The eternal of the written

They say that a picture is worth a thousand words, and to a large extent it is true… There are situations that are captured in photographs that could hardly be described in words… And I emphasize the “hardly”, but not impossible. Hence, from situations like these, they could differentiate good writers from bad.

Good writers leave eternal texts ... Texts that no matter how long they pass will always be remembered. Because they transmit feelings, they transmit beauty, they know how to recreate situations with such accuracy that even a photograph could feel envy, ...

If you think about it a bit, surely you will come up with a literary text that you remember. Perhaps because it marked you at a certain stage in your life, perhaps because it was written by a writer you admire. Whatever the reason, you have those literary texts so deep inside you, so memorized, that it could be said that in you they will always be eternal.

Today, I want to share some (not all) of my eternal texts ... Surely many of us coincide.

My "eternal" literary texts

Chapter 7 of «Hopscotch», Julio Cortázar

I touch your mouth, with a finger I touch the edge of your mouth, I draw it as if it were coming out of my hand, as if for the first time your mouth were ajar, and it was enough for me to close my eyes to undo everything and start again, I make the mouth that I desire, the mouth that my hand chooses and draws on your face, a mouth chosen among all, with sovereign freedom chosen by me to draw it with my hand on your face, and that by a chance that I do not seek to understand coincides exactly with your mouth that smiles below the one my hand draws you.

You look at me, closely you look at me, more and more closely and then we play the cyclops, we look more and more closely and our eyes get larger, they get closer to each other, they overlap and the cyclops look at each other, breathing confused, their mouths they meet and fight warmly, biting each other with their lips, barely resting their tongue on their teeth, playing in their enclosures where a heavy air comes and goes with an old perfume and a silence. Then my hands seek to sink into your hair, slowly caress the depth of your hair while we kiss as if we had our mouths full of flowers or fish, with lively movements, with a dark fragrance. And if we bite ourselves the pain is sweet, and if we drown in a brief and terrible simultaneous suck of breath, that instant death is beautiful. And there is only one saliva and only one taste of ripe fruit, and I feel you tremble against me like a moon in water.

Rhyme XXIV "Two red tongues of fire", Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

Poem «Love of my entrails», Federico García Lorca

Love of my guts, long live death,
in vain I wait for your written word
and I think, with the flower that withers,
that if I live without me I want to lose you.

The air is immortal. The inert stone
neither knows the shadow nor avoids it.
inner heart doesn't need
the frozen honey that the moon pours.

But I suffered you. I tore my veins
tiger and dove, on your waist
in a duel of bites and lilies.

So fill my madness with words
or let me live in my serene
night of the soul forever dark.

Note in "Flowers for Hitler", by the recently deceased Leonard Cohen

Some time ago this book would have been called

"SUN FOR NAPOLEON"

and before it would still have been called

"WALLS FOR GENGHIS KHAN".

Fragment of "Perfume", by Patrick Süskind

It was here, in the most smelly place in the whole kingdom, that Jean-Batiste Grenouille was born on July 17, 1738. It was one of the hottest days of the year. The heat beat down like molten lead over the graveyard, spreading into the adjacent streets like putrid mist that smelled of a mixture of rotten melons and burnt horn. When the labor pains began, Grenouille's mother was at a fish stand on the Rue aux Fers, scaling albures that she had previously gutted.

Coplas for the death of his father, Jorge Manrique

Remember the sleeping soul

enliven the brain and wake up

contemplating how life is spent

how death comes,

so quiet; how quickly the pleasure goes,

how, after agreed,

gives pain;

how, in our opinion,

any past time,

It was better.

Fragment of «The unbearable lightness of being», Milan Kundera

«If each of the moments of our life is going to be repeated infinitely many times, we are nailed to eternity like Jesus Christ to the cross. The image is terrible. In the world of eternal return, the weight of an unbearable responsibility rests on each gesture. That is why Nietzsche called the idea of ​​eternal return the heaviest burden. But if the eternal return is the heaviest burden, then our lives can appear, against that background, in all their wonderful lightness.