"La única tecnología verbal disponible para garantizar la preservación y fijación de la transmisión, era aquella de la astuta organización rítmica de las palabras en patrones verbales y métricos, que fueran suficientemente únicos para retener su forma."
Eric Havelock, 1963
Eric Havelock Bibliography Obras fundamentales
The Lyric Genius of Catullus. Oxford: Blackwell, 1939. The Crucifixion of Intellectual Man, Incorporating a Fresh Translation into English Verse of thePrometheus Bound of Aeschylus. Boston: Beacon Press, 1950. Reprinted as Prometheus. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1968. The Liberal Temper in Greek Politics. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1957. Preface to Plato. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1963. Traducción española: Visor, 1994. Prologue to Greek Literacy. Cincinnati: University of Cincinnati Press, 1971. The Greek Concept of Justice: From its Shadow in Homer to its Substance in Plato. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1978. The Literate Revolution in Greece and its Cultural Consequences. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1981. The Muse Learns to Write: Reflections on Orality and Literacy from Antiquity to the Present. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1986. Traducción española: Paidós, 1996; 2008.
¿Palabras? Sí, de aire,
y en el aire perdidas.
Déjame que me pierda entre palabras,
déjame ser el aire en unos labios,
un soplo vagabundo sin contornos
que el aire desvanece.
Light clarity avocado salad in the morning after all the terrible things I do how amazing it is to find forgiveness and love, not even forgiveness since what is done is done and forgiveness isn’t love and love is love nothing can ever go wrong though things can get irritating boring and dispensable (in the imagination) but not really for love though a block away you feel distant the mere presence changes everything like a chemical dropped on a paper and all thoughts disappear in a strange quiet excitement I am sure of nothing but this, intensified by breathing
"I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason — Coleridge, for instance, would let go by a fine isolated verisimilitude caught from the Penetralium of mystery, from being incapable of remaining content with half-knowledge. This pursued through volumes would perhaps take us no further than this, that with a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration."
Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked, Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade. Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner’s bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, going down and down For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head. But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it.
From Death of a Naturalist. Copyright 1966 by Seamus Heaney.
This is taken from the documentary 'What happened to Kerouac?'
There was a little alley in San Francisco back of the Southern Pacific station at Third and Townsend in redbrick of drowsy lazy afternoons with everybody at work in offices in the air you feel the impending rush of their commuter frenzy as soon they’ll be charging en masse from Market and Sansome buildings on foot and in buses and all well-dressed thru workingman Frisco of Walkup ?? truck drivers and even the poor grime-bemarked Third Street of lost bums even Negros so hopeless and long left East and meanings of responsibility and try that now all they do is stand there spitting in the broken glass sometimes fifty in one afternoon against one wall at Third and Howard and here’s all these Millbrae and San Carlos neat-necktied producers and commuters of America and Steel civilization rushing by with San Francisco Chronicles and green Call-Bulletins not even enough time to be disdainful, they’ve got to catch 130, 132, 134, 136 all the way up to 146 till the time of evening supper in homes of the railroad earth when high in the sky the magic stars ride above the following hotshot freight trains--it’s all in California, it’s all a sea, I swim out of it in afternoons of sun hot meditation in my jeans with head on handkerchief on brakeman’s lantern or (if not working) on book, I look up at blue sky of perfect lostpurity and feel the warp of wood of old America beneath me and I* have insane conversations with Negroes in second*-story windows above and everything is pouring in, the switching moves of boxcars in that little alley which is so much like the alleys of Lowell and I hear far off in the sense of coming night that engine calling our mountains.
But it was that beautiful cut of clouds I could always see above the little S.P. alley, puffs floating by from Oakland or the Gate of Marin to the north or San Jose south, the clarity of Cal to break your heart. It was the fantastic drowse and drum hum of lum mum afternoon nathin’ to do, ole Frisco with end of land sadness--the people--the alley full of trucks and cars of businesses nearabouts and nobody knew or far from cared who I was all my life three thousand five hundred miles from birth-O opened up and at last belonged to me in Great America.
