as aventuras de Arthur Gordon Pym

Chapter X 

Shortly afterward an incident occurred which I am induced to look upon as more intensely productive of emotion, as far more replete with the extremes first

of delight and then of horror, than even any of the thousand chances which afterward befell me in nine long years, crowded with events of the most startling

and, in many cases, of the most unconceived and unconceivable character. We were lying on the deck near the companion-way, and debating the possibility of

yet making our way into the storeroom, when, looking toward Augustus, who lay fronting myself, I perceived that he had become all at once deadly pale, and that his lips were quivering in the most singular and accountable manner. Greatly alarmed, I spoke to him, but he made me no reply, and I was beginning to think that he was suddenly taken ill, when I took notice of his eyes, which were glaring apparently at some object behind me. I turned my head, and shall never forget the ecstatic joy which thrilled through every particle of my frame, when I perceived a large brig bearing down upon us, and not more than a couple of miles off. I sprung to my feet as if a musket bullet had suddenly struck me to the heart; and, stretching out my arms in the direction of the vessel, stood in this manner, motionless, and unable to articulate a syllable. Peters and Parker were equally affected, although in different ways. The former danced about the deck like a madman, uttering the most extravagant rhodomontades, intermingled with howls and imprecations, while the latter burst into tears, and continued for many minutes weeping like a child. The vessel in sight was a large hermaphrodite brig, of a Dutch build, and

painted black, with a tawdry gilt figure-head. She had evidently seen a good deal of rough weather, and, we supposed, had suffered much in the gale which had proved so disastrous to ourselves; for he foretopmast was gone, and some of her starboard bulwarks. When we first saw her, she was, as I have already said, about two miles off and to windward, bearing down upon us. The breeze was very gentle, and what astonished us chiefly was, that she had no other sails set than her foremast and mainsail, with a flying jib- of course she came down but slowly, and our impatience amounted nearly to phrensy. The awkward manner in which she steered, too, was remarked by all of us, even excited as we were. She yawed about so considerably, that once or twice we thought it impossible she could see us, or imagined that, having seen us, and discovered no person on board, she was about to tack and make off in another direction. Upon each of these occasions we screamed and shouted at the top of our voices, when the stranger would appear to change for a moment her intention, and again hold on toward us- this singular conduct being repeated two or three times, so that at last we could think of no other manner of accounting for it than by supposing the helmsman to be in liquor. No person was seen upon her decks until she arrived within about a quarter of a mile of us. We then saw three seamen, whom by their dress we took to be Hollanders. Two of these were lying on some old sails near the forecastle, and the third, who appeared to be looking at us with great curiosity, was leaning over the starboard bow near the bowsprit. This last was a stout and tall man, with a very dark skin. 

