidade do Liceo», e a pesar, nótese ben, de que as súas doctrinas non eran comprendidas de maneira moi xeral, non se sigue empero de  que fosen difíciles de comprender. Penso que a súa propia evidencia facía que moitas personas as tomaran por abstrusas. Kant mismo -pero non levemos as cuosas máis alá- debe principalmente a súa metafísica a Bon-Bon. Este no era platónico nin, falando en rigor, aristotélico; tampouco, a semellanza de Leibniz, malgastaba preciosas horas que podían emplearse mellor inventando unha fricassée ou, facili gradu, analizando unha sensación, en frívolas tentativas de reconciliar todo o que hai de inconciliable nas discusiónd éticas. ¡Oh non! Bon-Bon era xónico. Bon-Bon era igualmente itálico. Razoaba a priori. Razoaba a posteriori. As súas ideas eran innatas... ou de outra maneira. Creía en Jorge de Trebizonda. Creía en Bessarion.

Bon-Bon era, enfáticamente... Bon-Bonista. 
Falei do filósofo na súa calidade de restaurador. Non quixera, empero, que algún dos meus amigos vaia a imaxinarse que, ao cumplir os seus hereditarios deberes nesta última profesión,  o noso heroe deixaba de estimar a súa dignidade e a súa importancia. ¡Lonxe delo! Sería imposible dicir cal das dúas ramas do seu traballo inspiráballe maior orgullo. Opinaba que as facultades intelectuais estaban íntimamente vinculadas coa capacidade estomacal. Incluso non creo que estiviera moi en desacordo cos chinos, para quenes o alma reside no estómago. Pensaba que, como quixera que fose, os gregos tiñan razón ao emplear a misma palabra para a mente e o diafragma . Non pretendo insinuar con esto unha acusación de glotonería, ou cualquer outra imputación grave en perxuizo do metafísico. Se Pierre Bon-Bon tiña as súas debilidades -¿e que gran home non as ten por miles?-, eran debilidades de menor cuantía, faltas que, en outros caracteres, suelen considerarse con frecuencia a luz das virtudes. Con respeto a unha destas debilidades, nin sequera a mencionaría neste relato se non fora pola súa notable prominencia, o extremo alto rilievo co que asoma no plano ds súas características xerais. Hela aquí: xamáis perdía a oportunidade de facer un trato.

pan con xamón

21

     

Then I started attending Mt. Justin Jr. High. About half the guys from elsey Grammar School went there, the biggest and toughest half. Another gang of giants came from other schools. Our 7th grade class was bigger than the 9th grade class. When we lined up for gym it was funny, most of us were bigger than the gym teachers. We would stand there for roll call, slouched, our guts hanging out, heads down, shoulders slumped.

"Jesus Christ," said Wagner, the gym teacher, "pull your shoulders back, stand straight!"

Nobody would change position. We were the way we were, and we didn't want to be anything else. We all came from Depression families and most of us were ill-fed, yet we had grown up to be huge and strong. Most of us, I think, got little love from our families, and we didn't ask for love or kindness from anybody. We were a joke but people were careful not to laugh in front of us. It was as if we had grown up too soon and we were bored with being children. We had no respect for our elders. We were like tigers with the mange. One of the Jewish fellows, Sam Feidman, had a black beard and had to shave every morning. By noon his chin was almost black. And he had a mass of black hair all over his chest and he smelled terrible under the arms. Another guy looked like Jack Dempsey. Another guy, Peter Mangalore, had a cock 10 inches long, soft. And when we got in the shower, I found out I had the biggest balls of anybody.

"Hey! Look at that guy's balls, will ya?" "Holy shit! Not much cock but look at those balls!" "Holy shit!"

I don't know what it was about us but we had something, and we felt it. You could see it in the way we walked and talked. We didn't talk much, we just inferred, and that's what got everybody mad, the way we took things for granted.

