Philosophy appears to concern itself only with the truth, but perhaps expresses only fantasies, while literature appears to concern itself onl
Philosophy appears to concern itself only with the truth, but perhaps expresses only fantasies, while literature appears to concern itself only with fantasies, but perhaps it expresses the truth.
The Reviewer maintains she first opened a book by an Italian author, adding that she had met him before. On a beauteous summer day, she opened the book and suddenly she found herself in Lisbon, which was quite different from present-day Lisbon, since the events took place before the Carnation Revolution. The Reviewer maintains that the story was set in the aforementioned city, emblem of the Estado Novo established by Salazar. The Reviewer maintains she felt unsettled but also somewhat comforted after reading a few words, which she can document and which read as follows:
‘The relationship that most profoundly and universally characterizes our sense of being is that of life with death, because the limits imposed on our existence by death are crucial to the understanding and evaluation of life.’
The Reviewer maintains she took a sip of honey-sweetened lemonade, as she doesn’t drink alcohol and has abandoned refined sugar, adding that she thought those words spoke of the fleeting nature of life, the elusiveness of happiness and the need to seize those special moments before they get lost in the midst of the ordinary, the humdrum routine, the minutiae of everyday life. Moments that urge us to regard the past as a collection of memories and nothing but memories so it won't tyrannize so violently over our present. The Reviewer maintains she dreamed a lovely dream about one of such moments that are worth seizing. A dream which made her feel nostalgia for things that never existed, the kind of nostalgia discussed decades ago in a book filled with disquiet to which she had referred recently. It was a long dream. But the Reviewer prefers not to say how it went on because her dream has nothing to do with these events, she maintains.
He had chosen Honorine, a story about repentance which he intended to publish in three or four instalments. Pereira does not know why, but he had a feeling this story about repentance might come into someone’s life like a message in a bottle. Because there were so many things to repent of, he maintains, and a story about repentance was certainly called for, and this was the only way he had of sending a message to someone ready and willing to receive it.
The Reviewer maintains it was a strange time. She was reading about a distrustful, gagged Lisbon, and she felt restless while reading about Pereira, a perennial widower, a childless man filled with regret, a devotee of literature, a non-political journalist in charge of the culture page of a small newspaper who, ironically, is obsessed with death and obituaries but is not initially aware—or doesn’t want to be—of the crimes perpetrated against his fellow citizens. Until he comes across a young man, Monteiro Rossi, and then his girlfriend, Marta.
...even here things aren’t too rosy, the police have things all their own way, they’re killing people, they ransack people’s houses, there’s censorship, I tell you this is an authoritarian state, the people count for nothing, public opinion counts for nothing.
The Reviewer maintains she instantly saw literature as a vivid manifestation of all kinds of realities, defying the fundamental conceptions of time and space. Once more, reality and fiction intertwined and a single world emerged—Buenos Aires, the sound of a death flight, of a shot that killed a journalist after sending his Open Letter; the green Ford Falcons which opened their doors and swallowed up lives, the square replete with mothers asking for the alive reappearance of their sons and daughters; Videla stating that people were neither dead nor alive, they were missing; and the fact that, as Pereira, many people refused to acknowledge what was going on out of fear, indifference, complicity. The citizens, the media. Most newspapers and magazines adjusted to their new roles: the concealment of the truth, the justification of any measure taken in the name of patriotism, the in-depth discussions about frivolous matters. Operation Condor had spoken: National Reorganization or clandestine detention centers; death or exile. Lisbon, once; Buenos Aires, always—like a plain sheet of paper, then crumpled, trying to regain its original state.
No skin off his nose, retorted Dr Cardoso, because there’s the state censorship and every day, before your paper appears, the proofs are examined by the censors, and if there’s something they don’t like don’t you worry it won’t be printed, they leave blank spaces, I’ve already seen Portuguese papers with huge blank spaces in them, and it makes me very angry and very sad.