The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket

Edgar Allan Poe
1837

traducido ao galego por Alberto Avendaño

As Aventuras de Arthur Gordon Pym

Edicións Xerais de Galiza, 1997

Capítulo X

Pouco despois ocurreu algo que provocou emocións radicais e extremas, primeiro de ledicia e logo de horror, como nunca experimentei nos milleiros de sucesos inconcibibles que durante nove longos anos encheron a miña vida. Estabamos deitados na ponte, preto da escaleira da cámara, vendo que posibilidades tiñamos de chegarmos ata a bodega. Daquela levantei a vista, ollei para Augustus e vin que palidecera de morte e que os seus labios tremelicaban de maneira máis singular. Faleille todo alarmado pero non me respondeu. Comezaba a pensar que adoecera de golpe, cando me fixei nos seus ollos e vin que fitaban algo que se debía encontrar detrás de min. Virei a cabeza e nunca esquecerei a sensación de alegría que me invadiu cando vin, como a un par de millas de distancia, que un bergantín se achegaba cara a nós. Incorporeime como impulsado por unha bala de mosquete que me atravesara o corazón e, estirando os meus brazos na dirección daquel barco, quedei inerte e incapaz de articular unha palabra. A Peters e mais a Parker tamén lles afectou, pero de maneira diferente. O primeiro, púxose a bailar por cuberta coma un tolo, fanfurriñando entre ouveos e berrando vulgaridades. O outro, pola súa parte, rompeu a chorar coma un neno. O barco á vista era un enorme bergantín goleta, de estructura holandesa, pintado en negro e cun mascarón de proa cunha cabezaz pintada dun rechamante dourado. Era evidente que vira mal tempo e supuxemos que tamén sufrita o temporal que trouxera o desastre sobre nós, porque perdera a cofa do trinquete e parte da amurada de estribor. A primeira vez que o vimos, como xa dixen, estaba a un par de millas a barlovento e dirixíase cara a nós. Sopraba unha brisa leve e chamounos poderosamente a atención que non despregase máis trapo que o trinquete maior, cun petifoque. Achegábase con tal lentitude que a nosa impaciencia volvíase pouco menos que frenesí. Pero a pesar da nosa excitación, reparamos na estraña maneira en que navegaba. Guinaba de tal maneira que chegamos a pensar que era imposible que nos vise ou que, logo de divisarnos e comprobar que non había ningué a bordo, se dispuña a virar para cambiar de rumbo. Cando isto ocorría, voceabamos e berrabamos con tódalas nosas forzas. Daquela o buque recuperaba o rumbo e volvía a navegar cara a nós. Como isto se repetiu en dúas ou tres ocasións, non lle encontramos outra explicación máis que pensar que o temoneiro estaría bébedo. Non distinguimos tripulación a bordo ata que estivo como a un cuarto de milla de nós. Entón vimos tres mariñeiros a quen tomamos por holandeses, dada a súa estraña indumentaria. Dous deles deitábanse sobre un vello velame xunta o castelo de proa, e o terceiro, que ollaba para nós con gran curiosidade, estaba apoiado na amurada do estribor, preto do bauprés. Era este un home membrudo e alto, de pel moi escura.

 

orgullo e prexuízo

 In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the next morning to their mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on her daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which would exactly finish Jane's week, could not bring herself to receive them with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at least not to Elizabeth's wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs. Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them very well. Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively resolved—nor did she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the contrary, as being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long, she urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley's carriage immediately, and at length it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield that morning should be mentioned, and the request made.

The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work on Jane; and till the morrow their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was then sorry that she had proposed the delay, for her jealousy and dislike of one sister much exceeded her affection for the other.

The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be safe for her—that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was firm where she felt herself to be right.

To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence—Elizabeth had been at Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked—and Miss Bingley was uncivil to her, and more teasing than usual to himself. He wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration should now escape him, nothing that could elevate her with the hope of influencing his felicity; sensible that if such an idea had been suggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material weight in confirming or crushing it. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke ten words to her through the whole of Saturday, and though they were at one time left by themselves for half-an-hour, he adhered most conscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her.

On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to almost all, took place. Miss Bingley's civility to Elizabeth increased at last very rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when they parted, after assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her to see her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most tenderly, she even shook hands with the former. Elizabeth took leave of the whole party in the liveliest of spirits.

They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Bennet wondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to give so much trouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold again. But their father, though very laconic in his expressions of pleasure, was really glad to see them; he had felt their importance in the family circle. The evening conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of its animation, and almost all its sense by the absence of Jane and Elizabeth.

They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough-bass and human nature; and had some extracts to admire, and some new observations of threadbare morality to listen to. Catherine and Lydia had information for them of a different sort. Much had been done and much had been said in the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of the officers had dined lately with their uncle, a private had been flogged, and it had actually been hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married.

Aquí podes atopar a lectura do fragmento.

