Jose Donoso AND WORLD RECORD OF
José Saramago In Review Public Studies, 80 (Spring 2000).
Text of lecture delivered at the symposium "Donoso, 70," organized by the Department of Cultural Programs Division of Culture, Ministry of Education and the Faculty of Philosophy and Humanities at the University of Chile, 5 - October 7, 1994. The conference was subsequently published in the book Donoso, 70 (Santiago: Ministry of Education, October 1997).
I know firsthand what it means sitting, hearing about what we have written, and sometimes feel like saying "I had not thought, but if you say, maybe they're right."
Sometimes we do not like anything we're hearing, because it seems that things are not going there. What I am going to read is not what is usually called an academic. It is a kind of dialogue between writer and writer. I do not know if he would answer, but I would one day know what Jose Donoso think of this writer and fan of yours for years.
He called this "José Donoso and inventory of the world."
"I would like to talk about music, for example, but deep down I feel that it would be frivolous." Judith
this adage to Mañungo in despair in a moment of your journey night by James, during this fantastic night does not end that night that seems to be taking, one after another, every hour lived to not irretrievably lost in the time spent in a single minute. Without thinking, gesture, word, Judith will not talk about music, because one of the world feel these days is just pointless. Eleven years ago is dead Neruda and Matilde Urrutia has also entered the big night, in the silence of the permanent absence.
We are made of words. To silence the word needs to say it. We are born and immediately began to hear sounds and learn how to articulate the word among themselves. Break the silence brain with the first words we utter. After the recreated using them, of course, on paper, is the shadow of them, nothing but the shadow, and only much later discover that the words are, in themselves, music. Later still understand that a book is like a score, and finally that speech is like a melody anxious and inexhaustible. Writing and speaking
fulfill our true aspiration. Although we do not enjoy it, and we are not aware, writing will always reach those who call the vital thing, the supreme moment in which we believe we believe we have explored to the border of the ineffable our resources own personal sonata. But since so many words, music are crossed, and it'll say that many of these words are useless, and that many of these songs do not deserve to be heard. And sometimes yes, sometimes they are. Take a novel
anyone. We can say without looking: here is a hundred thousand words. It is impossible that all are equally necessary that the same degree of need is present in each, and apparently nothing is more certain. But how can we be sure that the words they consider useless or superfluous always will be.
Those six words that say "In a village of La Mancha" are the most famous since the world learned to read and write. However, why will they be less essential than those other Knight of the Sorrowful Figure on page 524 of the thousand edition of Don Quixote? Who can say that those other words of Cervantes, seemingly insignificant, written without concern that satisfy the conflicting logic of a minor episode, would not be for one day to challenge a world of timid people?
The words say more than I ever imagined, and if you do not seem to say at any given time, it's just because they can not, or simply because her hour has come.
Those words of Judith is more than sure that José Donoso wrote them without thinking too much, running out of the pen and they are there. I think you would readily agree that without them, despair would be exactly the same. In fact, what difference would subtract seventeen words of one hundred thousand, say ninety-nine thousand nine hundred eighty-three. I dare to declare that those seventeen words that might be considered superfluous, it could use as an epigraph José Donoso all his work. Because one currency in them a moral conscience urged by the truth.
As in the case of individuals, the decline of social class, by the very ideological and psychological complexity of this decline, only from within can be expressed effectively. An observer strange, very analytical and insightful it is, just be able to describe, it is presumed that with some accuracy, decadent outdoor signs, what still remains of the triumphs of the past, and the experiences and suffering of now, but never going deep mental unease devouring the vital substance in a sick body. And never fear that was generated by the fault and will relentlessly multiplying until it becomes unbearable, to push to suicide. Only aristocrat Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa The Leopard may have written, only the judge Salvatore Satta, know life, passion and death of men and women could have written The Day of Judgement. It was from within ones and others wrote to each one, true testaments of their class of origin. In fact, only in terms of observer provide the complete circularity of truth that is required when writing a paper on the characteristics of a person or a class.
is not news to say that books of Jose Donoso are also in the field of subjective and objective conditions of social and political history of Chile and their classes in the last forty years, a look inside. For this reason, a merciless gaze. The look of someone who knows. The look of those who at no time will subtract from the complacency that usually arranged with all decadence, always easily romanticized, because they are so passionately romantic temperament of the writer, and perhaps, man. I think it's accurate to say that José Donoso exists for our pleasure, the realism of a reason to move directly towards the cool objectivity and romance seizure of a desperate feeling to reality.
