Louise Glück wins the 2020 Nobel Prize in Literature

Louise glück is the winner of Nobel Prize for Literature 2020. The American poet has won the world's highest literary recognition and is the second in the lyrical profession to do so. She is also the fourth woman to enter the award list in the past decade. The jury has considered him this way because of "his unmistakable poetic voice, which with austere beauty makes individual existence universal. '

Louise glück

Born in New York in 1943. , Glück won the Pulitzer of poetry in 1993 by The Wild Iris and later the National Book Award in 2014 for Faithful and virtuous night. Here he edits it Pre Texts, who has published six titles: The wild iris, ararat, Select poetry, The seven ages y Averno.

In his youth Glück suffered from anorexia nervosa, the most important experience of his formative time, as he has told in the first person in his books. It was very serious and forced her to leave high school in his last year, and to start a long treatment of psychoanalysis. His work poetic has been rated as intimate and, at the same time, austere.

The Nobel Prize for Literature

In this year's Nobel race were names like Maryse Condé, Favorite in betting. The Russian followed her Liudmila Ulitskayto. And then there were the regulars like the everlasting Haruki Murakami, Margaret Atwood, Don De Lillo or Edna O'Brien. It even sounded our Javier Marías.

The literary Nobel has 120 years of history116 writers have taken it, including only 16 women. 80% have gone to Europe or North America. And send the English language against the French, German and Spanish.

For the global health situation, the traditional delivery has been canceled of diplomas and medals that the December 10, anniversary of the death of Alfred Nobel. So this year the winners will receive their diploma and medal in their country, in a series of acts reduced audience that can be followed virtually from Stockholm city hall.

Louise Glück - Poem

The wild iris

At the end of the suffering a door awaited me.

Listen to me well: what you call death I remember.

Up there, noises, wavering pine branches.

And then nothing. The weak sun shivering on the dry surface.

Terrible to survive as a conscience, buried in dark land.

Then everything is over: what you feared,

to be a soul and not be able to speak,

ends abruptly. The rigid earth

lean a little, and what I took for birds

it sinks like arrows into low bushes.

You who do not remember

the passage of another world, I tell you

could speak again: what comes back

from oblivion returns

to find a voice:

from the center of my life sprouted

a cool spring, blue shadows

and deep blue aquamarine.

Sources: El Mundo, El País, La Vanguardia