Pride and Prejudice

Jane Austen

Reino Unido, T. Egerton, Whitehall, 1813

traducido ao galego por José Díaz Lage

e publicado como

Orgullo e prexuízo

Santiago de Compostela, Sotelo Blanco Edicións, 2005

Como consecuencia dun acordo entre as irmás, Elizabeth escribiulle á mañá seguinte á súa nai para rogarlle que nalgún momento do día enviasen a carruaxe; máis a señora Bennet calculara que as súas fillas quedasen en Netherfield ata o seguinte martes, que faría unha semana para Jane, e non estaba preparada para recibilas de bo grado antes desa data. Polo tanto, a súa resposta non foi propicia, polo menos para os desexos de Elizabeth, que devecía por chegar á casa: a señora Bennet mandoulles recado de que antes do martes non poderían dispoñer da carruaxe, e engadía nunha posdata que se o señor Bingley e a súa irmá insistían en que quedasen máis tempo, ela podía pasar moi ben sen elas. Porén, Elizabeth estaba decidida a non quedar máis tempo, aínda que non esperaba que llo pedisen; e como, pola contra tiña medo de que considerasen que ficaban demasiado, pediulle a Jane que tomasen de inmediato a carruaxe do señor Bingley. Ao cabo acordaron que cumpría mencionar o seu plan de deixar Netherfield esa mañá e facer a petición. A noticia que produciu moitas mostras de preocupación, e tanto se falou de que quedasen polo menos un día máis que tivo efecto sobre Jane, e a súa partida foi adiada ata a mañá seguinte. A señorita Bingley arrepentiuse entón de ter proposto o atraso, pois os seus celos e fastío dunha irmá excedían con moito o seu afecto pola outra.

O señor da casa escoitou con verdadeira mágoa que ían partir pronto, e tentou repetidamente convencer á señorita Bennet de que non era seguro para ela e de que non estaba recuperada de abondo; máis Jane era firme cando sabía que tiña razón. O señor Darcy recibiu esa información con agrado: Elizabeth xa estivera tempo bastante en Netherfield. Atraíao máis do que a el lle gustaría, e a señorita Bingley era descortés con ela e máis brincadora do habitual con el. Decidiu sabiamente ter máis coidado de que se lle escapara ningún signo de admiración, nada que puidese darlle a ela a impresión de influír no seu benestar, ao decatarse de que, se esa idea se manifestase, o seu comportamento durante o derradeiro día tería un peso crucial á hora de confirmala ou suprimila. Con este fin, apenas lle dirixiu dez palabras en todo o sábado e, malia estar sós os dous durante media hora, centrouse con determinación no seu libro e nin sequera a mirou.

O domingo, tras o servizo, tivo lugar a separación, tan agradábel para case todos: a cortesía da, señorita Bingley con Elizabeth incrementouse moi rápido no último momento, así como o seu afecto por Jane; cando se separaron, tras insistirlle esta última no pracer que lle daría vela, ben en Longbourn, ben en Netherfield, e abrazala con agarimo, mesmo lle deu a man á primeira. Elizabeth deixou todo o grupo do mellor dos humores.

Ao chegar á casa non foron moi ben recibidas pola súa nai: a señora Bennet sorprendeuse do seu regreso, díxolles que estaba moi mal que desen tantos problemas e que estaba segura de que Jane collera frío outra vez. Pero o seu pai, aínda que moi lacónico na expresión da súa delicia, estaba verdadeiramente contento de velas. Notara a súa importancia no círculo familiar: a conversación das veladas, cando estaban todos xuntos, perdera moita da súa animación e case todo o seu sentido na ausencia de Jane e Elizabeth.

Atoparon a Mary, como era habitual embebida no estudo da harmonía e da natureza humana; tiña algúns novos extractos para que admirasen e algunhas novas observacións de moralidade de saldo para que escoitasen. Catherine e Lydia tiñan outro tipo de información para elas: no rexemento dixérase e fixérase moito dende o martes anterior; algúns oficiais xantaran co seu tío, un soldado fora azoutado e insinuábase que o coronel Foster ía casar.

o corvo

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

The Raven

Edgar Allan Poe

este poema foi publicado orixinalmente en 1845

foi traducido e recopilado por Carys Evans e Pepe Coira

e publicado no volume:

Poe

Lugo, editorial Tris Tram, 2006

Unha noite aburrida, mentres repasaba con desgana

curiosos e singulares libros sobre saberes esquecidos,

mentres cabeceaba , case durmido, de súpeto sentín bater miúdo

coma se alguén petase suavemente á porta do meu cuarto.

“É algunha visita”, murmurei, “que peta á porta do meu cuarto.

So é iso, e nada máis.”

¡Ah!, lembro perfatamente que foi no rigoroso decembro,

e cada ascua esmorecente asitaba ao seu fantasma no chan.

