On liars - Michel de Montaigne

Rating: ★★★★★

24/09/17

How much less companionable than silence is the language of falsehood.
– St Augustine, City of God, XIX, vii; Montaigne cites Pliny from J. L. Vives’ note.

An unpopular essay

We shall now proceed to discuss the nature of lying. Actually, this is a selfish act; it's a way to remind

myself that I need to read Montaigne’s works more often because his writing is extraordinary, folks. And I wanted to say it again. Besides, I haven’t written a non-review for quite some time.

This essay on liars derives from Quintilian’s notion that a liar should have a good memory. With that idea in mind, Montaigne starts pondering the opposite case – something I can relate to. He explains that his lack of memory is often perceived as ingratitude, since if he forgets about something, it must be because it is unimportant to him.

I certainly do forget things easily but I simply do not treat with indifference any charge laid on me by my friends. Let them be satisfied with my misfortune, without turning it into precisely the kind of malice which is the enemy of my natural humour.

As I mentioned on another review, Montaigne’s prose is clear and often humorous. When he starts explaining the drawbacks and benefits of having a bad memory, examples of the latter are: I remember less any insults received - a fortunate man - and Books and places which I look at again always welcome me with a fresh new smile - I’m lucky too. The author also resorts to historical events to illustrate his points of view, which is another treat for the reader since they are not only informative, but also rather amusing at times, considering the solemnity of his century. Complex philosophical meditations interspersed with anecdotes that show a witty sense of humor. That's gold, Jerry.

The concept of memory is the bridge Montaigne provides to start discussing the main theme. After giving an explanation of the distinction between "to tell an untruth" and "to lie", he focuses on the liar per se: the kind of person either makes up the whole story or else disguises and pollutes some source of truth. According to the author:

Lying is an accursed vice. It is only our words which bind us together and make us human. [...] It seems to me that the only faults which we should vigorously attack as soon as they arise and start to develop are lying and, a little below that, stubbornness. Those faults grow up with the children. Once let the tongue acquire the habit of lying and it is astonishing how impossible it is to make it give it up.

Montaigne doesn't delve deeper into the infamous art of deception so, among other things, the essay omits to mention the vast array of methods we are in possession of. A fib, a lie, disinformation, a noble lie, defamation, half-truth, a white lie. My favorite, the barefaced lie: one knows or sense the truth and - fluctuating between calm and eagerness - contemplates the other person's liking for invention.

Some people say it all depends on the context. Some lies are inevitable, since if we all say what goes through our minds, the world would be even more chaotic. In that sense, certain false statements have a diplomatic nature (I know). However, some pieces of fiction involve other feelings; those are the kinds of lies that are usually unnecessary, like expressing love or friendship when one doesn’t mean it. Montaigne doesn’t refer to those samples of wasted time.

My imagination has given me the most vivid memories that never existed. I have a tendency to long for things which never ever happened. Not trying to find a human being unable to lie might be the first attempt to break the habit.

Montaigne’s wit and wisdom are exceptional. There's one gorgeous line that I must reiterate: It is only our words which bind us together and make us human. Deconstructing that statement might offer an entire new panorama.

In any case, if falsehood is your only language, silence is ambiguous; perpetual absence will suffice.

The Diary of a Madman - Guy de Maupassant

Rating: ★★★★

25/11/15
*Una "reseña" que me olvidé de subir/An old "review" I forgot to post.

25th June. To think that a being is there who lives, who walks, who runs. A being? What is a being? That animated thing, that bears in it the principle of motion and a will ruling that motion. It is attached to nothing, this thing. Its feet do not belong to the ground. It is a grain of life that moves on the earth, and this grain of life, coming I know not whence, one can destroy at one's will. Then nothing—nothing more. It perishes, it is finished.

...

10th August. Who would ever know? Who would ever suspect me, me, me, especially if I should choose a being I had no interest in doing away with?

A dangerous story for a troubled mind.

* Photo credit: Book cover via Goodreads.

Poems Under Saturn: Poèmes saturniens (Lockert Library of Poetry in Translation) - Paul Verlaine, Karl Kirchwey (Translator)

Rating: ★★★★

05/12/16

Sentimental Stroll

The setting sun cast its final rays
And the breeze rocked the pale water lilies;
Among the reeds, the huge water
Lilies shone sadly on the calm water.
Me, I wandered alone, walking my wound
Through the willow grove, the length of the pond
Where the vague mist conjured up some vast
Despairing milky ghost
With the voice of teals crying
As they called to each other, beating their wings
Through the willow grove where I alone wandered
Walking my wound; and the thick shroud
Of shadows came to drown the final rays
Of the setting sun in their pale waves
And, among the reeds, the water
Lilies, the huge water lilies on the calm water.

*

Promenade sentimentale

Le couchant dardait ses rayons suprêmes
Et le vent berçait les nénuphars blêmes;
Les grands nénuphars entre les roseaux,
Tristement luisaient sur les calmes eaux.
Moi, j’errais tout seul, promenant ma plaie
Au long de l’étang, parmi la saulaie
Où la brume vague évoquait un grand
Fantôme laiteux se désespérant
Et pleurant avec la voix des sarcelles
Qui se rappelaient en battant des ailes
Parmi la saulaie où j’errais tout seul
Promenant ma plaie; et l’épais linceul
Des ténèbres vint noyer les suprêmes
Rayons du couchant dans ses ondes blêmes
Et des nénuphars, parmi les roseaux,
Des grands nénuphars sur les calmes eaux.