Now it's night in Third Street the keen little neons and also yellow bulblights of impossible-to-believe flops with dark ruined shadows moving back of tom yellow shades like a degenerate China with no money-the cats in Annie's Alley, the flop comes on, moans, rolls, the street is loaded with darkness. Blue sky above with stars hanging high over old hotel roofs and blowers of hotels moaning out dusts of interior, the grime inside the word in mouths falling out tooth by tooth, the reading rooms tick tock bigclock with creak chair and slantboards and old faces looking up over rimless spectacles bought in some West Virginia or Florida or Liverpool England pawnshop long before I was born and across rains they've come to the end of the land sadness end of the world gladness all you San Franciscos will have to fall eventually and burn again. But I'm walking and one night a bum fell into the hole of the construction job where they're tearing a sewer by day the husky Pacific & Electric youths in torn jeans who work there often I think of going up to some of 'em like say blond ones with wild hair and tom shirts and say "You oughta apply for the railroad it's much easier work you don't stand around the street all day and you get much more pay" but this bum fell in the hole you saw his foot stick out, a British MG also driven by some eccentric once backed into the hole and as I came home from a long Saturday afternoon local to Hollister out of San Jose miles away across verdurous fields of prune and juice joy here's this British MG backed and legs up wheels up into a pit and bums and cops
standing around right outside the coffee shop-it was the way they fenced it but he never had the nerve to do it due to the fact that he had no money and nowhere to go and O his father was dead and O his mother was dead and O his sister was dead and O his whereabout was dead was dead but and then at that time also I lay in my room on long Saturday afternoons listening to Jumpin' George with my fifth of tokay no tea and just under the sheets laughed to hear the crazy music "Mama, he treats your daughter mean," Mama, Papa, and don't you come in here I'll kill you etc. getting high by myself in room glooms and all wondrous knowing about the Negro the essential American out there always finding his solace his meaning in the fellaheen street and not in abstract morality and even when he has a church you see the pastor out front bowing to the ladies on the make you hear his great vibrant voice on the sunny Sunday afternoon sidewalk full of sexual vibratos saying "Why yes Mam but de gospel do say that man was born of woman's womb-" and no and so by that time I come crawling out of my warmsack and hit the street when I see the railroad ain't gonna call me till 5 AM Sunday morn probably for a local out of Bay Shore in fact always for a local out of Bay Shore and I go to the wailbar of all the wildbars in the world the one and only Third-and-Howard and there I go in and drink with the madmen and if I get drunk I git.
The whore who come up to me in there the night I was there with Al Buckle and said to me "You wanta play with me tonight Jim, and?" and I didn't think I had enough money and later told this to Charley Low and he laughed and said "How do you know she wanted money always take the chance that she might be out just for love or just out for love you know what I mean man don't be a sucker." She was a goodlooking doll and said "How would you like to oolyakoo with me mon?" and I stood there like a jerk and in fact bought drink got drink drunk that night and in the 299 Club I was hit
by the proprietor the band breaking up the fight before I had a chance to decide to hit him back which I didn't do and out on the street I tried to rush back in but they had locked the door and were looking at me thru the forbidden glass in the door with faces like undersea––I should have played with her shurrouruuruuruuruuruuruurkdiei.
El acto del amor es lo más parecido a un asesinato. En la cama, en su terror gozoso, se trata de borrar el alma del que está, hombre o mujer, debajo. Por eso no miramos. Eyacular es ensuciar el cuerpo y penetrar es humillar con la verga la erección de otro yo. Borrar o ser borrados, tando da, pero en un instante, irse dejarlo una vez más entre sus labios.
Luz de alucinaciones son tus ojos de hierro. El mar salta en las piedras y mi alma se equivoca. El sol se hunde en el agua y el agua es puro fuego. Eres casi de sueño. Eres casi de piedra en el vaivén del tiempo.
Arquetipo amoroso firme en la turbia edad esa manera tuya de calmarme las lágrimas. De desbocar tu cuerpo contra el mío enloquecido como un potro en una llanura incendiada. De verter tus palabras en mi entendimiento cual veneno que cura la ausencia. De recordar cosas usadas y olvidadas con un vuelo que ilumina y asombra.