Pereira Maintains is the itinerary of a man devoted to literature and journalism, the chronicle of a solitary life and one final instance of courage, a man’s journey from slumber to exile; that is, to reality, the Reviewer maintains.
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Feb 8, 21 * Later on my blog. ** I also watched the 1995 Italian film based on this novel, directed by Roberto Faenza and starring Marcello Mastroianni. Time well spent, despite the liberties taken by the filmmaker—which I didn't mind, having read this fantastic book first and considering they weren't as significant. The picture above shows one of the most amazing moments of the film. ...more
No, he would not be afraid. Others, yes. Not he. He knew he would not be afraid. Even if he ever was afraid he knew that he could do it anyway. He
No, he would not be afraid. Others, yes. Not he. He knew he would not be afraid. Even if he ever was afraid he knew that he could do it anyway. He had confidence.
Simplicity is the key. I know. A simple plot can become a work of art thanks to great writing. In this ambivalent relationship I am having with Hemingway, the more I read, the more confused I am. So far, I had a similar reaction only towards Cortázar's work. A new contestant has arrived. However, I have nothing but good news, today. In a parallel universe, this is the Hemingway I would sing Christmas carols with. (Inside joke.)
"The Capital of the World" is a short story about a young man named Paco who lived in Madrid. He worked as a waiter in a hotel called Pension Luarca, where bullfighters usually stayed. They are described as second-rate matadors, since they achieved greatness but because of certain circumstances, their careers were reduced to memories. Well, Paco's dream was to become a bullfighter. Even though I can't relate to the romanticism he saw in that heinous activity, I do understand the feeling of having a dream that seems bigger than one's existence. And the reactions it might generate. Paco was surrounded by people leading dull lives without any prospect. On the contrary, he was a cheerful boy full of dreams and ideals, typical of youth. (Typical?) He was waiting for a chance to create the future he was longing for. Unafraid. Overconfident, even. A raw melody tempting tragedy. Something evoking sailors being lured by an irresistible song.
Paco's joy and desires of fulfilling his dreams can't dissipate the melancholic atmosphere of Hemingway's prose. The smothering sense of nostalgia and loss lies in every page of this short story. (Recurring themes I always enjoy in this sometimes futile search for empathy.) The author offered some character development that gives the story the psychological depth I always look for. I saw a boy full of illusions, ready to prove everybody wrong. Eager to accomplish his lifetime goal. Unwilling to stay in the same place, beholding how other people's lives were fading out, in silence. Until they are nothing more than blurred lines in the air moving mechanically, helping others to fulfill their wishes. Paco is not the perfect example, though his eagerness to make his dream come true certainly leaves you pondering about where do you want to go. The defeated bullfighters remembering the greatness of bygone days, leave you thinking about where you are now. Different questions emerge from all the characters of this story. The answers might soothe you. If you are lucky enough.
I had written a review and, later, decided to delete it. Okay, I did not delete it, I just put it in the folder where legendsThe days belong to Byron.
I had written a review and, later, decided to delete it. Okay, I did not delete it, I just put it in the folder where legends die. Anyway, that review had quotes and facts and some nonsensical analysis of the conversations that Thomas Medwin transcribed, after a logical warning: he could deliver the substance but not the form, that being Byron's wit and eloquence. I wrote that review and then realized how useless that was. I could say everything I wanted to say in one single quote. A quote by an extraordinary writer. The true enchanter of all words; familiar and unknown.
If, after I die, someone wants to write my biography, There's nothing simpler. It has just two dates—the day I was born and the day I died. Between the two, all the days are mine.
- Fernando Pessoa, A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe: Selected Poems (61)
Between the two, all the days are mine. Besides its unquestionable beauty, there is a particular sound that cuts the air like the sharpest of knives. Between the two, all the days are mine. A sound you can almost feel. There. Practically piercing your body, finding its way to your mind in the most incredible display of self-preservation. All the days are mine.
All the days are ours.