The 7th grade team would play touch football after school against the 8th and 9th graders. It was no match. We beat them easy, we knocked them down, we did it with style, almost without effort. In touch football most teams passed on every play, but our team worked in lots of runs. Then we could set up the blocking and our guys would go for the other guys and knock them down. It was just an excuse to be violent, we didn't give a damn about the runner. The other side was always glad when we called a pass play.

The girls stayed after school and watched us. Some of them were already going out with high school guys, they didn't want to mess with jr. High school punks, but they stayed to watch the 7th graders. We were known. The girls stayed after class and watched us and marveled. I wasn't on the team but I stood on the sidelines and sneaked smokes, feeling like a coach or something. We're all going to get fucked, we thought, watching the girls. But most of us only masturbated.

Masturbation. I remember how I learned about it. One morning Eddie scratched on my bedroom window.

"What is it?" I asked Eddie. He held up a test tube and it had something white in the bottom of it. 

"What's that?"

     

"Come," said Eddie, "it's my come." "Yeah?"

      

"Yeah, all you do is spit on your hand and begin rubbing your cock, it feels good and pretty soon this white juice shoots out of the end of your cock. That stuff is called 'come."

"Yeah?" "Yeah."

Eddie walked off with his test tube. I thought about it awhile and then I decided to try it. My cock got hard and it felt real good, it felt better and better, and I kept going and it felt like nothing I had ever felt before. Then juice spurted out of the head of my cock. After that I did it every now and then. It got better if you imagined you were doing it with a girl while you whacked-off.

Ham on rye

Charles Bukowski

Black Sparrow Books, setembro de 1982

traducida ó galego por Eva Almazán

e publicada como:

Pan con xamón

Factoría K de libros, novembro de 2009

21

Entón empecei a secundaria no instituto de secundaria Mount Justin. Algo así como a metade dos rapaces da escola de primaria Desley matriculáronse alí, os máis grandes e os máis duros. Doutras escolas chegou unha manda de mangallóns. Na nosa clase de sétimo a xente era meirande ca os de noveno. Cando nos poñiamos en fileira para a ximnasia era moi chistoso, porque case todos lles comiamos as papas na cabeza aos mestres. Poñiámonos en fileira para pasar lista todos desleixados, a barriga para fóra, a cabeza gacha, os ombros caídos.

-Cago na hostia! -dicía Wagner, o mestre de ximnasia-. Botade os ombros para atrás e poñédevos dereitos!

Ninguén facía nada. Eramos coma eramos, e non queriamos ser outra cousa. Viñamos todos de familias da depresión e case todos estabamos mal mantidos, e aínda así chegaramos a ser enormes e fortes. Á maioría, penso, non nos querían demasiado ben na casa, e non lle pediamos afecto nin amabilidade a ninguén. Eramos de chiste, pero a xente coidábase ben de non se botar a rir diante de nós. Era coma se medrásemos demasiado rápido, coma se xa nos fartásemos de ser nenos pequenos. Non tiñamos respecto ningún polos nosos maiores. Eramos coma tigres con sarna. Un dos compañeiros xudeus, Sam Feldman, tiña unha barba moi negra e afeitábase todas as mañás. Ao mediodía xa se lle vía o queixo case que negro. E tiña unha alfombra negra incrible por todo o peito e cheiraba que fedía polos sobacos. Outro fulano era cuspidiño a Jack Dempsey.

Outro tipo, Peter Mangalore, tiña unha picha de vinte e cinco centímetros (e iso estando frouxa).E cando nos metemos nas duchas, descubrín que os collóns máis grandes os tiña eu.

      

-Ei! Mira para aí que collóns ten ese!

     

-Contra! De carallo non é moita cousa, pero mira que cacho bolangas!

      

-Hai que foderse!

      

Non sei o que, pero algo tiñamos, e sabiámolo. Notábase na nosa maneira de andar e de falar. Non falabamos de moito, máis ca nada empatabamos cabos, e iso era o que poñía a todo cristo do fígado, que désemos as cousas por supostas.

