Debate ortográfico

Javier Marías publicó ayer un interesante (y polémico) artículo sobre los últimos cambios ortográficos. ¿Estáis de acuerdo con él?

I would prefer not to

Este mantra, reiterado hasta la saciedad, era la puerta por la que Bartleby, el escribiente, se escabullía para no efectuar las tareas que su jefe le ordenaba. Parece que refleja también la personalidad del propio Herman Melville, un tipo que no obtuvo en su momento el reconocimiento merecido y que, tras una juventud aventurera, vegetó sus últimos años como funcionario de aduanas. Pese a que ha sido Moby Dick quien le ha asegurado un lugar en el olimpo, no hay que desdeñar esa otra obra, Bartleby el escribiente, que tanto le impactó al mismísimo Kafka. Sin duda, puede considerarse como un antecedente del surrealismo, mucho antes de que Bretón publicase su manifiesto.

Guía para Las aventuras de Huckleberry Finn

1.- Biografía del autor y contexto histórico.
2.- Estructura y argumento (general).
3.- Principales temas tratados.
4.- Personajes.
5. Marco espacial y temporal.
6.- Lenguaje y estilo.
7.- Valoración personal.
8.- Bibliografía.

Los imitadores de Mark Twain

Varios actores norteamericanos se ganan la vida, bastante bien, por cierto, imitando a Mark Twain en teatros y locales de diverso tipo, incluidos algunos barcos fluviales similares a aquellos en los que trabajó como piloto el mismísimo Twain. La publicación, cien años después de su muerte, tal como dejó escrito, de su autobiografía, le ha devuelto al primer plano de la actualidad. Eso sí, no hay ninguna grabación de la voz del escritor, de modo que es imposible calibrar la calidad de las imitaciones.

Mark Twain at Stormfield, 1909 (Edison film)

Una grabación impactante, el inmortal Mark Twain en persona dándose un paseo junto a su casa. Moriría solo un año después, en el supuesto de que alguien con su habilidad para hacernos reír y pensar pueda morir alguna vez.

Otro juglar

Edgar Allan Poe's --The Raven

The Raven

[First published in 1845]
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

El cuervo - Edgar Allan Poe - Audiolibro

Dickens

Comentábamos a propósito de Dostoievski la estrecha relación entre obra y biografía, y eso es algo que podemos apreciar en grado sumo cuando leemos a Charles Dickens, sin duda el escritor británico más popular y que mejor ha resistido el paso del tiempo. Las figuras de Oliver Twist o David Copperfield jamás habrían visto la luz de no ser por las circusntancias personales del propio Dickens, su paso por internados y su conocimiento de primera mano de las penalidades que en ellos se pasaba. Se le ha criticado con frecuencia por un supuesto sentimentalismo burgués, por no haber ido más allá y haber denunciado la estructura del sistema. Me parece una crítica ideológica, y por tanto injusta. A un escritor, y al artista en general, solo hay que juzgarle por su mayor o menor destreza en la elaboración de su obra, por su capacidad de aportar nuevas perspectivas, por su mayor o menor grado de conexión con el público, y esto es algo que obviamente, a juzgar por la respuesta de los lectores, ha conseguido desde el principio. Creo que no se ha hecho el suficiente hincapié en su vertiente irónica, en su habilidad para, en medio de la desolación más completa, guiñarnos el ojo y ofrecernos una vía de escape, a lomos precisamente del humor, con la sonrisa como puente para salvar el vértigo del abismo.

Adaptaciones de Dickens

A tale of two cities, David Copperfield, Oliver Twist, Cristmas Carol, Great expectations.

Los juglares del siglo XXI

Jay-Z]
Yeah,
Yeah, Imma up at Brooklyn,
now Im down in Tribeca,
right next to DeNiro,
But i’ll be hood forever,
I’m the new Sinatra,
and since i made it here,
i can make it anywhere,
yeah they love me everywhere,
i used to cop in Harlem,
all of my dominicanos
right there up on broadway,
brought me back to that McDonalds,
took it to my stash spot,
Five Sixty Stage street,
catch me in the kitchen like a simmons whipping pastry,
cruising down 8th street,
off white lexus,
driving so slow but BK is from Texas,
me I’m up at Bedsty,
home of that boy Biggie,
now i live on billboard,
and i brought my boys with me,
say wat up to Ty Ty, still sipping Malta
sitting courtside Knicks and Nets give me high fives,
N-gga i be spiked out, i can trip a referee,
tell by my attitude that I most definitely from…

[Alicia Keys]
In New York,
Concrete jungle where dreams are made of,
Theres nothing you can’t do,
Now you’re in New York,
these streets will make you feel brand new,
the lights will inspire you,
lets here it for New York, New York, New York

