Robertson Davies

"A pretty girl is like a melody," hummed Roger.
"Excuse me," said Cobbler, turning toward him, "but I must contradict you. A pretty girl is nothing of the kind. A melody, if it is any good, has a discernible logic; a pretty girl can exist without the faintest vestige of sense."

Robertson Davies
Tempest-Tost

.

She herself was a victim of that lust for books which rages in the breast like a demon, and which cannot be stilled save by the frequent and plentiful acquisition of books. This passion is more common, and more powerful, than most people suppose. Book lovers are thought by unbookish people to be gentle and unworldly, and perhaps a few of them are so. But there are others who will lie and scheme and steal to get books as wildly and unconscionably as the dope-taker in pursuit of his drug. They may not want the books to read immediately, or at all; they want them to possess, to range on their shelves, to have at command. They want books as a Turk is thought to want concubines -- not to be hastily deflowered, but to be kept at their master's call, and enjoyed more often in thought than in reality. Solly was in a measure a victim of this unscrupulous passion, but Freddy was wholly in the grip of it.

Robertson Davies
Tempest-Tost

.

Many authors write like amateur blacksmiths making their first horseshoe; the clank of the anvil, the stench of the scorched leather apron, the sparks and the cursing are palpable, and this appeals to those who rank "sincerity" very high. Nabokov is more like a master swordsmith making a fine blade; nothing is amiss, nothing is too much, there is no fuss, and the finished product must be handled with great care, or it will cut you badly.

Robertson Davies
In a review of Nabokov's Lolita

.

The professor who lectured on Shakespeare seemed to be entrapped in a grotesque, retrospective love affair with every one of Shakespeare's heroines. I think he even had a feeling that he could have made a respectable faculty wife out of Lady Macbeth.

Robertson Davies
Shakespeare over the Port

.

Si encara no heu llegit Robertson Davies, llegiu-lo, llegiu-lo, llegiu-lo,.....

Words

‘Twas once a little boy
Almost a grown man
Who wanted to have an oath sworn
And thus by his very own hand
A prophecy was born
In which no word he'd write no more
or suffer a fate
Far worse than hunger and war
And live in words I create
On a song,
Forever

But, alas,
He grew old and weary
And a ^ time came ^ to pass
When his wedding was ready
And he thought it nice for a groom
To pledge his lo _______ ve for his bride
On a song,
Forever

Ink sealed his doom
Time and destiny abhor pride
Turned him into words
And from that day he is known
By the coast and beyond doors
As the black and white boy
Whose life’s on a song,
Forever

El recambró de les escombres

“Manel,… si no saps què fer, passa l’escombra de la saleta”

El Manel és un homenet de mitjana edat, força gris, força invisible, força mediocre, força de moltes coses però no suficient de res com per a destacar. No és un heroi ni un antiheroi, no composen cançons ni escriuen contes on ell sigui el protagonista. Vesteix clàssic, porta les ulleres una mica brutes, però no prou com per a convertir la seva neteja en una situació imprescindible. Sovint s’ajup i es trossa els cordons de la sabata esquerra. Pel carrer entafora sempre les mans a les butxaques i fa anys que no ha trepitjat un bar ni molt menys un cinema. No li agrada cap esport però els mira al televisor per passar l’estona ja que tampoc no li agrada llegir ni escoltar música.

El recambró de les escombres i els fregalls també conté diverses ampolles de lleixiu, un parell d’esprais pels vidres, un ambientador de recanvi pel lavabo, set rotlles de paper de cuina, una bossa plena de bosses cargolades, dotze pots de conserva de pebrots vermells en vinagre i un senyor vestit completament de negre, amb corbata, barret i mocadoret de fil sobresortint de la butxaca superior esquerra de l’americana, agenollat al mig del recambró.

“Perdoni si li sembla impertinent la meva pregunta però, podria dir-me, si li plau, què està fent vostè al recambró de les escombres i com ha entrat a casa meva?”, proposa el Manel com a qüestió introductòria al senyor de negre.

“Estic controlant una singularitat”, respon el senyor de negre, efectivament sense apartar els ulls d’un punt indefinit que podria portar, com a coordenades, i prenent com a centre cartesià el nas del senyor de negre, 10 centímetres a l’eix de les x i 2 centímetres a l’eix de les z.

“Si em permet interrompre’l un moment, doncs, li pregaria que m’expliqués que és una singularitat, quina funció està desenvolupant la mateixa al recambró de les escombres i qui és vostè”, el Manel ha encès la bombeta que penja del sostre com una aranya solitària, omplint el recambró de les escombres d’una llum grogosa, una mica somorta ja que la bombeta llueix una superfície on fa anys que s’acumula la pols.

“No em distregui, o perdré la singularitat de vista”, es permet transmetre el senyor de negre, amb prou feines movent el llavi inferior.

“Li sabria greu, si no ha de suposar una alteració de la seva percepció visual d’això que vostè anomena singularitat, d’allargar-me l’escombra que té a la seva dreta?”

“Amb molt de gust”, l’home del barret i el mocadoret estira el braç, captura l’escombra i la cedeix al Manel, que l’agafa per darrera l’espatlla esquerra del mateix.

“Bé, doncs, no era la meva intenció de molestar-lo. Fins una altra”. La resistència de la bombeta del sostre encara desprèn tonalitats ataronjades quan el Manel tanca la porta del recambró de les escombres i es posa, xiulant una alegre cançó de bressol, a escombrar la saleta.

Bubble

A bubble to share with a small yellowish flower, surfing over the world, flowing with currents, fashion, wind, light of stars. Shapes swirling on its surface, reflecting convex words back at you, a shadow of hues which overwhelms all senses, ponder reality or imagination. Strangeness molds itself into a spherical space as it uncurls from the great void of nothingness. The thinnest of walls separates my bubble from the land outside, walls aglow with oily patterns, carriers of ephemeral wisdom, to be read before it is rewritten by some other invisible hand. As a bubble I began and as a bubble I shall end: a sonic whisper and I’ll be gone….. forever.