Despois das clases, o equipo de sétimo xogaba ao fútbol ao toque cos de oitavo e noveno. Era de chiste. Gañabámoslles coa pata, metiámoslles unhas malleiras criminais, e iso sen nos despeitar sequera, coma se tal cousa. No fútbol ao toque a maioría dos equipos facía pases en todas as xogadas, pero o que facía o noso era meter unha chea de carreiras. Desa maneira montabamos unha defensa de bloqueo e os nosos podían botarse aos contrarios e abatelos. Era unha escusa para dar leña, simplemente; o contrario que ía facendo a carreira non nos importaba un carallo. O outro equipo sempre daba grazas cando faciamos unha xogada de pase.

As rapazas quedaban despois das clases para vernos. Algunhas xa saían con rapaces dos últimos cursos e non querían saber nada dos cagallóns pequenos, pero logo quedaban igual a ver os de sétimo. Tiñamos sona. As rapazas agardaban despois das clases para vernos e marabillábanse. Eu non estaba no equipo, pero quedaba polas bandas a fumar ás agachadas e sentíame coma o adestrador ou algo así. «Aquí vai mollar todo deus», pensabamos ao ver as rapazas. Pero a maioría mansturbabámonos e grazas.

A masturbación. Lémbrome de como descrubrín o que era. Unha mañá Eddie rabuñoume na fiestra do cuarto.

-Que foi? -pregunteille.

El levantou no aire un tubo de ensaio e vin que no fondo tiña unha cousa branca.

-É corrida -dixo Eddie-. A miña corrida.

-Ai si?

-Si, tes que cuspir na man e empezar a fregar a pirola, dá moito gusto, e ao pouco vai e sáeche un chorro dese leite pola punta. É iso que sae chámase corrida.

      

-Ai si?

     

-Pois si.

      

Eddie marchou co seu tubo de ensaio. Eu mediteino un pouco e ao final decidín probar. O carallo púxoseme duro e deume moitísimo gusto, cada vez máis, e eu seguín a fregar e era distinto a todo o que sentira nunca. Entón saíume o chafariz de leite pola punta. De aí en diante facíao de cando en vez. Gustaba máis se mentres cascabas a palla imaxinabas que estabas a facelo cunha rapaza.

o corazón do negror

The Nellie, a cruising yawl, swung to her anchor without a flutter of the sails, and was at rest. The flood had made, the wind was nearly calm, and being bound down the river, the only thing for it was to come to and wait for the turn of the tide.

The sea-reach of the Thames stretched before us like the beginning of an interminable waterway. In the offing the sea and the sky were welded together without a joint, and in the luminous space the tanned sails of the barges drifting up with the tide seemed to stand still in red clusters of canvas sharply peaked, with gleams of varnished sprits. A haze rested on the low shores that ran out to sea in vanishing flatness. The air was dark above Gravesend, and farther back still seemed condensed into a mournful gloom, brooding motionless over the biggest, and the greatest, town on earth.

The Director of Companies was our captain and our host. We four affectionately watched his back as he stood in the bows looking to seaward. On the whole river there was nothing that looked half so nautical. He resembled a pilot, which to a seaman is trustworthiness personified. It was difficult to realize his work was not out there in the luminous estuary, but behind him, within the brooding gloom.