Agardaba con ansia a mañá; canso de procurar

nos meus libros alivio para a dor..., a dor pola perda de Leonor,

pola exquisita e radiante docelaá que os anxos chama Leonor

e á que ninguén ha chamar nunca máis.

O menor roce, triste e sedoso, das cortinas moradas

arrepiábame ..., enchíame dun terror sobrenatural que nunca antes sentira;

de maneira que para rear o bater do meu corazón, seguín repentindo:

“É algunha visita que solicita entrar no meu cuarto...

algunha visita tardía que solicita entrar no meu cuarto...

iso é todo e nada máis.”

De úpeto a miña alma sentiuse forte, e deixou de dubidar.

“Señor”, dixen, “ou señora, prego que me saibades desculpar;

pero o certo é que estaba adurmiñado cando petastes na porta con tanta suavidade,

cando batestes con tal levidade na porta do meu cuarto

que apenas cheguei a sentirvos”. Daquela abrín a porta de par en par.

Só escuridade e nada máis.

Permanecín por un tempo esculcando na escuridae, inquieto e temoroso

indeciso e imaxinanso o que nunca antes ousara imaxinar mortal ningún.

Pero o silencio era total e a escuridade non daba razón, é o único que alí se dixo foi o murmurio dunha palabra: “¡Leonor!”.

Iso murmurei eu, e un eco borboriñou en resposta:”¡Leonor!”.

Tan só iso, e nada máis.

Regresei axitado para o cuarto, coa alma en ardente inquedanza.

Axiña volvín escoitar aquel bater algo mái forte ca antes.

“Seguro”, dixen, “seguro que algo na reixa da miña fiestra;

vexamos, así pois de que se trata, e esculquemos no misterio...

devolvamos a calma ó meu coraón e esculquemos no misterio,

é o vento, e nada máis!”

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.

matilda

The reader of books.

It's a funny thing about mothers and fathers. Even when their own child is the most disgusting little blister you could ever imagine, they still think that he or she is wonderfull. Some parents go further. They become so blinded by adoration they manage to convince themselves their child has qualities of genious. 

Well, there is nothing very wrong all this. It's the way of the world. It is only when the parents begin telling us about the brilliance of their own revolting offspring, that we start shouting "Bring us a basin! We're going to be sick!"

School teachers suffer a good deal from having to listen to this sort of twaddle from proud parents, but they usually get their own back when the time comes to write the end-of-term reports. If I were a teacher, I would cook up some real scorchers for the children of doting parents.  "Your son Maximilian" I would write, "is a total wash-out. I hope you have a family business you can push him into when he leaves school because he sure as heck won't get a job anywhere else." Or if I were feeling lyrical that day, I might write, "It's a curious truth the grasshoppers have their hearing-organs in the sides of abdomen. Your daughter Vanessa judging by what she's learnt this term, has no hearing-organs at all."

I might even delve deeper into natural history and say, "The periodical cicada spend six years as a grub underground, and no more than six days as a free creature of sunlight and air. Your son Wilfred  has spent six years as a grub in this school and we are still waiting for him to emerge from the chrysalis." A particulary poisonous little girl might sting me to saying , "Fiona has the same glacial beauty as an iceberg, but unlike the iceberg she has absolutely nothing below the surface." I think I might enjoy writing end-of-term reports for the stinkers in my class. But enough of that. We have to get on. 

Occasionally one comes across parents who take the opposite line, who show no interest at all in their children, and these of course are far worse than the doting ones. Mr and Mrs Wormwood were two such parents. They had a son called Michael and a daughter called Matilda, and the parents looked upon Matilda in particular as nothing more than a scab. A scab is something you have to put up with until the time comes when you can pick it off and flick it away. Mr and Mrs Wormwood looked forward enormously to the time when they could pick their little daughter off and flick her away, preferably into the next county or even further than that. 

It is bad enough when parents treat ordinary children as though they were scabs and bunions, but it becomes somehow a lot worse when the child in question is extraordinary, and by that I mean sensitive and brilliant. Matilda was both of these things, but above all she was brilliant.