Sep 21, 15 * Also on my blog. It seems like this is the first review for this book around here. Yeah... Sorry, Goodreads....more
- Vos sabés que en política pasa de todo. You know that, in politics, anything can happen. (69)
- La Justicia no podrá devolverle la vida al Fiscal Alb
- Vos sabés que en política pasa de todo. You know that, in politics, anything can happen. (69)
- La Justicia no podrá devolverle la vida al Fiscal Alberto Nisman. Pero podrá devolvernos la dignidad a todos los argentinos si se atreve, como él se atrevió, a ir en busca de la verdad. Justice can't bring prosecutor Alberto Nisman back to life. But it can bring back dignity to all Argentines if it dares, like he did, to go in search of the truth. (234, Santiago Kovadloff's speech at Nisman's funeral)
January. Monday. Around 7 a.m. I woke up and went to brush my teeth. That is not the perfect line to start a review. I know, nothing poetic about picturing people brushing their teeth. But that is how everything started for me. When I got out of the bathroom, my mother was already up. She always tries to be up to say “take care, have a good day at work” (like that ever happens, but it is nice to have someone to tell you those things, anyway). I still don't know if I was supposed to go to work that day, because I remember I stayed all morning watching the news. And now I see an image I tweeted that Monday at 8.43 a.m. So, no, I did not go to work. And if my previous boss is reading this, now he knows the truth. The most relevant homicide in Argentina's recent criminal history was there. I had to know. I was not going anywhere.
So, like I said, I went back to my room and watched the news on my computer. I don't have a TV in my bedroom–good habit–but I can't go out before checking the news, the weather and other trivia. However, there was nothing trivial about the news I was starting to watch. Argentine federal prosecutor, Alberto Nisman, was found dead in his apartment. I could not believe it. I remained in silence for a couple of minutes. Stunned. A mix of confusion and powerlessness took over me. When, how, WHO. Why? Not why. I could sense the reason. That man was the chief investigator of the 1994 car bombing of AMIA (Israelite Argentine Mutual Association), the Jewish center in Buenos Aires, where 85 people were killed and about 300 injured. That man accused President Cristina Fernández de Kirchner, his Foreign Minister Héctor Timerman (of Jewish religion, may I add) and other politicians of helping Iran to cover up the consequences of Argentina's worst terrorist attack. That man, on that Monday, was about to present his allegations to Congress. But that man had been killed hours ago, silencing the investigation forever. Condemning him and other 85 souls to oblivion. Making "justice" a simple word you can only find in the dictionary. After a while, I came back to reality and went to my mother's bedroom to tell her. The reaction was the same. She could not believe it. I still can't believe it.
Con esto, me juego la vida. ~ With this, I put my life at risk. (99, Nisman's words.)
That is how I found out about the murder of Nisman. And that is how Suicidado starts: with the retelling of how G. M. Bracesco found out. Social media is a powerful thing. We know everything in real time. So, when journalist Damián Pachter tweeted, on January, 18, at precisely 11.35 p.m., that something was wrong in Nisman's apartment, the impact was reasonably tremendous. As he explains in the book, Bracesco himself was the first journalist who went to Puerto Madero to investigate and record everything that was going on. With that impressive amount of information, he created this book. Nonetheless, he warns us that his work constitutes a personal hypothesis. Usually, the line that divides reality from fiction is ridiculously thin. And, according to Mark Twain, “The only difference between reality and fiction is that fiction needs to be credible.” In Argentina, reality has lost every possible credibility, so a book about our last twenty years of history wouldn't be logical, at all. Again, the writer states that this is his hypothesis. It is defined as kind of a crime novel. However, no one can affirm that this series of unfortunate events did not occur exactly the way the author explained us.