Between us there was, as I have already said somewhere, the bond of the sea. Besides holding our hearts together through long periods of separation, it had the effect of making us tolerant of each other’s yarns—and even convictions. The Lawyer—the best of old fellows—had, because of his many years and many virtues, the only cushion on deck, The Accountant and was lying on the only rug. The Accountant had brought out already a box of dominoes, and was toying architecturally with the bones. Marlow sat cross-legged right aft, leaning against the mizzen-mast. He had sunken cheeks, a yellow complexion, a straight back, an ascetic aspect, and, with his arms dropped, the palms of hands outwards, resembled an idol. The director, satisfied the anchor had good hold, made his way aft and sat down amongst us. We exchanged a few words lazily. Afterwards there was silence on board the yacht. For some reason or other we did not begin that game of dominoes. We felt meditative, and fit for nothing but placid staring. The day was ending in a serenity of still and exquisite brilliance. The water shone pacifically; the sky, without a speck, was a benign immensity of unstained light; the very mist on the Essex marsh was like a gauzy and radiant fabric, hung from the wooded rises inland, and draping the low shores in diaphanous folds. Only the gloom to the west, brooding over the upper reaches, became more sombre every minute, as if angered by the approach of the sun.

And at last, in its curved and imperceptible fall, the sun sank low, and from glowing white changed to a dull red without rays and without heat, as if about to go out suddenly, stricken to death by the touch of that gloom brooding over a crowd of men.

Heart of darkness

Joseph Conrad

(1899)

traducido por Eva Almazán

O corazón do negror

Faktoría K (Vigo, 009)

A Nellie, unha iola de cruceiro, borneou sobre a áncora sen o menor tremor das velas e quedouse. A marea abalara, o único que podía facer era seguir onde estaba e agardar polo devalo.

A foz do Támesis abríase ante nós tal que o principio dun canal interminable. No horizonte o mar e o ceo soldábanse sen xuntura, e no espazo luminoso as velas bronceadas das gabarras movidas pola marea parecía conformar encarnados acios inmóbiles de lonas agudas, con escintileos de espichas vernizadas. Unha bruma pousábase nas marxes baixas que escapaban cara ao mar en planura fuxidía. O aire era escuro por riba de Gravesend, e aínda máis atrás parecía condensado nunha penumbra melancólica que pendía, inmóbil, sobre a cidade máis grande, e máis grandiosa, do mundo.

O director de tripulacións éranos capitán e anfitrión. Os catro contemplabamos con afecto o seu lombo mentres el perdía a vista no mar, de pé na proa. Nada daba en todo o río para a metade de estampa náutica ca el. Parecía un práctico, que para home de mar é a confianza personificada. Custaba comprender que o seu facer non se desenvolvía no esteiro luminoso, senón ás súas costas, dentro da penumbra que sobre alí pendía.

Entre nós tendíase, como xa contei nalgures, o vencello do mar. Amais de manter ligados os nosos corazóns durante as separacións longas, obraba que tolerásemos os contos –e mesmo as conviccións- dos outros. O avogado, o mellor dos vellos compañeiros, gozaba, en razón dos seus moitos anos e das súas moitas virtudes, do único farrapo. O contable xa sacara un xogo de dominó e enredaba arquitectonicamente cos ósos. Marlow estaba sentado na popa, coas pernas cruzadas, apoiado contra o mastro de mesana. Tiña as fazulas afundidas, a cute amarelecida, o lombo dereito, a fasquía ascética, e cos brazos caídos, as palmas das mans por fóra, parecía un ídolo. O director verificou que a áncora enganchara ben, dirixiuse á popa e sentou canda nós. Intercambiamos un par de palabras preguizosas. Despois fíxose o silencio a bordo do veleiro. Por un ou outro motivo non emprendemos a partida de dominó. Sentiámonos meditabundos e sen ánimo para nada que non fose a plácida contemplación. O día acababa nunha serenidade de brillantez queda e exquisita. A auga refulxía pacífica, o ceo sen mácula era unha inmensidade benigna de luz impoluta, a mesma néboa da marisma essexiana semellaba unha tea vaporosa e radiante, colgada das elevacións boscosas do interior para pregarse nas beiras baixas en dobras diáfanas. Só a penumbra que no poñente se pousaba sobre os treitos máis altos sombreaba por momentos, coma se a enfurecese a aproximación do sol.

