We didn’t want to know, but we knew Javier Marías would no longer write. Not reading. Not for translation. Nor to publish their journalistic texts. Nor to get involved in the arguments that often accompany it. This is how good things end and this is how bad things begin. By death chopping off the life to be lived before its time. And with the black back of time that is poison and shadow and goodbye. As in a dance and a nightmare, the dream turned into fire and spear.
The Anglophile, whom some call the “boring Anglo”, whose undisputed teacher – the sole owner and lord of the District – Juan Benet, the unshakable collector of tin soldiers and the never-stopping person primarily responsible for this, the translation of Thomas Bernhard’s books, the always beloved Shakespeare’s. one who wears an image of him, who is the most gifted novelist of his generation, who wearily describes the insecurity and hesitation of someone who should know everything. but she doesn’t know, the author of all souls ever lived, the narrator with such a white heart, with an endless hypnotic sentence and an air of invisible falling in love (and the domains of a wolf) and turning the pace and stepping off the topic into the belated meaning of an imaginary truth at the center of a selfish secret. A rhythm that brings a rhythm to the novelist, a professor at Oxford, at We. At Illesley College of Massachusetts and the Complutense University of Madrid, knight of the French Order of Arts and Letters, novelist who conquered Europe before Spain thanks to German critic Marcel Reich-Ranicki, writer thanks to El cuarteto program, publisher Mirror of the Conrad Sea, A Physician’s Religion and Thomas Browne’s Burial in Urns, Thomas Hardy’s withered arm, Ehrengard’s legendary Tristram Shandy by Stevenson, Yeats, Auden, Ashbery, Stevens, Faulkner or Nabokov by Isak Dinesen and Laurence Sterne The RAE member, who won the National Translation Award with the National Translation Award – a highly graded translation theory exercise – and took over the R presidency with a keynote titled Literary Theory and Comparative Literature – On Difficulty, described “the most notorious feature of JM’s work” Francisco Rico, who saw it as the “central character of the narrator,” was answered by – not the character, but the truth – and said that the one who usurps the truth is, as I said, the same. He turned the novel into a repetitive trompe l’oeil and a long-running impregnable frame, thanks to a latent suspense and an unusual narrative reflexivity.
counting gift
And no: it’s true: «No one should tell anything, give data, contribute to stories, remind people of beings who never existed, did not walk or cross the earth, or have passed but are already halfway through. one-eyed and insecure forgetfulness. Telling is almost always a gift, even when the story carries and injects poison, it is also a connection and gives trust, and trust that is not betrayed sooner or later is rare, connection that is not tangled or knotted is rare, and that’s how it ends. you need to pull a knife or edge to squeeze and cut». Let’s suppose. Telling always entails a danger of guilt, a trick, as the actions that young Marias never cease to do revolve on the uncertain power of an irreversible fate as a premonition of irreparable disaster, both innocent and cowardly at the same time. The truth is that only in this way can we describe what has never happened with its complete and indisputable beginning and end. Unrealized or non-existent, invented and imagined, not dependent on any external reality. Only nothing can be added or subtracted from it, but this is not temporary or partial, but complete and final.
pure fiction
It has become the construction of pure fiction as a process of destruction, more because of the knowledge we have inherited than because of the assumptions we are not willing to accept. Telling not to know, “empty words, pauses, paragraphs, lyrical invocations, insults, and long and autonomous metaphors” to build a fictional world to legitimize a liar. In one word: what he calls “la errabundia” in his dazzling essay on Literature and the Ghost.
In Seven Reasons Not To Write Novels and One Reason To Write Them, Marías affirms that “writing them allows the novelist to spend most of his time in fiction, the only place that is absolutely bearable, or somewhere more bearable.” So much so that this novelist built his own land, which is not always understood, and distilled to the last drop the impossibility of expressing a clean and pure thought, and turned an endless series of criminal works drawn with endless curves. It’s quieter than he says because Marías believes the three dots are literature’s non-plus ultra. A boundary and a break.
Three points and persuasion. And the provocation and the “impossibility of knowing and the impossibility of ignoring” and the all-encompassing doubt that causes swamp and poison. And speech and silence. “Humans, in short, perhaps to the same extent as what is and what could be, because it is composed of what we are and what we are not, what is verifiable, measurable, and memorable, and what is the most vague, unstable, and fuzzy.
He looked straight ahead, repeating over and over again that he was working on an Olympia typewriter—the Carrera de Luxe model—and not a map but “more precisely, a compass,” saying that he always felt insecure when writing fiction. essays and journalism as an architectural voice that thinks while talking and tells while thinking about problems related to itself.
When asked what he should write, he replied: “I think it was Faulkner who once said that when you light a match in the middle of a dark forest, it is not to give you light, but just to see how dark it is. This is.
In the crossing of the horizon, in the “possible future of reality” that Javier Marías is now beginning to experience, he has already become the ruler of time.
Source: Informacion
