3.9.10

"A room of one's own" - Virginia Woolf


"The title women and fiction might mean, and you may have meant it to mean, women and what they are like, or it might mean women and the fiction that they write; or it might mean women and the fiction that is written about them, or it might mean that somehow all three are inextricably mixed together and you want me to consider them in that light. But when I began to consider the subject in this last way, which seemed the most interesting, I soon saw that it had one fatal drawback. I should never be able to come to a conclusion. I should never be able to fulfill what is, I understand, the first duty of a lecturer to hand you after an hour’s discourse a nugget of pure truth to wrap up between the pages of your notebooks and keep on the mantelpiece for ever. All I could do was to offer you an opinion upon one minor point — a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction; and that, as you will see, leaves the great problem of the true nature of woman and the true nature of fiction unsolved. I have shirked the duty of coming to a conclusion upon these two questions — women and fiction remain, so far as I am concerned, unsolved problems."

Woolf, Virginia, "A Room of one's own", 1929.

23.6.10

È il mio coricino che più non é meco, ei venne a star teco, ei batte cosi...

"- Te doy mi corazón, hermoso ídolo mío; pero el tuyo quiero también. Vamos, dámelo.

- Me lo das y yo lo tomo, pero el mío no te lo doy. En vano me lo pides, ya no lo tengo conmigo.

- Si no lo tienes contigo, ¿por qué late aquí?

- Si a mí me lo das, ¿qué late aquí?

(a dúo)

- Es mi corazoncito, que ya no está conmigo. Se ha ido para estar contigo. Y late así."

Dorabella y Guglielmo (Susan Graham y Simon Keenlyside) - Cosi fan tutte (W. A. Mozart)

22.5.10

Happy Birthday, Larry


"Be with me always. Take any form, drive me mad, only do not leave me in this dark alone where I cannot find you. I cannot live without my life! I cannot die without my soul!" - Heathcliff (Laurence Olivier en Wuthering Heights de 1939)

3.3.10

03-III-2010


Esta ansia que me muerde las manos, que me tira más adelante.

Ella, que me pide que me asome, de cara al vacío blanco, aún por escribirse.

La que me señala los pies, que dibujan garabatos mientras el Tiempo me empuja.


Cae redonda en mi estómago. Latente.

Me hace tomarme la vida de golpe. La veo pasar, como una revista, en mi cabeza.


"Calma, chiquita," le digo cuando se apura. "Calma, que la brisa todavía no ha solpado y hay que recibirla".


"Calma," le digo. "que nos espera el Futuro y hay que ponerse linda".


La siento relajarse. Espera. La hamaco en mi pecho, se ríe contenta. Sabe que tranquila, me enseña.


Hay que escribir la vida ahora, mientras tengamos tinta.

L.I.

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