Verlaine, observer and blind, creator and destroyer; a poet made of light and shadows. A parallel between this author and Rimbaud's poetry is predictable but ineluctable. Undoubtedly, while I liked the young poet's sophisticated song of perpetual revolt and mystifying symbols, I was able to connect with Verlaine's art on a deeper level (also young when he wrote this collection), as he also unveiled all aspects of human nature—both sublime and decadent, depending on the eye of the beholder—with sheer beauty, sumptuous symbolism and a clear voice whose melody resonated with me several times, creating evocative images which may portray every emotion we are capable of feeling. 

 * Photo credit: Book cover via Goodreads.

Illuminations - Arthur Rimbaud

Rating: ★★★

28/10/16

Youth

I. Sunday

When homework is done, the inevitable descent from heaven and the visitation of

memories, and the session of rhythms invade the dwelling, the head and the world of the spirit.

—A horse scampers off along the suburban turf and the gardens and the wood lots, besieged by the carbonic plague. Somewhere in the world, a wretched melodramatic woman is sighing for unlikely desertions.

Desperadoes are languishing for storms, drunkenness, wounds. Little children are stifling curses along the rivers.

I must study some more to the sound of the consuming work which forms in all the people and rises up in them.

II. Sonnet

Man of usual constitution, wasn't the flesh a fruit hanging in the orchard? —O childhood days!—wasn't the body a treasure to spend?—wasn't love the peril or the strength of Psyche? ... 

* Photo credit: Book cover via Goodreads.

The Horla - Guy de Maupassant

Rating: ★★★★

15/05/16

On Solitude - Michel de Montaigne

Rating: ★★★★

16/06/16

in solis sis tibi turba locis.
[in lonely places, be a crowd unto yourself.]
Tibullus, IV, xiii, 12 (adapted).

It didn't surprise me at all the fact that I was reading the words of a man who lived in the 16th century and mastered completely the art of being timeless. Finding relics of a bygone era which have an enormous influence on our way of thinking has become a fulfilling habit.

There is nothing more unsociable than Man, and nothing more sociable: unsociable by his vice, sociable by his nature.

Even though this essay may border on the extreme, I found some fascinating views on things – that have occupied my mind on countless occasions – which were expressed in a beautiful language brimming with erudition and wit, sophistication and simplicity; a splendid potpourri that turns his prose into something unbelievably modern. A rational blessedness blending in with a philosophical prayer, wistfully looking at life as the writer attempts to discover a new side of its meaning.

Quid terras alio calentes

Sole mutamus? patria quis exul Se quoque fugit?

[Why do we leave for lands warmed by a foreign sun? What fugitive from his own land can flee from himself?]

Horace, Odes, II, xvi, 18–20. (The ideas in general are indebted here to Seneca.)

If you do not first lighten yourself and your soul of the weight of your burdens, moving about will only increase their pressure on you, as a ship’s cargo is less troublesome when lashed in place… It is our own self we have to isolate and take back into possession.

Rupi jam vincula dicas: Nam luctata canis nodum arripit; attamen illi, Cum fugit, a collo trahitur pars longa catenæ.

[‘I have broken my chains,’ you say. But a struggling cur may snap its chain, only to escape with a great length of it fixed to its collar.]

Persius, Satires, V, 158–60.

We take our fetters with us; our freedom is not total: we still turn our gaze towards the things we have left behind; our imagination is full of them.

This is the second essay I read and it was a delight – a welcome change of pace after reading the first one titled “On Sleep” which, ironically, did justice to those words, despite some gleam in the distance.

I will be reading The Complete Essays every now and then so it is not going to be on my currently-reading shelf because it could be there for years and that would be sorely discouraging.

Ratings and quotes will be gathered here.

 * Photo credit: Book cover via Goodreads.

Swann's Way (À la recherche du temps perdu #1) - Marcel Proust, Lydia Davis (Translator)

Rating: ★★★★★

02/06/16

Proust so titillates my own desire for expression that I can hardly set out the sentence…

My great adventure is really Proust. Well—what remains to be written after that? I’m only in the first volume, and there are, I suppose, faults to be found, but I am in a state of amazement; as if a miracle were being done before my eyes. How, at last, has someone solidified what has always escaped—and made it too into this beautiful and perfectly enduring substance? One has to put the book down and gasp. The pleasure becomes physical—like sun and wine and grapes and perfect serenity and intense vitality combined.

– Virginia Woolf, The Letters of Virginia Woolf: Volume Two, 1912-1922

INTRODUCTION

For a long time, I went to bed early. Thus begins the most challenging novel I have read this year,

which I have been deliberately avoiding for a very long time, daunted by its renowned intricacy and sumptuous sophistication. With those simple words – to which I cannot relate since going to bed early and sleeping through the night is not something I am known for – a vast array of themes are brought to life by virtue of the magnificent and oh, lord, intellectually demanding pen of Marcel Proust; and this is hardly a complaint: it is difficult to express my gratitude, for this is the most beautiful and stimulating prose I have read in years, composed of sentences whose length left me awestruck at first but, after a while, became a familiar and endearing quality, since they are replete with charm, profundity, unparalleled versatility and an unflagging will to find the meaning of our existence in a world where time will never call a truce.