E por fin, no seu descenso curvo e imperceptible, púxose o sol, e de refulxente branco pasou a un vermello mate sen raios nin calor, coma se estivese a piques de se apagar de repente, aniquilado polo contacto con aquela penumbra que pendía sobre unha aglomeración de homes.

harry potter e a cámara dos segredos

Harry hated the disappointment in his voice. For some reason, he was unable to look Dumbledore in the eyes, and spoke instead to his knees. He told Dumbledore everything except that Mr. Weasley owned the bewitched car, making it sound as though he and Ron had happened to find a flying car parked outside the station. He knew Dumbledore would see through this at once, but Dumbledore asked no questions about the car. When Harry had finished, he merely continued to peer at them through his spectacles.

“We’ll go and get our stuff,” said Ron in a hopeless sort of voice.

“What are you talking about, Weasley?” barked Professor McGonagall.

“Well, you’re expelling us, aren’t you?” said Ron.

Harry looked quickly at Dumbledore.

“Not today, Mr. Weasley,” said Dumbledore. “But I must impress upon both of you the seriousness of what you have done. I will be writing to both your families tonight. I must also warn you that if you do anything like this again, I will have no choice but to expel you.”

Snape looked as though Christmas had been canceled. He cleared his throat and said,

“Professor Dumbledore, these boys have flouted the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry, caused serious damage to an old and valuable tree — surely acts of this nature —”

“It will be for Professor McGonagall to decide on these boys’ punishments, Severus,” said Dumbledore calmly. “They are in her House and are therefore her responsibility.” He turned to Professor McGonagall. “I must go back to the feast, Minerva, I’ve got to give out a few notices. Come, Severus, there’s a delicious-looking custard tart I want to sample —”

Snape shot a look of pure venom at Harry and Ron as he 19allowed himself to be swept out of his office, leaving them alone with Professor McGonagall, who was still eyeing them like a wrathful eagle.

“You’d better get along to the hospital wing, Weasley, you’re bleeding.”

“Not much,” said Ron, hastily wiping the cut over his eye with his sleeve. “Professor, I wanted to watch my sister being Sorted —”

“The Sorting Ceremony is over,” said Professor McGonagall. “Your sister is also in Gryffindor.”

“Oh, good,” said Ron.

“And speaking of Gryffindor —” Professor McGonagall said sharply, but Harry cut in: “Professor, when we took the car, term hadn’t started, so — so Gryffindor shouldn’t really have points taken from it — should it?” he finished, watching her anxiously.

Professor McGonagall gave him a piercing look, but he was sure she had almost smiled. Her mouth looked less thin, anyway.

“I will not take any points from Gryffindor,” she said, and Harry’s heart lightened considerably. “But you will both get a detention.”

It was better than Harry had expected. As for Dumbledore’s writing to the Dursleys, that was nothing. Harry knew perfectly well they’d just be disappointed that the Whomping Willow hadn’t

squashed him flat. Professor McGonagall raised her wand again and pointed it at Snape’s desk. A large plate of sandwiches, two silver goblets, and a jug of iced pumpkin juice appeared with a pop.

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

J.K. Rowling

Bloomsbury, 1998

traducido ao galego por Eva Almazán

e publicado en galego como Harry Potter e cámara dos segredos

Editorial Galaxia, 2002

Harry non aturaba o ton de decepción da súa voz. Pola mesma razón foi incapaz de lle mirar a Dumbledore para os ollos, e no canto diso falou mirando para os xeonllos. Contoullo todo a Dumbledore excepto que o cohe enfeitizado era propiedade do señor Weasley, facendo que soase coma tal que el e Ron foran dar por casualidade cun coche voador apàrcado á saída da estación. Era consciente de que Dumbledore non ía comungar con semellante roda de muíño e, sen embargo, non lle fixo pregunta ningunha sobre o coche. Cando Harry rematou a historia, non fixo máis ca seguir a fitalos a través dps anteollos.

—Imos recoller as nosas cousas —dixo Ron cunha voz de esperanza perdida.

—Pero que di, Weasley? —espetoulle a profesora McGonagall.