Bracesco's writing is very straightforward. The lack of pretentiousness in language is something that I always celebrate. It is not a simplistic writing style that underestimate the reader, but his colloquial use of the language helps you to easily connect with him. And, in the middle of such harsh descriptions, he made room for some funny remarks concerning certain characters and situations. The structure of the book is simple and coherent. It contains short and engaging chapters with the author's explanations and descriptions and also fragments of news, interviews and records that support his words. There are some mistakes (editor, hello), maybe the rush of getting this book out on the streets, but everything I could ignore (okay, I still underlined with my pencil every one of those because I am a neurotic reader; I have a problem and I am aware of it so don't judge me, please) because of the revolting feeling in all organs of my body due to every dreadful detail that portrayed human degradation at its finest. A wave of sorrow and anger surrounded me and by the time I finished the book, I was immersed in a sea of uncertainty and hopelessness. I am Argentine. I should be used to that by now, right? And still, I should not get so used to it, for that leads to political and social anesthesia. A state of mind that many politicians long for. We certainly can't allow that.
From the beginning, Bracesco tells us that power delays and degenerates investigations that are not convenient to the current administration. Usually, common people who do not belong to the corrupted circle are the ones who ruin the intended perfect crime. And that is exactly what happened with Alberto Nisman's case. In this book, you will find out the possible reasons for the AMIA bombing, the on-off relationship between Argentina and Iran, the role of Venezuela regarding that particular aspect, the truth behind the infamous memorandum of understanding signed with Iran whose mere goal was to boost trade with them and guarantee impunity to Iranian suspects...
Se busca por una cuestión política, borrar una causa de un crimen de lesa humanidad. ~ For a political matter, they intend to erase a case about a crime against humanity. (45, Nisman's words)
...how the murder of Nisman was possibly perpetrated and the events that followed (an exiled journalist, frightened witnesses, media manipulation by the ruling party, Lagomarsino's story, a President answering through Facebook), with a special part concerning how the experts who were supposed to preserve the scene, did all the contrary. Negligence or determination. Stupidity or obedience. Coffee, croissants and sandals over blood.
El encubrimiento siempre tiene cara de incompetencia e ineptitud. ~ The act of covering up always has the face of incompetence and ineptness. (12)
The desperation to cover up all the loose ends can make you fatally sloppy.
The special prosecutor of this case is Viviana Fein who, during that fatal night, asked journalists for prudence, patience and said that in the course of a few days they would know the real cause of death. Six months later, I am writing these lines and we still do not know officially, if it was a suicide, a forced suicide or a murder. Even though the evidence screams murder so loud. And yet, we are the only ones who hear that scream, despite all the Government efforts to make us listen otherwise. For they buried the prosecutor's complaint against the President and her staff, but they cannot bury the feeling we have as a society, that something doesn't quite fit...
Hoy no tengo pruebas, pero tampoco tengo dudas. ~ Today I don't have evidence, but I don't have doubts either. (176, Cristina Kirchner's words)
In conclusion, a prosecutor was killed the day before he could present his allegations to Congress after a ten-year investigation. Something that would have shaken our Government completely. We do not know much, but we do know that nothing in politics happens by mistake nor by accident. Everything has its reason. Everything can be planned. And we are always in the middle of their personal interests. Politics, business, media, powerful companies. They can always understand each other. We are the ones always in the middle. Watching. Waiting. Waiting for the punch, for the adjustment, for the legal consequences only reserved to us, like a never-ending tribute to the Kafkaesque universe.
Alberto Nisman is another wound in this chain of corruption, money and power that so well defines Argentine history. We should never forget. Books like this one are necessary to prevent us from forgetting. A shocking book; a necessary reading. Because in oblivion lies impunity. This is a thrilling story... until you realize that the death of prosecutor Nisman is not fiction. We cannot forget.
Today is July, 17. I am writing this review as we commemorate the 21st anniversary of AMIA bombing. 21 years. 85 victims. Not a single convict. I have to find the strength to believe that Nisman, the 86th victim, will not have the same fate. And yet...
The following is a 1947 poem by the eclectic Dylan Thomas that Bracesco included in his book. With this, I finish.
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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