Being fully aware of this novel's complexity, I thought about getting a great Spanish edition in order to avoid overexertion and provide my brain with a chance at survival; then I reconsidered and decided to indulge my desire for a real literary challenge, ergo, I purchased this English edition brilliantly crafted by Lydia Davis, filled with helpful footnotes that enlightened me about many matters and informed me at once of some clever puns that unfortunately I wasn't in the position to comprehend due to obvious language restrictions. Clearly, I took my time... my mind, on many occasions, was somewhat dizzy with confusion which emanated from a plethora of words of all sizes and colors, trudging to the brink of linguistic fatigue, floral hallucinations and architectonic mirages; thus ended up seeking refuge in sitcoms, two TV series and articles on the Internet that ranged from Kierkegaard to the recipe for strawberry shortcake. I can't deny reading this novel was a bumpy ride, but the benefits it brought me far outweighed any benign bump or educational jolt that ultimately led me to sheer beauty and utter knowledge; for the best things in life – as the best kind of people – are not easy to find.

I need to rest for a couple of weeks, but I look forward to the time when I tackle the second volume that is already beckoning me, patiently waiting on my bookshelf (I would like to read them all with my current mind-set), that unexplored and exciting land in my hands, hoping to find again the same delightful and amusing prose that captivated me for so long.

EXPOSITION – COMBRAY

This first part of the novel was the one I struggled with the most since it was my first contact with Proust's unusual writing style, a succession of words conveying incredibly evocative visualizations that became tangible objects and landscapes by the end of an everlasting sentence; a songbook bursting with candor, with a lofty, delicious language portraying the most vivid metaphors that elevated any ordinary situation and ringed it with pure sublimity; melodies speaking of sleep, an elusive companion; of habit, a despot whose whip is somehow needed; of art, one of the many realms in which one can find the long-awaited and rather fugitive meaning of life; of country walks and the shimmering beauty of nature; a goodnight kiss that keeps being postponed and left me here, in this pearl-colored room where the perfect blend of an andante spianato and a polonaise ignites the walls, where silence is eloquent and words are essentially needed and successfully eluded, in a state of indefatigable contemplation of my almost corporeal melange of emotions and thoughts, intoxicating the air with the scent of contradiction, extrapolating fears and disappointments as I see my own illogical detachment towards a motherly kiss that hardly ever arrives to a boy's door but I receive every single night; for memories strike the Narrator's mind and inoculate an early regret into mine, as I picture the day I no longer get that kiss once taken for granted and there is only night, a faint gleaming of distant stars and a taciturn memory inside a cup of tea, encapsulated in a madeleine, waiting to be reawaken.

But, when nothing subsists of an old past, after the death of people, after the destruction of things, alone, frailer but more enduring, more immaterial, more persistent, more faithful, smell and taste still remain for a long time, like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping, upon the ruins of all the rest, bearing without giving way, on their almost impalpable droplet, the immense edifice of memory. (51)

DEVELOPMENT – SWANN IN LOVE

The second part of the novel speaks of a refined gentleman with an artistic disposition pulsating through his veins, a man already mentioned in 'Combray', Charles Swann and his overly complicated relationship with Odette de Crécy, a persistent source of intense yet minimal joy, stifling and omniscient misery; an unbearable, almost inhumane addiction from which vivid, ardent, passionate, irrational gusts of jealousy adulterating love's nature, palpitating with despair, throbbing with terror, spring up in the face of absolute indifference; a cold-hearted state in which once inhabited her unreserved love beaming with pretended grace and a dab of frivolous peculiarity, molded after the voluptuousness of a cattleya, a devoted chrysanthemum, an obscure book, an exquisite painting rationally observed; samples of affection that make him exhale unfaltering sighs desirous of reciprocity; tokens of a torrid love that have germinated in an ethereal-sounding violin accompanied by the gentle touch of a piano, both coexisting in a large salon where the mere fleeting essence of love has been sketched, crafted by a composer who will never be consigned to oblivion, where every pain inflicted by bare existence was mentally absorbed, physically assimilated, awakening inspiration and channeling those existential wounds – whose presence has been cursed with the countenance of eternity – placing them in the midst of a maelstrom of creativity; a whirlwind in front of my weary eyes, as I contemplate the melodious renaissance of the ‘little phrase’, like a phoenix blazing in the darkness, time and time again, triggering memories of passion and loss, obsession and self-pity, the absurdity of possession; wishing for love to recede, reveling in melancholy, harboring a hope for deliverance.

He apologized for his fear of new friendships, for what he had called, out of politeness, his fear of being unhappy. ‘You’re afraid of affection?’ (223)

RECAPITULATION – PLACE-NAMES: THE NAME

Unravel every mystery, reader.

...helped me better understand what a contradiction it is to search in reality for memory's pictures, which would never have the charm that comes to them from memory itself and from not being perceived by the senses. The reality I had known no longer existed. (481)