Matilda

 Roald Dahl

Publicada orixinalmente por Jonathan Cape en Londres, 1988. Con ilustracións de Quentin Blake.

Traducida ao galego por:

X. Miguel Barros Taboada

 E publicada como:

Matilda

Santiago de Compostela, editorial Alfaguara (Obradoiro), 1989

A lectora de libros.

Pasa unha cousa moi graciosa coas nais e cos pais. Inda que o seu fillo sexa o ser máis repugnante que un poida imaxinar, cren que é maravilloso.

Algúns pais inda van máis lonxe. A súa adoración chega a cegalos, e están convencidos de que o seu tesouro ten calidades de xenio.

Ben… tampouco ten nada de malo. A xente é así. Só cando os pais empezan a falarnos das marabillas da súa descendencia é cando berramos: “Tráianme unha almofiña! Vou devolver!”.

Os Mestres pásano moi mal tendo que escoitar estas parvadas de pais orgullosos, pero normalmente desquítanse cando chega a hora das notas finais do curso. Se eu fose mestre idearía orixinais comentarios para fillos de pais imbéciles. “O seu fillo Maximilian”, escribiría, “é un auténtico desastre. Espero que teñan vostedes algún negocio familiar cara ao que o poidan orientar cando remate a escola, porque é seguro como hai inferno, que non encontraría un traballo en sitio ningún”. Ou, se me sentise inspirado ese día, podería poñer: “Os saltóns, curiosamente teñen os órganos auditivos a ambos os dous lados do abdome. A súa filla Vanessa, a xulgar polo que aprendeu neste curso, non ten órganos auditivos”.

Podería,  incluso, rebuscar máis profundamente na historia natural e escribir: “A chicharra pasa seis anos baixo terra como larva e, como moito, seis días como animal libre á luz do sol e ao aire. O seu fillo Wilfred pasou seis anos como larva nesta escola e inda estamos esperando que saia da crisálida”. Unha nena especialmente odiosa quizais me incitase a dicir: “Fiona ten a mesma beleza glacial que un iceberg; pero, ao contrario do que sucede con este, non ten nada debaixo da superficie”. Estou seguro de que gozaría escribindo os informes de fin de curso dos malandríns da miña clase. Pero disto xa abonda. Temos que seguir.

Ás veces tópase un con pais que se comportan de xeito totalmente oposto. Pais que non demostran o máis mínimo interese polos seus fillos e que, naturalmente, son moito peores ca os que senten un cariño delirante. O señor e a señora Wormwood eran deses. Tiñan un fillo, Michael, e unha filla, Matilda. Á nena, os pais considerábana pouco máis ca unha bostela. Unha bostela é algo que un ten que soportar ata que chega o momento de arrincala e botala lonxe. O señor e a señora Wormwood esperaban con ansiedade o momento de quitar de encima á meniña e botala lonxe, a ser posible a algunha vila dos arredores ou, incluso, inda máis lonxe.

Xa é malo que haxa pais que traten aos nenos normais como bostelas e xoanetes, pero é moito peor cando o neno en cuestión é extraordinario, e con isto refírome a cando e sensible e brillante. Matilda era ambas as dúas cousas, pero sobre todo, brillante.

elementos de frankenstein

www.fastcodesign.com

Frankenstein ou o Prometeo moderno abarca tres volumes e os seguintes elementos narrativos:

a/ cita dun fragmento do libro X de O paraíso perdido, de Milton, no que Adán se lamenta ante o creador logo da caída.

b/ dedicatoria a seu pai, William Godwin, ao comezo de 1818.

c/ volume I. Prólogo do autor anónimo (realmente escrito por Percy B. Shelley, para a edición de 1818, e xunto cos dous elementos anteriores importantes para unha axeitada comprensión da obra); seis cartas de Robert Walton a súa irmá Margaret sobre os preparativos da expedición e o rescate e amizade co Dr Frankenstein; e sete capítulos do Diario que escribe Walton recollendo a historia que Vitor Frankenstein lle conta, sendo a partir do capítulo IV cando asistimos ao inicio da obra orixinal escrita pola autora.