The result is to be transcendent and furious work to pay tribute today. I said earlier that the work of José Donoso considered and expressed, by way of art and literature, social and political situation in Chile during the last decades, focusing particularly on their upper and middle classes. Is restrictive in any way put it this way: a work defined by the standards of critical realism grounded, which otherwise finds fulfillment in the book this Sunday. This work, I mean a whole course so defined, would need nothing more to be important, but that dimension will be missing two of vertigo and another potential importance what I mean. Vertigo and significance will therefore be higher evaluative factors that led to the complex work of José Donoso unparalleled character.
However, in this case vertigo does not come from laborious experiments in language plan and that fact does not use Donoso, because it should be noted that what is absolutely revolutionary is his work on the structure on the internal frame. Nor
transcendence must be perceived here as a metaphysical presence or implied of any kind. In Donoso's novels there is no God, or there is at least appointing or invoked. The vertigo and the significance of which I speak are only human, terribly human. Donoso man vertigo is vertigo caused by naked self-observation, while the significance is the look produced by obsessive awareness of their existence.
No wonder, therefore, that atmosphere prevails Donoso distorted narrative, expressionist original course, more important than realistic colors also recognizes his work. The extraordinary novel The Obscene Bird of Night is relative ontological next The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. No matter the crossing told of a work in another, it is displayed and obscene same precipice that fascinates the reader and the viewer just as if about to fall inside a glass infinity turned upside down.
winding corridors, viscous parts, false doors, open windows to the dark, the stairs suspended, Sleepwalkers bedroom of the House of Spiritual Exercises were not put there as a scale model of the human planetary system. Are the same and very short, on. As in a novel by Donoso, the world contains, Chile contains Santiago, Santiago has the house containing the Dopey, Dopey and within no difference between the author and nothing.
When at the beginning of this attempt probably forced him and certainly frustrated me, reciting the words of Judith, I referred to that night that seemed to be taking one after another, every night living, there surfaced what I figure are the main features of the narrative process Donoso. First Instead, what I would call the equalization or fusion of past, present and future into a single unit of time, but a unit that is unstable, slippery.
Second, as a logical extreme, suspension, cessation of time itself, what happens after the arrival Mañungo twilight, until we see the land embraced Judith dead. This can not happen in one night, tell the reader, and judging by appearances, the reader is right. However, we must say the night of Hopelessness is not it a long night and another in which the hours, minutes and seconds are expanding and contracting in the same palpitation, so perhaps intuitive. Or rather, supremely intelligent.
Resolve the contradiction seems to exist between the assessment of content that is recognized at all times greater than their own continent, implies an ambition left in the shadows of Joshua's feat, he did stop the sun to win a battle. José Donoso for the time to take stock of the world.
This would have been the target if a demigod vocation-oriented would not direct expressions of brute force. On the other hand, have reason to believe that the classical Greek world would be much less populated than it is gross the rest. You may ask why this reference has more to do with the mythology and literature.
precisely because the soul of humanity, wherever it has dispersed, inhabits a world not only of nobles and infamous ruins, but remains of mental constructs, a result of the passing of generations, not only of what we call trash and waste, but also from the rubble and the remains of the doctrines, religions and philosophies of ethics that the time spent and became empty, dismantled systems from other systems, and that new systems have been dismantled. Of the tales, fables, legends, of the loves and hatreds, obsolete customs, suddenly denied the convictions, passions that have been killed and then reborn, finally, the remains of God and the remains of the devil, and also the body, do not forget the body, which is the location of all pleasure and all suffering.
beginning and the end, meeting and living with one another in circuits and a half kilo blood and brain.
inventory Donoso house is because the inventory of the world. We have difficulties accessing all acts and words that occur in the few hours they are among a dusk and dawn. I would also say that the house of the Hundred Birds of the Night (however exaggerated it insane that architecture as the doctor's Cabinet Caligari), it would be impossible to build such beings who cover between life and death, of an infinite variety and futility. Animal fat, flat, soft, square, no forms, dozens and hundreds of packages, cartons tied, hidden, balls of string or wool, odd shoes, bottles, dented screen, swimmer cap raspberry, all silky like with flowers that grow in the dust-white, soft, fragile, soft, minimal movement such as blinking or breathing could spread throughout the room, drowning and washing, and then animals that lie in the forms of atadito momentarily tame rag bundles old magazines, trunks and umbrella, coats, caps and boxes, would move to attack.