CODA

Anesthetized beings seem to have lost the ability to see beauty in life, in people, as they continue to watch the days go by, one after another, impassively, resignedly, like a medieval prisoner gazing up at a small window that helps him realize the presence of the sun and the coldness of the moonlight – that perennial, pale glow that is whitening forlorn skyscrapers at this moment – while holding the keys to the dungeon where he has been dwelling for years but, unable to move due to some uncanny force, perhaps a comfortable fear, could never manage to open. Those days will never cease to pass, days teeming with books, music, windows, soothing memories and distant dreams, instilling life in despondent bodies; brimful of ideas, reflections, beauteous words belonging to this novel, the efflorescence of Proust’s brilliance and generosity, that furnished me with a sense of solace which helped me sleep through an entire night, after the last page was turned. Pages. Words. Words involving goodbyes when love becomes agony. Existence attached to impossibility. Childhood made of beloved places and reminiscences of diverse textures and flavors. An everlasting waiting that will remain so when facing unwavering reluctance. A purpose in life. A wretched alchemist grasping love and art, cutting through their shells in the hope of finding a droplet of essence: a hopeful distillation, a futile attempt at turning existence to meaning; a combination of both. Traces of beauty. The beauty around us. The scent of freshly brewed coffee. A pile of books. The contradiction of my emotions on paper. Staccato lines, disjointed thoughts, scribblings without any light. The sun seeping through the cracks in the blinds. Breakfast in bed. A flowering garden. The fragrance of jasmines. A motherly kiss. A nonexistent immutability which involves not only blissful times but, fortunately, ages of sorrow. Memories, madeleines; lazy Sundays in my hometown. A sonata echoing through the years. The art of appreciation in a single dewdrop, before everything withers away.

* Photo credit: Book cover via Goodreads.
Tea cup and madeleine / Patrick Forget via tourisme28.com
 Madeleine de Scudery, "Le Pays de Tendre" / CC
Les Champs-Élysées / via Pinterest
Water Droplets / via Nevsepic 

Sarrasine - Honoré de Balzac

Rating: ★★
30/01/16

Ernest-Jean Sarrasine was the son of a rich lawyer that, after many problems at school, decided to become an artist. He started to work as a sculptor and after winning a competition, he went on to Rome. There he entered the Argentina Theatre and met Zambinella, an Opera singer. From that moment, he was no longer the owner of his thoughts.

But his frantic thoughts outran his pencil. He met La Zambinella, spoke to her, entreated her, exhausted a thousand years of life and happiness with her, placing her in all imaginable situations, trying the future with her, so to speak...

His passion became more profound as it became more tranquil.

Yes, more love and more obsession and that kind of stuff.

This is a somewhat thought-provoking novella that deals with some interesting themes.

I must admit that I didn't dislike Balzac's writing. A couple of amusing comments about people and society as a whole were included. Additionally, the use of lyricism is rather balanced.

But no, I can't give this book more than two stars for the simple reason that, for me, the first part of the story (41%, actually) was completely superfluous. And it is a short book... However, a paragraph to establish some context would have been enough.

Oh, alright. Perhaps 2.5 stars.

Waiting for Godot - Samuel Beckett

Rating: ★★★★★
12/01/16

Disclaimer: To fully understand this, click on here


A nice homage would be to write nothing.

*

That is what I wrote this afternoon. Before that, a friend told me to write something. He was so sure that I could. I am never sure about what I can or cannot do. But he thought so. That was nice.

Nothing much happened after that, until another kind friend paid this review a visit and said "to wait". And "if he does not show up tomorrow..." Well, what is to be done then? There are messengers that assured me he would come. I will keep waiting. Contemplating the same places, the same scenarios, over and over, until I can predict the entire world. Never neglect the little things of life.

And then I think. And then, some more. Do I really want to keep waiting?

I wonder if I even have that choice.

Then, a beautiful woman with a quick mind that could leave you staring at your shoes, utterly perplexed, came along. She told me that I comprehended an author with finesse. I thanked her, of course. But... did I? In the middle of this constant—and often tiresome—analysis that I cannot escape from, can I even begin to grasp the concept of anything at all?

There is meaning, somewhere. But I fear it will keep evading our presence until... Ah. Choose the metaphor you like. This is getting alarming.

A couple of minutes later, another lovely woman said that this was clever. I am not sure of that since I believe Goodreads would delete this in a heartbeat. But, oh well. Nothing to be done.

The second I finished writing this, a third woman, equally stunning and of enviable wits, appeared. This good friend that I so admire, asked me something like "Can we keep waiting even when he makes an appearance?" And that made me ponder. Are we prepared for such a visit? Us, simple mortals, are we ready to face that kind of revelation? We are still waiting by that tree. Still complaining about so much waiting. But I wouldn't know what to do if... I may be mistaken, though. I have the feeling I thought about this yesterday. Not sure what day is today but I definitely thought about this... yesterday. God. Either I forget immediately or I never forget.

I was about to leave when another kind man approached and left a lovely comment about the quality of this review. I often disagree but that is how my head functions. And it is always nice to read that, so I thanked him. It's the normal thing.

After some time—do not know how much time since I can never measure it—another friend stopped by. He was asking when to read a certain book. He was not waiting for Godot, he was waiting for the right time. Oh. That might just be him...

No. Ah, yes. Time. That unforgiving time that refuses to stop. Time flows, always. Always the minutes. Always the decades. Even if we remain in the same place, with the same glance, the same companionship: ourselves. I would like that friend to read this book as soon as possible. But I do not own the proper words to convince him. Hell, I do not own any word. They own me; a powerless captive. So, I think, I believe, I cannot say much.

We wait... A diversion comes along and what do we do? We let it go to waste. Come, let's go to work! In an instant all will vanish and we'll be alone once more, in the midst of nothingness!

Or worse, we won't be here at all.

...you have to decide, my friend.