Es tarde amor. El mar trae tormenta. Hay una luna pálida que recuerda tu ombligo y unas nubes livianas y pesadas como tus manos beben sedientas. Así, cuando yo sobre tu boca muero.
Nuestro "Carrieguito" en la Filatelia Argentina. Donación a la casa: Archivo Marcela Ciruzzi (nov. 2023)
Sello emitido en 1983, fue impreso en Casa de Moneda, tiene un valor facial de 5000 pesos. El dibujante fue Alvarez Boero. Forma parte de una serie de sellos sobre escritores célebres argentinos. Evaristo Carriego: (1883-1912) Poeta argentino de musa popular, reaccionó contra el preciosismo modernista. Misas Herejes (1908).
Ya las primeras mariposas Sobre las rosas. Velan De noche los cocuyos Entre los yuyos. Sonríen las estrellas Pálidamente bellas.
¿Y vendrás tú? Se cubren Alegres, mis floreros De madreselvas. Anda por los largos canteros La risa azul del nomeolvides Y se cargan las vides.
Selvas Tengo en el corazón; Árboles gruesos Prietos de ramas; Yuyos, retamas, Flores de malvón, Pájaros en las ramas, Todo eso tengo en el corazón.
¿Y vendrás tú? Mis manos Fabricaron panales. Yendo de rosa en rosa cogí miel; Hice linos; no recuerdo de males.
El lecho mío es blanco Y es Primavera. Huele Bien, el alto barranco Mojado por la ría. Desde el mar que diviso ¿Vendrá tu vela? Vuela, Primavera es gacela Fugitiva Y furtiva, ¡Vuela!
El hombre tiene miedo de ver la verdad de ver que él era algo que no podía definir de ver que al fin su sexo pudo ser o no ser que no era absoluto que podía ser la flor
El hombre tiene miedo de su sexo también y niega a la mujer que lleva dentro de él qué flor le daré a aquel que vive sin amor la flor de mil y un sexos la flor de un creador
Cuando él era muy pequeño él sabía vivir todo era pureza mamá y papá si después creció subió y lloró dónde estará la flor dónde está el que se fue
Un día la farsanta nuestra gran sociedad le dijo mil mentiras lo metió en un corral le dijo que su sexo él tenía que ocultar la flor se marchitó no pudo ver el sol
También le dijo cómo él tenía que pensar sentir vivir amar y ser un ser normal después le regaló el caos la maldad y la publicidad por fin lo convenció
Te engañaron ya lo sabes si no lo sabes también con la pluma y la palabra y con silencio también aunque bien bien lo sabía la bendita sociedad que eras algo más que un sexo y tu cédula de identidad
Lo miro a mi abuelo él era muy viril era igual que yo era hombre o mujer díganme ustedes dueños de la moral la voz de ese viejito es de hombre o de mujer
Escúchame hermano entre este ruido actual hermano te lo pido ayúdame a seguir no esperes que te entiendan por qué lo habrían de hacer son solo maquinitas que no pueden fallar
Las máquinas fabrican frases para vivir y todos repetimos sin nunca descubrir la libertad de un hombre no era de metal la máquina triunfó y el hombre se acabó
Ustedes dicen macho varón y qué sé yo me meten en un molde como si fuera un flan para recibirme de hombre no es verdad me tengo que pelear no tengo que llorar
Hablar de las mujeres como cosas que hay que usar tener la pose macha y la voz del arrabal pero yo bien los conozco no me pueden engañar tienen mucho mucho miedo que los llamen que los llamen anormal
Cuando un niño te sonríe y él te quiere acariciar cuando lloras y estás solo y no hay nadie a quien llamar cuando mueres un instante porque estás con ella al fin cuando abrazas a un amigo que lo quieres como a un Dios
están ciegos son idiotas o qué es lo que pasa aquí o qué es lo que pasa aquí o qué es lo que pasa aquí.