d/ volume II. Nove capítulos máis: entre o III e o VIII o monstro conta a súa vida e a historia da familia DeLacey.

e/ volume III. Os sete últimos capítulos: no último finaliza o Diario de Walton, que recolle o relato que Frankenstein comezaraa no volume I e cérrase coas catro últimas cartas de Robert Walton a Margaret anunciándolle a súa volta e a conversa co monstro, antes de que este desapareza.

a obra estrutúrase dun xeito circular, como pon de manifesto a técnica epistolar que abre e pecha a obra; e, tamén no mesmo sentido, é unha estrutura pechada xa que comeza coa preparación da expedición de Walton, e a visión do monstro e o encontro con Vitor, e finaliza co final fallido da mesma e o final de ambos.

por outro lado, coas primeiras cartas comeza o relato da primeira das accións, a expedición de Walton, na que se incluirá a acción principal do relato de Frankenstein. Así podemos dicir que nos atopamos tamén cunha estrutura marco: as primeiras e as últimas cartas pertencen á acción máis xeral na que se “enmarcan” a acción principal da historia de Frankenstein e o seu monstro, contada no diario, e as diferentes acción e personaxes secundarios ligados nalgún momento a esta historia (Justine, DeLacey, Clerval, …)

pero tamén, e novamente dentro do relato do diario, atopamos a historia narrada polo monstro sobre a súa vida e a familia DeLacey, técnica que confire á obra unha importante característica estrutural: tense falado dunha estrutura concéntrica para referirse ao que outros nomean estrutura de caixas chinesas ou de bonecas rusas ou de “matrioska”.

esta última sería a imaxe máis axeitada para unha estrutura interna ao servizo da acción e do narrador: Walton conta en primeira persoa a súa irmá como prepara a expedición e tamén conta “coas súas propias palabras” a historia que lle narra Vitor F., agora narrador protagonista, quen, dentro do seu relato, conta como o monstro lle conta, tamén en primeira persoa protagonista, a súa vida e avatares.

atopándose así, na estrutura máis interna, o relato do monstro, incluído na estrutura seguinte do relato de Vitor F., que se inclúen, á súa vez, na estrutura máis xeral da narración de Walton.

FONTES: esta é a enésima ocasión na historia "intelectual" da humanidade na que se produce un plaxio, deturpación ou elaboración de materiais previos. Tentaremos que non se repita. En serio.

frankenstein, ou o moderno prometeo

cuberta do orixinal inglés (1818)

When I attained the age of seventeen, my parents resolved that I should become a student at the university of Ingolstadt. I had hitherto attended the schools of Geneva; but my father thought it necessary, for the completion of my education, that I should be made acquainted with other customs than those of my native country. My departure was therefore fixed at an early date; but, before the day resolved upon could arrive, the first misfortune of my life occurred – an omen, as it were, of my future misery.

Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever; but her illness was not severe, and she quickly recovered. During her confinement, many arguments had been urged to persuade my mother to refrain from attending upon her. She has, at first, yielded to our entreaties; but when she heard that her favourite was recovering, she could no longer debar himself from her society, and entered her chamber long before the danger of infection was past. The consequences of this imprudence were fatal. On the third day my mother sickened; her fever was very malignant, and the looks of her attendants prognosticated the worst event. On her death-bed the fortitude and benignity of this admirable woman did not desert her. She joined the hands of Elizabeth and myself: “My children,” she said, “my firmest hopes of future happiness were placed on the prospect or your union. This expectation will now be the consolation of your father. Elizabeth, my love, you must supply my place to your younger cousins. Alas! I regret that I am taken from you; and, happy and beloved as I have been, is it not hard to quit you all? But these are not thoughts befitting me; I will endeavour to resign myself cheerfully to death, and will indulge a hope of meeting you in another world.”