Later, another friend came along and said that this review was his favorite of the year so far. And I thought that was a lovely compliment. The problem is that I kept thinking. And analyzing. And in further reflection I said to myself, “okay, I know I cannot measure time, I know that I am not sure if I am still living a yesterday or I am already living my tomorrow because this permanent sense of ennui that fills each day makes me forget everything, but I am aware that the year has just started.” And here we are, standing on this immense world with a myriad of possibilities and its inexorable absurdity haunting us everyday—an absurdity that allows anything to happen—so the fact that this review full of nonsense is someone's favorite of the year that has just begun, made me think. A better one might be written tomorrow. Or in a minute. And then, that's it. Ah. Stop thinking. All I know is that the hours are long, under these conditions. ... Let us not waste our time in idle discourse! I will make sure to say this as soon as I see this friend. Because days will pass and time will pass and things must be said.

...the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more. But that endless process does not apply to our ephemeral nature.

"Lovely musings", another friend wrote a couple of minutes ago. But when you think about it, there's nothing much to do, really. We are always looking for something new. Something else. Nothing much for me to find. It'd pass the time, they say. I haven't met anyone yet with the ability of breaking that vicious circle. We are here to spend time... And watch the sky as it changes its colors. A constant feeling of another day done with. We want to move, we say we'll go, we stay right here, like a not so lucky man with a rope around his neck.

Honestly. One is not master of one's mood.

As I was about to conclude with this illogical ode to the absurd, this dull melody that echoes the unpredictable nature of things and the tiresome search for what we are not meant to know, two more friends came along. The first one claimed to have seen him, the reason of it all. Apparently, he was trying to remember something. And at a cafe, no less! Whereas some of us are part of this useless but inevitable seek of meaning in life, trying to fill the gaps with something that might embody some source of comfort rather than simply embrace such absurdity of existence, hope for nothing and achieve a sense of freedom—if not freedom itself—Godot is passing the time at a cafe, completely unaware of our existence and our strong desire to meet him, as we see our days go by. Days that no longer perceive a different color. ...habit is a great deadener.

The last friend recommended me to watch the play that introduced me to these people that were waiting for Godot. And then mentioned another one. I cannot think of a better ending to this preposterous review. To postpone for a while this awfully exhausting search for meaning and enjoy another play that will probably make me think of that search almost immediately.

Human nature, my friend.

To be continued.
If you write.

Two Friends - Guy de Maupassant

Rating: ★★★★★
04/12/15

Some days they did not speak; at other times they chatted; but they understood each other perfectly without the aid of words, having similar tastes and feelings.

That must be a good memory.

Good times. The river was tinted with the delicate color of a soothing setting sun. Until a blood-red glow took over the whole land. For war had begun.

And the two began placidly discussing political problems with the sound common sense of peaceful, matter-of-fact citizens--agreeing on one point: that they would never be free.

An imminent ending. A brief moment to decide. Your country. Your life.
And during the brevity of that moment, the natural reaction of holding on to nice memories, I believe. Blissful minutes that make up a life. The sun. The river. The silence. Or maybe just the sound of the cannons.
And heroes cry.
The desperate sense of resignation while saying goodbye.

Useless Beauty - Guy de Maupassant

Rating: ★★★★
02/12/15

A claim. A refusal. A defiance. A woman facing her suffocating husband.

A repudiation to the idea of being a machine. A possession.

Her desires. His jealousy.

Her resistance.

Guy de Maupassant mastered the art of writing short stories; he did it with simple plots, evocative descriptions mixed with elaborated philosophical reflections about the world and unexpected twists that leave you thinking about this author's creativity and ability to retain anyone's interest.

...for God never foresaw gentleness and peaceable manners; He only foresaw the death of creatures which were bent on destroying and devouring each other...

As to ourselves, the more civilized, intellectual and refined we are, the more we ought to conquer and subdue that animal instinct, which represents the will of God in us. And so, in order to mitigate our lot as brutes, we have discovered and made everything, beginning with houses, then exquisite food, sauces, sweetmeats, pastry, drink, stuffs, clothes, ornaments, beds, mattresses, carriages, railways and innumerable machines, besides arts and sciences, writing and poetry. Every ideal comes from us as do all the amenities of life, in order to make our existence as simple reproducers, for which divine Providence solely intended us, less monotonous and less hard.

From the strained atmosphere of an unwanted marriage to a couple of friends and their general meditations about human beings and their place in a world. A world created by a god whose real intentions are the main topic of their enthralling conversations.

GdM and I had a rough start—I'm sensing an icy pattern here. But the stories I have recently found are echoing in my guilty conscious now. Such a talented writer to whom I haven't paid proper attention. My apologies.

Two short stories by Guy de Maupassant

Rating: ★★★★
23/11/15

Then I turned the conversation on hunting, and he gave me the most curious details on hunting the hippopotamus, the tiger, the elephant and even the gorilla. 
I said: 'Are all these animals dangerous?' 
He smiled: 'Oh, no! Man is the worst.'



Rating: ★★★★
25/11/15

25th June. To think that a being is there who lives, who walks, who runs. A being? What is a being? That animated thing, that bears in it the principle of motion and a will ruling that motion. It is attached to nothing, this thing. Its feet do not belong to the ground. It is a grain of life that moves on the earth, and this grain of life, coming I know not whence, one can destroy at one's will. Then nothing—nothing more. It perishes, it is finished.

 ... 

10th August. Who would ever know? Who would ever suspect me, me, me, especially if I should choose a being I had no interest in doing away with?

A dangerous story for a troubled mind.