[Jay-Z]
I made you hot n-gga,
Catch me at the X with OG at a Yankee game,
sh-t i made the yankee hat more famous than a yankee can,
you should know I bleed Blue, but I aint a crip tho,
but i got a gang of n-ggas walking with my click though,
welcome to the melting pot,
corners where we selling rocks,
afrika bambaataa sh-t,
home of the hip hop,
yellow cap, gypsy cap, dollar cab, holla back,
for foreigners it aint fitted they forgot how to act,
8 million stories out there and their naked,
cities is a pity half of y’all won’t make it,
me i gotta plug a special and i got it made,
If Jesus payin LeBron, I’m paying Dwayne Wade,
3 dice cee-lo
3 card marley,
labor day parade, rest in peace Bob Marley,
Statue of Liberty, long live the World trade,
long live the king yo,
I’m from the empire state thats…

[Chorus]

In New York,
Concrete jungle where dreams are made of,
Theres nothing you can’t do,
Now you’re in New York,
these streets will make you feel brand new,
the lights will inspire you,
lets here it for New York, New York, New York
Welcome to the bright light..

[Jay-Z]
Lights is blinding,
girls need blinders
so they can step out of bounds quick,
the side lines is blind with casualties,
who sipping life casually, then gradually become worse,
don’t bite the apple Eve,
caught up in the in crowd,
now your in-style,
and in the winter gets cold en vogue with your skin out,
the city of sin is a pity on a whim,
good girls gone bad, the cities filled with them,
Mommy took a bus trip and now she got her bust out,
everybody ride her, just like a bus route,
Hail Mary to the city your a Virgin,
and Jesus can’t save you life starts when the church ends,
came here for school, graduated to the high life,
ball players, rap stars, addicted to the limelight,
MDMA got you feeling like a champion,
the city never sleeps better slip you a Ambien

[Chorus]

In New York,
Concrete jungle where dreams are made of,
Theres nothing you can’t do,
Now you’re in New York,
these streets will make you feel brand new,
the lights will inspire you,
lets here it for New York, New York, New York


[Alicia Keys]
One hand in the air for the big city,
Street lights, big dreams all looking pretty,
no place in the World that can compare,
Put your lighters in the air, everybody say yeaaahh
come on, come,
yeah,

[Chorus]

In New York,
Concrete jungle where dreams are made of,
Theres nothing you can’t do,
Now you’re in New York,
these streets will make you feel brand new,
the lights will inspire you,
lets here it for New York, New York, New York

Dostoievski

Si hay algún escritor en el que obra y biografía vayan de la mano, ese es Fiódor Dostoievski. Imposible leer El jugador sin relacionarlo con su problema de ludopatía, Recuerdos de la casa de los muertos con su estancia durante cuatro años de trabajos forzados en Siberia o Los hermanos Karamazov o Crimen y castigo con la relación tormentosa con su padre. Como cuenta Vargas-Llosa, era también un hombre con sus particulares manías, como la de vivir en casas con esquina y ventanas a dos calles y cerca de alguna iglesia para poder escuchar las campanadas. Alguien tan poco dado a los halagos como Nietzsche dijo de él que era uno de los pocos psicólogos de los que se podía aprender algo y lo calificaba como uno de los accidentes más felices de su vida.

La muerte de Tolstói

Bueno, también sobre Tolstói se rodó recientemente una película basada en su último año de existencia, cuando su fe religiosa le condujo a renunciar a la propiedad privada, el sexo, la carne y la violencia. El cuadro reproduce la habitación donde murió, en la estación de Astapovo.

Tolstói

Han pasado cien años desde la muerte del creador de Guerra y paz y Ana Karenina, pero su figura aún continúa creando una gran controversia. Uno de sus descendientes ha apelado a la Iglesia ortodoxa solicitando el perdón de su antepasado, quien fue excomulgado por sus ataques a la institución, a la que acusaba de ineficaz, al tiempo que denunciaba a los popes por su hipocresía. No solo la Iglesia, también los políticos, el ejército y la propiedad privada recibieron su correspondiente ración de críticas acerbas. La respuesta eclesiástica no ha podido ser más contundente: se pide a los fieles que recen por su alma, pero no aceptan la más mínima rectificación de la decisión de excolmulgar al pobre Tolstói, demostrando que, en verdad, cien años no son nada. Felizmente, nos queda el consuelo de ignorar a los burócratas religiosos y disfrutar de la lectura de las inolvidables novelas del egregio escritor.

Montaigne, según Muñoz Molina

Artículo de Babelia