She died calmly; and her countenance expressed affection even in death. I need to describe the feelings of those whose dearest ties are rent by that most irreparable evil, the void that presents itself to the soul, and the despair that is exhibited on the countenance. It is so long before the mind can persuade itself that she, whom we saw every day, and whose very existence appeared a part of our own, can have departed for ever – that the brightness of a beloved eye can have been extinguished, and the sound of a voice so familiar, and dear to the ear, can be hushed, never more to be heard. These are the reflections of the first days; but when the lapse of time proves the reality of the evil, then the actual bitterness of grief commences. Yet from whom has not that rude hand rent away some dear connexion; and why should I describe a sorrow which all have felt, and must feel? The time at length arrives, when grief is rather an indulgence than a necessity; and the smile that plays upon the lips, although it may be deemed a sacrilege, is not banished. My mother was dead, but we had still duties which we ought to perform; we must continue our course with the rest, and learn to think ourselves fortunate, whilst one remains whom the spoiler has not seized.

Frankenstein or the Modern Prometheus

Mary Shelley

pero inicialmente publicada como anónima

Londres: Lackington, Hughes, Harding, Mavor & Jones, 1818 

traducida ao galego por

Fernando R. Tato Plaza

e publicada como

Frankenstein ou o moderno Prometeo

Vigo: Editorial Galaxia, 2000

Cando cumprín dezasete anos, meus país decidiron que debía estudar na universidade de Ingolstadt. Ata ese momento acudirá a escolas de Xenebra, pero meu pai coidou necesario para completar a miña formación que coñecese outros costumes distintos dos do meu país natal. En consecuencia, tiña marcada a miña partida para unha data próxima, pero antes de chegar o día acordado, aconteceu o primeiro infortunio da miña vida, un agoiro, por chamalo así, da miña futura desgraza.

Elizabeth pillara a escarlatina; a enfermidade era grave e corría gran perigo. Durante a súa doenza foron moitos os argumentos que usamos para convencer a miña nai de que non a atendese persoalmente. Ao primeiro cedera ás nosas súplicas, pero cando sentiu que a vida da súa favorita estaba ameazada, xa non puido controlar a súa ansiedade por máis tempo. Atendeuna ao pé do leito, e os seus atentos coidados triunfaron sobre a malignidade da doenza;  Elizabeth salvouse pero as consecuencias desta imprudencia foron fatais para a súa protectora. Ao terceiro día miña nai caeu enferma; a febre apareceu acompañada dos máis alarmantes síntomas e as miradas dos médicos que a atendían prognosticaban o peor. A fortaleza e mais a bondade desta muller excepcional non a abandonaron no leito de morte. Colleunos as mans a Elizabeth e a min: “Meus nenos”, dixo ela, “as miñas máis firmes esperanzas de felicidade futura residían na perspectiva da vosa unión.  Esta esperanza ha de ser agora o consolo do voso pai.  Elizabeth, miña raína, debes ocupar o meu sitio para os meus fillos máis novos. ¡Ah! Sinto abandonarvos; co feliz e querida que fun, ¿non é duro deixarvos a todos? Pero non convén pensar nestas cousas; tentarei resignarme a morrer con alegría coa esperanza de vos volver ver no outro mundo”.

Morreu serenamente, e o seu rostro expresaba afecto mesmo na morte. Non necesito describir os sentimentos dos que ven os seus lazos máis queridos desfeitos polo máis irreparable dos males, o baleiro que queda na alma e a desesperación que se estampa nas caras. Ha pasar moito tempo antes de que a mente poida convencerse de que ela, á que viamos tódolos días ee que formaba parte da nosa propia existencia, marchou para sempre, que se extinguiu o brillo dos ollos amados, e o que o son dunha voz tan familiar e querida ao oído enmudeceu e non se volverá sentir nunca xamais. Estes son pensamentos dos primeiros días, pero cando o decorrer do tempo demostra a realidade do mal, entón comeza a verdadeira amargura da dor. Pero, ¿a quen non lle roubou algún ser querido esa man brutal? ¿E logo, para que describir unha dor que todos sufrimos e debemos sufrir? Ao final chega a hora en que o sufrimento é máis un pracer ca unha necesidade, e o sorriso que apuntan os beizos, aínda que se poida considerar un sacrilexio, non desaparece. Miña nai estaba morta, pero aínda tiñamos deberes que cumprir, tiñamos que seguir o noso camiño cos demais e aprender a considerármonos afortunados mentres nos quedase alguén que a destruidora non arrebatase.