The Guest - Albert Camus

Rating: ★★★★★
19/11/15

Why? I have nothing to fear. (16)

1

I talked to a local priest, once. Actually, many times, since I was a catechist at my church. In one of our many complicated theological debates, I asked him about fate; its possibilities and limitations. If there is such a thing, how it could complement the idea of man's freedom? To me, rationally, the concept of free will did not seem to match the notion of fate. If everything has been seen by this omniscient God, is there something left for me to choose? Am I drinking tea or coffee because of him? Am I happy or miserable because of things that have been already decided? Why didn't I get a memo or something, just to check before? There was never going to be a memo because we are all sinners and we deserve nothing from him, so we cannot ask for anything. Bible says?

2

The priest answered me in a very articulated manner, I remember. He told me that we certainly are the ones who choose to drink coffee or tea, for we are not puppets amid the powers of good and evil. Thus, he moved away from fatalism. The decisions of life are surely subject to the foreknowledge of God—everything is part of his divine plan—and we must decide which influence is going to rule our lives and therefore, where we are being led to. Heaven or hell. The questions I made concerning that matter received a well-known reply: it is a mystery; it is beyond the small comprehension that man is capable of having, comparing to God's. Do not be so arrogant as to try to understand what you cannot even start to grasp, child.

3

Even though I could never completely accept the existence of fate, I honestly wanted to. I felt I could have a reassurance, a source of comfort, a lighter responsibility in this illogical world of ours. A less-than-biblical but inevitable fatalistic view of life. It wasn't my fault. I didn't have a choice. There was nothing I could do. Do you really wanted this for me? What in the world were you thinking?!

For all intents and purposes, we choose our destinies; but a supreme being already knows what we are going to choose. If we are going to be saved. In the mystery of God, predestination and free will are a coherent combo. What is the choice to make in order to deserve the heavenly kingdom of a merciful god that foreknows whether I am going to be saved or condemned to eternal punishment? The choice is God.

4

Algeria. A schoolmaster has to decide what to do with a prisoner. A gendarme has to decide whether to tell or not. The prisoner has to decide between freedom and jail.

...that the Arab might have fled and that he would be alone with no decision to make. But the prisoner was there. (21)

In the land of the absence of a god, there is nothing more than a person and the faculty of choosing. The core of existentialism. Death cannot be avoided, no matter the choices we make. To fully accept that fact leads to freedom. The curse of certain freedom. There are no stars. No previous knowledge. We are thrown to the world, alone. Facing its absurdity, alone. You, me, and the responsibility for our actions.

Too damn scary.

5

The act of imparting catholic knowledge to children in front of such a trembling faith of mine caused me a revolting sense of hypocrisy. After some time, I stopped teaching and left the church. I left it to be in this ambivalent universe of uncertainty; floating between reason and faith. Evidence and assumptions. Existence and nothingness. You and me.

Paris Spleen and La Fanfarlo - Charles Baudelaire

Rating: ★★★★★
22/05/14

For a man to become a poet... he must be in love, or miserable.

- Lord Byron, Journal of the Conversations of Lord Byron

...the seconds are now strongly, solemnly accentuated, and each one, springing forth out of the clock, says: “I am Life, intolerable, implacable Life!” (45)

This book includes two different works by Baudelaire: Paris Spleen and La Fanfarlo. The latter is the only novella he ever wrote, published before his celebrated Les Fleurs du Mal and it is, in fact, a good work. It tells the story of Simon Cramer and Fanfarlo, a dancer as beautiful as she was stupid (155). The plot is simple but Baudelaire's prose is engaging and amusing. He managed irony with such a style. All in all, I liked it.

However, in my opinion, Paris Spleen is the real gem of this book. It is a remarkable work conformed by prose poems that deal with a wide range of themes. They are like little, printed thoughts created by one restless mind. For me, the stream of consciousness style is the most sublime form of writing. It takes a lot of work and you might end up with either a beautiful piece of literature or something too stupid to even take a look at. I used to use that technique when I was younger and I thought I could write, without even knowing what I was doing. It wasn't until I read Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway or Faulkner's The Sound and The Fury (something I should reread because I never wrote a review for it and now I wouldn't be able to do so), that I knew what this narrative mode could generate: the intriguing yet fearful feeling of being inside someone's head.

This is Baudelaire, a defiant fallen angel with a unique lyrical voice, willing to let it all out, to show humanity the darkest depths of everyone's soul. And for that, he became Sacrilege. Vice. Decadence. And Truth.

There are many memorable themes in these prose poems.

The fear of Time.

“Ah, for us miserable old females, the era of pleasing even the innocent ones is over; and we arouse only horror in the little children we want to love!” (41)

The unbearable beauty of Nature.

And now the depth of the sky troubles me; its limpidity exasperates me. The indifference of the sea, the immutability of the scene repulses me . . . Oh, must one either suffer eternally, or eternally flee the beautiful? Nature, you pitiless enchantress, you always victorious rival, leave me alone! Stop arousing my desires and my pride! The study of the beautiful is a duel, one that ends with the artist crying out in terror before being vanquished. (42)

Boredom.

Another one would light up a cigar next to a cask of gunpowder, just to see, to know, to tempt fate, to force himself to prove he has the energy to play the gambler, to feel the pleasures of anxiety, or for no reason, for a whim, for lack of anything better to do.

This is the kind of energy that springs out of boredom and daydreaming; and those in whom it manifests itself so unexpectedly are in general, as I've said, the most indolent and dreamiest of beings. (50)

Solitude.

Finally! I am now allowed to relax in a bath of shadows! But first, a double turn of the lock: I feel as if this extra turn of the key will strengthen my solitude and fortify the barricades that now separate me from the world. (53)

Life.

