Every time I request a list of books that I have always set different titles. Never finally decided. This is fortunate, or blessed, my faith is fluctuating, "because for me this means two things. First, I have many intense moments in my life as a reader and writer (this last shorter than the previous one) that alternate their rank as my memory recovers capricious. This multiplies the possibilities and nuances, and discover you reconstruct you through the books you've read. Second, your ability to marvel and feel concerned before a book is not closing and place you know that even novels, poems, stories to be written and integrated my future lists favorite books. Seen this way, indecision is a gift.
This time, the books you mention are due to periods of my life, especially today, in an evening that begins to cool in the city of Bordeaux, and away from my hometown I want to evoke.
The voice you
Through my window I see a clear blue sky; of those skies whose brightness could blind us, if not for the contrast of the clouds, but clouds that look like words deleted. Under a sky like that, but in my country, fifteen years ago, I read you 's voice due Pedro Salinas. I was just outside a town called Tarma, in the countryside, under the only tree lucuma a small farm and had been split in two by lightning last week. There, among a strange but alluring fragrance that came from the fruit and the tree just felled the tree, I read each poem by the great wonder Salinas. And I can not but be amazed now when I recall the lines: "What joy higher: / live in the pronouns!" and note that what I write and I write from an aesthetic that is based on the relativity of the subject . As to Salinas, or perhaps because of it, I am interested in building the characters and the construction of the voice itself to be doing in the speech of another, that "you" that moved to Don Pedro, that "you" leaving the name, the subject and there in the voice and the shadow of the voice. That voice that names and makes love an experience of words and silences.
remember this collection, the tree struck by lightning and some pronouns lucuma who accompanied me in reading.
The dumb word
More than one writer, traveler, or simple tourist has said that we were born in the city of Lima we are so because of the weather. Obviously, explain this "well" no easy task. Alternatives to know how they are locals, I prefer two. Watching the gray sky in April, just look gray in July and no less gray in between November and December. It only remains to look down and see to its population. That tone that we have been impregnated in the retina, white or black, sits in every subject with which we encounter. No sadness or happiness, at least not the first thing we perceive. The other alternative is to read the stories of Julio Ramón Ribeyro. Nobody like him has captured the image of Lima. That a Lima has become universal, then rummaged in Honduras Ribeyro the Peruvian urban men, and that their findings can easily be extrapolated to all man between two streets, in the light of a streetlight, waiting for someone or anyone.
Her stories I read in adolescence. A good time to read this narrator. There are other good moments, of course. In the preface he wrote to the first meeting of his stories under the name of the dumb Word said that this title was due to the voice that gave those figures obscure, forgotten, that is in every city. Several decades later, when he was already an author close to death and I was no longer a teenager, wrote in his last volume that he was really dumb, and that he had a lifetime to realize it. It recognized that in each of his characters. The same thing happened while reading his stories. From his first story called "The vultures without feathers", through "Silvio in the Rose Garden", "Phoenix" or "Only for smokers, taking into account that I do not smoke.
However, arbitrarily remember the story called "On the roof" with the text because I felt very identified, and affected for long. Here is the story talks of a young child and a sick-perhaps of the lungs, the two neighbors, who were on the roof of their houses, Lima during the summer (which is not much). Both characters are recognized in the environment and dominated his way to the vast city that watched. Domain was ephemeral, of course. A kingdom from the loneliness that all you ever crave.
Life is a Dream
One of my first readings, those low before adolescence, was Life is dream
also affected me tremendously, as was natural, the closure of Sigismund. It seemed terrible that was his own father who gave him closure. I thought something like Layo then the father and the death warrant to his son Oedipus. In fact, the issue has never left me. In my writings I inquire still hovering over my imagination and the complex relationships between parents and children. Of course, successive readings I've discovered other things that helped me to understand, for example, that mastery of old and raised concerns with space between waking and sleeping, and what we can derive, by extension, between reality and fiction. Sigismund, like Don Quixote, confusing the boundaries between the imagined -Dreams-and life experiences. Suffering in space and on the other, trying to understand as opposed both areas, a destination which does not know where to be met.
The City and the Dogs
In Peru, where small, was still the talk of the world saying " Inga who has not, he has Mandinga. This phrase alludes to the inevitable miscegenation between Indians, Africans, Chinese, etc., Considered races dominated the most, in different proportions, were debtors. My father was born in the capital, like me, but his family came from the high Andean zones. My mother, on the other hand, was in the Peruvian jungle. For that reason, when I read The the Hero by Mario Vargas Llosa, I was inevitably identify with all characters. With this novel, through a microcosm represented at a military school of the capital, Vargas Llosa unfolded complex characters, all of them teenagers, who came from across the country to be inserted into a setting which could be adverse, but which no was no escape. While reading I was inevitable identify with the Boa, a character whose emotional torrent was typical of the Amazonian world, sensitivity that I have inherited from my mother, with the Slave, a shyness and passivity, as he dominated me much of my adolescence, with The Poet not only by his taste for writing and the start of the recreation of stories, but also by reading pornographic novels-this, no doubt, I inherited from my father, and not just the taste for this kind of reading, but also about its diverse library, "and, finally, with the Jaguar, who was just what I wanted to be at the time, as I was, in sensitivity, as the other characters. However, there were some elements I approached him. As the Jaguar, I grew up in the central districts of the capital, where subsistence codes were quite hard and unforgiving. Those codes I knew well, even if not practically all, or very few, and felt that he shared the stage with this character.
Rarely have I been so many in one book. And I appreciate it.
Poetry written
Perhaps the book that I've made more trips is this: Poetry written by Jorge Eduardo Eielson. To discover the plasticity of the word. And not only that: this book is a poetic testimony of discovery, the route of that journey to the richness of meaning itself significant. Here the poems are gradually stripping of all content, cultural references, to reach the pure state of the words and then silence himself. Notable exercise if we want to know the value of the word, knowing silence, emptiness, nothing that potential. This was certainly a great lesson that the very Eielson received another great Peruvian poet, Martin Adam, who in a verse says: "Poetry says nothing / is silent poetry, / hearing his own voice. "
remember it was a teacher, then friend, who read the poetry of Jorge Eduardo Eielson to the entire class. It was a simple poem, short, saying
only the sun
the sun only
only in heaven
and I just
alone with the sun
smile simply.
That simplicity was of many things for me. I learned about the influence of Zen thought in the author, his exploration of Surrealism, in music, his intense activity as an artist. Not to give me another alternative. Everything had to have been written so far. I rushed to buy the book in a small edition, the one at the time, whose leaves are like the wings of birds taking off. And that same issue is the one I use when I have to give some Peruvian poetry course. The leaves fly less, but more with me.
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