However, this accumulation is possible only from the perspective of José Donoso relentlessly logical. Under the old boxes and, in the thousand attics of the house, in attics and basements, in closets, under the mountains of rags, and everything is hidden, there is a world that was not inventoried and explain a world of people and remains rotten and had to put all the names, attributes, tell all stocks up beyond exhaustion, and as for that not enough time and many lives, because each add turn remains, his body had no José Donoso choice but to stop time, duration subvert, or stop James and the House simultaneously with the times just around the circuit in the world, to finally get to say that our reader was right, the most to less, the whole universe is present in the second we utter the word.
And now is the moment of vertigo all, when what is above is like what is below, where there is no North, no South, no East nor West, when the eyes look over the parapet and not contemplate more than the absence of myself ... The Last Old, will have no name, because it has always been other- put to death, shoulder bag of a thousand bags, burlap sacking thousand restitched where Dopey was locked up with all the remains of the house, with all traces of the world, and through the city towards the River. Along the river, which is the very image of time that finally begins to move, she sits next to a bonfire that falters in one feeble flame.
Paper, waste, rekindled his fire will not last long. Then the old, perhaps the death, will stand up, grab the bag and open circles in the fire, flame, burn cards, socks, rags, dirt, so what it is, as long as the flame come alive a bit, to feel cold, so what the smell of burning, a burning rags to paper. The wind carries the smoke and odors out, she curls up to sleep on the stones, the fire burns for a while with the deserted as other package contained more than rags, and then begins to extinguish the embers mitigating and ash covering runs very light scattered by the wind. Within minutes there is nothing left under the bridge, only black spot fire left in the stones, and a sack. The wind turns, rolls and falls to the river stones. Sewn and bound on all sides, the sac that Dopey was locked shut is the metaphor of the world itself. When time is set in motion and bag is opened and what it includes is thrown out, ie all resigned learn that life is but a promise of ashes. José Donoso
has done nothing to stop time, why? I can only offer an answer: that Donovan has done just so we thought slowly, very slowly, if we are truly human. Have we thought? Or are we locked into the sack of our own absurdity, waiting for the fire and ashes as he resigned and to life?
If the writer is, as I think, who pursues us with questions, then José Donoso is the largest. For this reason and because of who he is, thank you.
José Saramago In Review Public Studies, 80 (Spring 2000).
Text of lecture delivered at the symposium "Donoso, 70," organized by the Department of Cultural Programs Division of Culture, Ministry of Education and the Faculty of Philosophy and Humanities at the University of Chile, 5 - October 7, 1994. The conference was subsequently published in the book Donoso, 70 (Santiago: Ministry of Education, October 1997).
I know firsthand what it means sitting, hearing about what we have written, and sometimes feel like saying "I had not thought, but if you say, maybe they're right."
Sometimes we do not like anything we're hearing, because it seems that things are not going there. What I am going to read is not what is usually called an academic. It is a kind of dialogue between writer and writer. I do not know if he would answer, but I would one day know what Jose Donoso think of this writer and fan of yours for years.
He called this "José Donoso and inventory of the world."
"I would like to talk about music, for example, but deep down I feel that it would be frivolous." Judith
this adage to Mañungo in despair in a moment of your journey night by James, during this fantastic night does not end that night that seems to be taking, one after another, every hour lived to not irretrievably lost in the time spent in a single minute. Without thinking, gesture, word, Judith will not talk about music, because one of the world feel these days is just pointless. Eleven years ago is dead Neruda and Matilde Urrutia has also entered the big night, in the silence of the permanent absence.
We are made of words. To silence the word needs to say it. We are born and immediately began to hear sounds and learn how to articulate the word among themselves. Break the silence brain with the first words we utter. After the recreated using them, of course, on paper, is the shadow of them, nothing but the shadow, and only much later discover that the words are, in themselves, music. Later still understand that a book is like a score, and finally that speech is like a melody anxious and inexhaustible. Writing and speaking
fulfill our true aspiration. Although we do not enjoy it, and we are not aware, writing will always reach those who call the vital thing, the supreme moment in which we believe we believe we have explored to the border of the ineffable our resources own personal sonata. But since so many words, music are crossed, and it'll say that many of these words are useless, and that many of these songs do not deserve to be heard. And sometimes yes, sometimes they are. Take a novel
anyone. We can say without looking: here is a hundred thousand words. It is impossible that all are equally necessary that the same degree of need is present in each, and apparently nothing is more certain. But how can we be sure that the words they consider useless or superfluous always will be.