You should always be drunk... In order not to feel the horrible burden of Time that breaks your shoulders and bends you down toward the ground, you must get yourself relentlessly drunk. But drunk on what? On wine, on poetry, or on virtue, whatever you like. But get yourself drunk. (108)

And many others.

When the act of contemplating beauty starts consuming our being, when we think our body can't bear it anymore, poetry emerges personifying a merciful savior to us all. If we are in luck, we will be able to write or purge ourselves through other forms of art. If not... well. I wouldn't want to know.

A person who stands outside gazing through an open window never sees as many things as the one who gazes at a closed one. There is no object more profound, more mysterious, more fecund, more shadowy, more dazzling than a window lit by a candle. What can be seen in broad daylight is always less interesting than what happens behind a window. Within that black or illuminated hole, life lives, life dreams, life suffers. (111)

I am refraining with stoic strength from quoting the whole book (I don't think I am doing a great job, though). It is that beautiful. Baudelaire's awe-inspiring sensitivity creates the most vivid images that will surely take you to his most relaxing dreams. Or his darkest nightmares.

If—for some strange reason—you dislike poetry, I suggest you these prose poems. You will find yourself immersed in dark waters, quietly taking you to nowhere and everywhere, while beholding all sides of Beauty.

Troubled human beings have the ability to see what is not there. To feel what to others is imperceptible. To convert beauty into words. Words that soothe the pain of others. Everyone seems safe. Everyone but the poet, who still sees himself surrounded by his lonely art. His blessing and his curse. His bliss and his sorrow.

...what does an eternity of damnation matter to someone who has discovered an infinity of joy within a single second? (52)

Creating beauty has a price.

The soul should be enough.

* Photo credit: Book cover via Goodreads.
Charles Baudelaire / CC

The Tales of Mother Goose - Charles Perrault

Rating: ★★★
19/01/14

Yes. I'm reviewing The Tales Of Mother Goose and I'm not ashamed of it.

So, I was looking at my childhood shelves (yes, that actually exists) this morning and I ended up re-re-re-re-reading Perrault's fairy tales. I decided to write some lines because, well, it's Sunday and I didn't have this book on my GR shelves (even though as a kid, I was a big fan of "the guy who wrote Cinderella"). And by "lines" I mean just one thought. These 17th-century fairy tales are really, honestly, so fucked-up. Wolves and ogres eating little kids, snakes coming out of girls' mouths, cruel/negligent parents and subjugated kids, several killings for different reasons (hunger, disobedience). I wouldn't have been able to get a good night sleep after hearing about grandma's desire of eating her grandsons. And what about hubby serial killer Bluebeard? Wasn't he a delight?

Disney certainly gave us a lighter version of all these.

There are little pieces of truth inside those innocent tales (“The Fairies”, where there's a mother who loved the elder daughter because she resembled her so closely –“as people naturally love their own likeness”) and other stuff are confusing and unfair (ugly people telling you it's more important to be smart than beautiful but eventually, they end up being beautiful too, so...).

I've always enjoyed the morals; those little verses at the end of the tale that shows the author's interpretation. After a bloody, disturbing tale, there's usually a lesson to be learned.

Nature oft, with open arms,
Lavishes a thousand charms;
But it is not these that bring
True love's truest offering.
'Tis some quality that lies
All unseen to other eyes --
Something in the heart or mind.

Existentialism Is a Humanism - Jean-Paul Sartre

Rating: ★★★★
29/07/14

Man is nothing other than what he makes of himself.

— Jean-Paul Sartre

If you are interested in Existentialism, this is the book you should dive into. You will find an energetic Sartre defending his views on many subjects. I was immediately drawn to one opinion in particular: existentialism emphasizes what is despicable about the world. I have read that before. Most people apparently want to read about beauty and bliss and puppies and all those things that are part of one side of our reality. Denying the ugliness of the world does not vanish it at all, unfortunately. It is there, in all its glory while you are closing your eyes. Some authors have been labeled as violent freaks, racists or misogynists because they wrote about those issues—about the cruelty and selfishness that also characterizes human beings—as if they were more than mere narrators. Some people mistake honesty with a defense of whatever the awful subject the book deals with. Speaking about it doesn't justify it.

I have already wrote about Sartre's beautiful and accessible writing while reviewing Nausea. This book is no exception. I also found a subtle humor that made the reading experience even more enjoyable.

Those who easily stomach a Zola novel like "The Earth" are sickened when they open an existentialist novel. (19)

I am quite intrigued by that, now.

Sartre felt the need of making a statement in favor of this doctrine. But why do people criticize it? Some because they have read about it and know what it is all about. Others because they have heard about it... And that is much more common than most of us think. We tend to judge what we do not know. And in most cases we do not even bother in getting to know it. We judge and we fear. And we talk. That is why Sartre made and answered the following question: "What, then, is 'existentialism'?" He then started by explaining one of the most important principles of the doctrine: existence precedes essence. That alone might sound confusing, but Sartre's masterful use of metaphors and engaging prose made it all possible.

In a universe where there is not a god, man is born empty without a specific purpose. He creates his own essence while making decisions based on the well-known concept of freedom. A thing every man pursuits but few could handle.

Freedom without God. Without that sense of protection. Because we do feel safe if we are only acting according to something that has been decided before we were born. Every bad consequence would not be our fault. But, in a world sans God, we become a little, lonely dot with nothing above us but stars. And that's a horrifying thought.

The author later affirmed that when man makes a choice, he does not make it just for himself but for all humanity. Those choices reflect on us what we think a man should be. Try not to feel pressured for the great responsibility that represents making choices that concerns all people in the planet.