—E logo? Non estamos expulsados? —preguntou Ron.

Rapidamente, Harry mirou para Dumbledore.

—Polo de agora, non, señor Weasley —dixo Dumbledore—. Pero teño que recalcarlles ós dous a extrema gravidade dos seus actos, Hoxe mesmo heilles escribir ás súas familias. Tamén é o meu deber advertilos de que, se se chega a repetir algo parecido, non terei máis remedio ca expulsalos.

Snape puxo unha cara que nin que suspendesen o Nadal. Rascou a gorxa e dixo:

—Profesor Dumbledore: estes cativos quebrantaron conscientemente o Decreto sobre a Restricción da Feiticería Xuvenil, causáronlle grave dano a unha árbore centenaria de enorme valor... Sen dúbida, actos desta natureza...

—A decisión sobre que castigo lles será imposto a estes rapaces é competencia da profesora MCGonagall, Severus —dixo Dumbledore calmosamente—. Son alumnos da súa casa e están, xa que logo, baixo a súa responsabilidade —volveuse cara á profesora McGonagall—. Minerva, eu debo volver ó banquete: teño que facer uns cantos anuncios. Acompañádeme, Severus, hai unha torta de crema que dá gloria vela e non quero pasar sen probala.

Snape resignouse a se deixar sacar so seu propio despacho, non sen antes lanzarlles a Harry e a Ron unha mirada de puro veleno; quedaron sós coa profesora McGonagall, quen seguía fitándoos tal que unha aguia iracunda.

—Será mellor que pase pola enfermería, Weasley, fíxose sangue.

—Non foi nada —dixo Ron, apresurándose a pasar a manga pola brecha que fixera na cella—. Profesora, eu quería ver a Escolla de miña irmá...

—A Cerimonia da Escolla xa rematou —dixo a profesora McGonagall—. A súa irmá está tamén en Grynffindor.

—Ai, que ben —dixo Ron.

—E falando de Gryffindor...—empezou a dicir con severidade a profesora McGonagall, pero Harry coutoulle a fala.

—Profesora, cando collemos o coche, aínda non empezara o curso, así que... Así que en xustiza non lle deberían descontar puntos a Griffindor, verdade que non? —rematou, e quedou mirando para ela, expectante.

A profesora McGonagall fulminouno coa mirada, mais el quedou convencido de que pouco lle faltara para sorrir. En calquera caso, desapertara un chisco a boca, iso si.

—Non lle vou descontar puntos a Griffindor —dixo, co cal diminuíu notablemente o peso que Harry sentía no corazón—. Pero vostedes van levar un castigo.

Saíran mellor parados do que Harry esperaba. Canto á carta que Dumbledore lles ía mandar ós Dursley, ela e nada eran todo un. Harry sabía perfectamente que o único que lles ía causar era desilusión por que o salgueiro zoscón non o dese esmagado de todo.

A profesora McGonagall volveu alzar a variña e apuntou cara ó escritorio de Snape. Cun ¡plin!apareceron unha gran bandexa de bocadillos, dúas copas de prata e unha xerra de zume de cabaza ben fresquiño.