Those six words that say "In a village of La Mancha" are the most famous since the world learned to read and write. However, why will they be less essential than those other Knight of the Sorrowful Figure on page 524 of the thousand edition of Don Quixote? Who can say that those other words of Cervantes, seemingly insignificant, written without concern that satisfy the conflicting logic of a minor episode, would not be for one day to challenge a world of timid people?
The words say more than I ever imagined, and if you do not seem to say at any given time, it's just because they can not, or simply because her hour has come.
Those words of Judith is more than sure that José Donoso wrote them without thinking too much, running out of the pen and they are there. I think you would readily agree that without them, despair would be exactly the same. In fact, what difference would subtract seventeen words of one hundred thousand, say ninety-nine thousand nine hundred eighty-three. I dare to declare that those seventeen words that might be considered superfluous, it could use as an epigraph José Donoso all his work. Because one currency in them a moral conscience urged by the truth.
As in the case of individuals, the decline of social class, by the very ideological and psychological complexity of this decline, only from within can be expressed effectively. An observer strange, very analytical and insightful it is, just be able to describe, it is presumed that with some accuracy, decadent outdoor signs, what still remains of the triumphs of the past, and the experiences and suffering of now, but never going deep mental unease devouring the vital substance in a sick body. And never fear that was generated by the fault and will relentlessly multiplying until it becomes unbearable, to push to suicide. Only aristocrat Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa The Leopard may have written, only the judge Salvatore Satta, know life, passion and death of men and women could have written The Day of Judgement. It was from within ones and others wrote to each one, true testaments of their class of origin. In fact, only in terms of observer provide the complete circularity of truth that is required when writing a paper on the characteristics of a person or a class.
is not news to say that books of Jose Donoso are also in the field of subjective and objective conditions of social and political history of Chile and their classes in the last forty years, a look inside. For this reason, a merciless gaze. The look of someone who knows. The look of those who at no time will subtract from the complacency that usually arranged with all decadence, always easily romanticized, because they are so passionately romantic temperament of the writer, and perhaps, man. I think it's accurate to say that José Donoso exists for our pleasure, the realism of a reason to move directly towards the cool objectivity and romance seizure of a desperate feeling to reality.
The result is to be transcendent and furious work to pay tribute today. I said earlier that the work of José Donoso considered and expressed, by way of art and literature, social and political situation in Chile during the last decades, focusing particularly on their upper and middle classes. Is restrictive in any way put it this way: a work defined by the standards of critical realism grounded, which otherwise finds fulfillment in the book this Sunday. This work, I mean a whole course so defined, would need nothing more to be important, but that dimension will be missing two of vertigo and another potential importance what I mean. Vertigo and significance will therefore be higher evaluative factors that led to the complex work of José Donoso unparalleled character.
However, in this case vertigo does not come from laborious experiments in language plan and that fact does not use Donoso, because it should be noted that what is absolutely revolutionary is his work on the structure on the internal frame. Nor
transcendence must be perceived here as a metaphysical presence or implied of any kind. In Donoso's novels there is no God, or there is at least appointing or invoked. The vertigo and the significance of which I speak are only human, terribly human. Donoso man vertigo is vertigo caused by naked self-observation, while the significance is the look produced by obsessive awareness of their existence.
No wonder, therefore, that atmosphere prevails Donoso distorted narrative, expressionist original course, more important than realistic colors also recognizes his work. The extraordinary novel The Obscene Bird of Night is relative ontological next The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. No matter the crossing told of a work in another, it is displayed and obscene same precipice that fascinates the reader and the viewer just as if about to fall inside a glass infinity turned upside down.
winding corridors, viscous parts, false doors, open windows to the dark, the stairs suspended, Sleepwalkers bedroom of the House of Spiritual Exercises were not put there as a scale model of the human planetary system. Are the same and very short, on. As in a novel by Donoso, the world contains, Chile contains Santiago, Santiago has the house containing the Dopey, Dopey and within no difference between the author and nothing.
When at the beginning of this attempt probably forced him and certainly frustrated me, reciting the words of Judith, I referred to that night that seemed to be taking one after another, every night living, there surfaced what I figure are the main features of the narrative process Donoso. First Instead, what I would call the equalization or fusion of past, present and future into a single unit of time, but a unit that is unstable, slippery.