Choosing to be this or that is to affirm at the same time the value of what we choose, because we can never choose evil. We always choose the good, and nothing can he good for any of us unless it is good for all. (24)

Debatable.

There are certain words that people use to arrive to the conclusion that existentialism is a depressing way to look at the world: anguish, abandonment, despair. They are all related to what the author explained about man's existence in a godless world. A man that is aware of the fact that he is responsible for himself and for the rest of humanity. That kind of responsibility surely creates anguish, but it does not prevent men from acting. As for the abandonment issue, it is not as negative as it sounds. He simply meant that if God does not exist, then we are alone without excuses. We are alone and free. That thought led him to one of the most memorable lines of the book:

That is what I mean when I say that man is condemned to be free: condemned, because he did not create himself, yet nonetheless free, because once cast into the world, he is responsible for everything he does. (29)

Freedom has been defined as the absence of necessity, coercion, or constraint in choice or action. From a certain perspective, Sartre made his point. Without God, everything is permissible. However, the freedom (or lack of it) we have to deal with everyday, the freedom that is far away from the abstraction of a concept, that entails earthly matters such as work, people, love, well... that is another issue. The absence of necessity is too rare.

Can a person be happy while knowing that he is free because there is no God but, at the same time, not so free because he is a victim of some system? Just like there are several concepts of freedom, there are many factors that restrict them, making the man feel like a powerless individual immersed in a situation he cannot complain about without being replaced in a heartbeat.

On one hand, we are condemned to be free; on the other, freedom is apparently nothing more than theory, something we experience by convincing ourselves that we are free while being constrained by political or economical factors (Locke explained it with much more precise words).

Yes. There is an answer for every side of the term. We can be free or we can convince ourselves that we are. Birds still sing while they spend their lives in a cage—whether it is because of joy or plea, that is another matter.

There is another interesting passage about signs. We often look for them while going through a difficult situation. Sartre skillfully explained that we are the ones that find a particular meaning in those signs. They may mean something different for everybody; in any case, that meaning is determined by us.

This is what "abandonment" implies: it is we, ourselves, who decide who we are to he. (34)

The last word used to describe existentialism was “despair”. That alone, yes, it does not sound too warm and fuzzy. But add some context to it, and... still, it does not sound good. I had some trouble trying to digest this idea.

It means that we must limit ourselves to reckoning only with those things that depend on our will, or on the set of probabilities that enable action... From the moment that the possibilities I am considering cease to be rigorously engaged by my action, I must no longer take interest in them, for no God or greater design can bend the world and its possibilities to my will. In the final analysis, when Descartes said "Conquer yourself rather than the world," he actually meant the same thing: we should act without hope. (35)

From a practical point of view, the time we spend hoping for a result is time wasted. Sartre encourages us to act. To do something in order to achieve what we want and not to wait for others to do it for us; people or a superior being, whichever the case may be. Reality exists only in action.

By the end of the book, there is a commentary on The Stranger. Do not miss it.

If you are new to Sartre's philosophy, then this remarkable essay would be a perfect introduction.

It is not only a book that sheds some light on the matter and rectifies many misconceptions, but a book that gently encourages you to do some introspection. Shall we?

Okay. Stop for a minute. Breathe. Take a look around. Look back; contemplate your present. Where are you right now? Are you the person you have always wanted to be?

"Get up, take subway, work four hours at the office or plant, eat, take subway, work four hours, eat, sleep—Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday-Thursday-Friday-Saturday—always the same routine..." (77)

Do you feel free?

A Season in Hell - Arthur Rimbaud

Rating: ★★★★
21/05/14

I'm an organized person. Psychotically organized. Except when it comes to books. I try to plan my readings, I try to finish one book in order to begin a new one, but it's all in vain. I read what I want to read, whenever I have the need of reading it. So, with four books on my currently-reading shelf, today I felt like reading something different. First, some weird stuff by Tim Burton, then, A Season in Hell caught my attention and here we are.

Anyway, this is one of those books I should read while being drunk. Unfortunately, I don't drink. So, it was kind of difficult to understand what the hell I was reading. This prose work, written by Rimbaud at age 18, is divided in nine parts. And that's the most accurate observation I can give. The rest is pure symbolism hard to get if you haven't read something about his life and his troubled affair with Verlaine (quite a profound inspiration here). These are words written by a young and tormented soul, desperate to put everything out there, to purge himself. Words written with exquisite sensibility, describing beautiful, dark, intense images. I saw that, in all its glory, in the first part, Introduction.

The second part, Bad Blood, it's a collection of the consequences of his ancestors, his blood, and other weird reflections that made me think I probably wouldn't like what he was smoking at that time.

The third part was... well, I don't want to say that I enjoyed reading it, because it's about the narrator's death and his arrival to hell (nothing really nice to read right before going to bed, honestly), but it's beautifully written. Again, this young man makes you feel what was going through his mind and soul with unsettling details.

The forth part is Ravings I, Foolish Virgin, The Infernal Spouse. I'm guessing you can imagine to whom he's referring in this one.

I shouldn't keep spoiling this, right?. So, during all this strange journey from existence on earth to condemnation in hell, it remains only one question to be asked: can he be saved? Even though he's already in hell, can he find any sort of mitigation, salvation even?

Yeah... I'm not answering that. I had a good, weird, dark, sad, freaky, confusing, unsettling, challenging, disturbing read. Your turn.