cruceiro de verán

Chapter 1

“You are a mistery, my dear,” her mother said, and Grady, across the table through a centerpiece of roses and fern, smiled indulgently: yes , I am a mistery, and it please her to think so. But Apple, eight years older, married, far from mysterious, said :”Grady is only foolish; I wish I were going with you. Imagine, Mama, this time next week you´ll be having breaksfast in Paris! George keeps promising that we´ll go . . . I don´t know, though .” She paused and looked at her sister . “Grady, why on earth do you want to stay in New York in dead of summer?” Grady wished they would leave her alone; still this harping, and here now was the very morning the boat sailed: what was there to say beyond what she´d said? After that there wass only the truth, and the truth she did not entirely intend to tell. “I´ve never spent a summer here, “ she said, escaping their eyes and looking out the window: the dazzle of traffic heightened the June morning quiet of Central Park, and the sun, full of first summer, that dries the green crust of spring, plunged through the trees fronting the Plaza, where they were breakfasting. “ I¨m perverse; have it your own way.” She realized with a smile it was perhaps a mistake to have said that: her family did come rather near thinking her perverse; and once when she was fourteen she´d had a terrible and quite acute insight: her mother, she saw, loved her without really liking her; she had thought at first that this was because her mother considered her plainer, more obstinate, less playful than Apple, but later, when it was apparent, and painfully so to Apple, that Grady was finer looking by far, then she gave up reasoning about her mother´s viewpoint: the answer of course, and at last she saw this too, was simply tha in a inactive sort of way, she´d never, not even as a very small girl, much liked her mother. Yet there was little flamboyancy in either attitude; indeed, the house of their hostility was modestly furnished with affection, which Mrs. McNeil now expressed by closing her daughter´s hand in her own and saying: “We will worry about you, darling. We can´t help that. I don´t know. I don´t know. I´m not sure it´s safe. Seventeen isn´t very old, and you´ve never been really alone before.

Summer Crossing 

Truman Capote

publicado en 2005 en Estados Unidos por Random House

traducido ao galego por Carlos Acevedo, Eva Almazán

e publicado como

Cruceiro de Verán

Vigo, Editorial Galaxia, 2006 

Capítulo 1.

“Ti es un misterio, querida” dixo a nai, e Grady, mirando desde outro lado da mesa a través dun centro de rosas e fento, sorriu con indulxencia: son un misterio, si e compraceuse na idea. Mais Apple, oito anos máis vella, casada e en absoluto misteriosa, dixo : “ O que ten é que é parva. Xa me gustaría a min ir convosco. Ti imaxina, mamá, a esta mesma hora, de aquí a unha semana, estaredes a almorzar en París! George segue a prometerme que tamén habemos de ir nosoutro... pero non sei” fixo unha pausa e mirou para a irmá”. Grady, por que queres quedar en Nova York en pleno verán, se se pode saber? Grady pensou que oxalá o deixasen en paz ; seguían coa mesma teima, ata a mesmiña mañá en que o barco partía. Que máis había que dicir alén do que xa dixera? Á parte daquilo só quedaba a verdade, e a verdade non tiña intención de contala de todo. “ Porque nunca pasei un verán aquí” díxome apartando a vista e mirando pola fiestra; o resplandor do tránsito realzaba a quietude daquela mañá de xuño en Central Park, e o sol, na plenitude do comezo do verán, mentres secaba a tona verde da primaviero, é dicir entre as árbores de fronte ao Plaza, onde foron almorzo. "Eu son perverso, ter o seu propio camiño." Ela entendeu cun sorriso talvez fose un erro dicir que: a súa familia veu moi preto pensar a súa perseverancia, e unha vez máis, cando tiña catorce anos tivo unha terrible, e visión moi aguda: a súa nai, viu, amaba sen realmente gusto dela, ela pensara nun principio que era porque a súa nai o consideraba máis claro, máis obstinado, menos brincallón que a Apple, pero máis tarde, cando xa era evidente, e dolorosamente para Apple, que Grady foi máis fina mirando de lonxe, entón ela desistiu de razoamento sobre o punto de vista da súa nai: a resposta é clara, e, finalmente, ela viu iso tamén, era simplemente unah especie de forma inactiva, ela d nunca, nin sequera como unha pequena rapaza, gustoume moito da nai. Con todo, houbo pouca extravagancia en calquera actitude, en realidade, a casa da súa hostilidade foi modestamente mobiliado con cariño, o que a señora McNeil agora expresa, pechando a man da súa filla no seu propio e dicindo: "Imos preocuparse ti, querida. Non podemos evitar isto. Non o sei. Non o sei. Non estou seguro de que é seguro. Dezasete non é moi antiga, e nunca estivo realmente só antes.