Second, as a logical extreme, suspension, cessation of time itself, what happens after the arrival Mañungo twilight, until we see the land embraced Judith dead. This can not happen in one night, tell the reader, and judging by appearances, the reader is right. However, we must say the night of Hopelessness is not it a long night and another in which the hours, minutes and seconds are expanding and contracting in the same palpitation, so perhaps intuitive. Or rather, supremely intelligent.
Resolve the contradiction seems to exist between the assessment of content that is recognized at all times greater than their own continent, implies an ambition left in the shadows of Joshua's feat, he did stop the sun to win a battle. José Donoso for the time to take stock of the world.
This would have been the target if a demigod vocation-oriented would not direct expressions of brute force. On the other hand, have reason to believe that the classical Greek world would be much less populated than it is gross the rest. You may ask why this reference has more to do with the mythology and literature.
precisely because the soul of humanity, wherever it has dispersed, inhabits a world not only of nobles and infamous ruins, but remains of mental constructs, a result of the passing of generations, not only of what we call trash and waste, but also from the rubble and the remains of the doctrines, religions and philosophies of ethics that the time spent and became empty, dismantled systems from other systems, and that new systems have been dismantled. Of the tales, fables, legends, of the loves and hatreds, obsolete customs, suddenly denied the convictions, passions that have been killed and then reborn, finally, the remains of God and the remains of the devil, and also the body, do not forget the body, which is the location of all pleasure and all suffering.
beginning and the end, meeting and living with one another in circuits and a half kilo blood and brain.
inventory Donoso house is because the inventory of the world. We have difficulties accessing all acts and words that occur in the few hours they are among a dusk and dawn. I would also say that the house of the Hundred Birds of the Night (however exaggerated it insane that architecture as the doctor's Cabinet Caligari), it would be impossible to build such beings who cover between life and death, of an infinite variety and futility. Animal fat, flat, soft, square, no forms, dozens and hundreds of packages, cartons tied, hidden, balls of string or wool, odd shoes, bottles, dented screen, swimmer cap raspberry, all silky like with flowers that grow in the dust-white, soft, fragile, soft, minimal movement such as blinking or breathing could spread throughout the room, drowning and washing, and then animals that lie in the forms of atadito momentarily tame rag bundles old magazines, trunks and umbrella, coats, caps and boxes, would move to attack.
However, this accumulation is possible only from the perspective of José Donoso relentlessly logical. Under the old boxes and, in the thousand attics of the house, in attics and basements, in closets, under the mountains of rags, and everything is hidden, there is a world that was not inventoried and explain a world of people and remains rotten and had to put all the names, attributes, tell all stocks up beyond exhaustion, and as for that not enough time and many lives, because each add turn remains, his body had no José Donoso choice but to stop time, duration subvert, or stop James and the House simultaneously with the times just around the circuit in the world, to finally get to say that our reader was right, the most to less, the whole universe is present in the second we utter the word.
And now is the moment of vertigo all, when what is above is like what is below, where there is no North, no South, no East nor West, when the eyes look over the parapet and not contemplate more than the absence of myself ... The Last Old, will have no name, because it has always been other- put to death, shoulder bag of a thousand bags, burlap sacking thousand restitched where Dopey was locked up with all the remains of the house, with all traces of the world, and through the city towards the River. Along the river, which is the very image of time that finally begins to move, she sits next to a bonfire that falters in one feeble flame.
Paper, waste, rekindled his fire will not last long. Then the old, perhaps the death, will stand up, grab the bag and open circles in the fire, flame, burn cards, socks, rags, dirt, so what it is, as long as the flame come alive a bit, to feel cold, so what the smell of burning, a burning rags to paper. The wind carries the smoke and odors out, she curls up to sleep on the stones, the fire burns for a while with the deserted as other package contained more than rags, and then begins to extinguish the embers mitigating and ash covering runs very light scattered by the wind. Within minutes there is nothing left under the bridge, only black spot fire left in the stones, and a sack. The wind turns, rolls and falls to the river stones. Sewn and bound on all sides, the sac that Dopey was locked shut is the metaphor of the world itself. When time is set in motion and bag is opened and what it includes is thrown out, ie all resigned learn that life is but a promise of ashes. José Donoso
has done nothing to stop time, why? I can only offer an answer: that Donovan has done just so we thought slowly, very slowly, if we are truly human. Have we thought? Or are we locked into the sack of our own absurdity, waiting for the fire and ashes as he resigned and to life?
If the writer is, as I think, who pursues us with questions, then José Donoso is the largest. For this reason and because of who he is, thank you.
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