Lectura de «Am kürzeren Ende der Sonnenallee» (La Avenida del Sol) a cargo de su autor Thomas Brussig

El próximo jueves, 12 de abril tendrá lugar en la Facultad de Traducción e Interpretación una lectura de extractos del libro «Am kürzeren Ende der Sonnenallee» (La avenida del sol) a cargo de su autor Thomas Brussig. Continue reading

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Kazuo Ishiguro: Premio Nobel de Literatura 2017

Las letras inglesas están de enhorabuena. Si el año pasado se le concedió el Premio Nobel de literatura al cantautor estadounidense Bob Dylan, este año la academia sueca  ha vuelto a su senda más convencional y ha premiado a todo un peso pesado de la literatura contemporánea en lengua inglesa, el británico de origen japonés Kazuo Ishiguro (1954).

Ishiguro es uno de esos escritores poco previsibles al que le gusta cambiar de tema y casi de estilo en cada novela que publica, aunque, eso sí, en cada una de ellas hace alarde de kazuoishiguro_theremainsofthedayun asombroso dominio del lenguaje y de las más diversas técnicas narrativas. Sus dos primeras novelas A Pale View of Hills (1982) y An Artist of the Floating World (1986) estaban ambientadas en Japón pero es a partir de la tercera, The Remains of the Day (1989), con la que ganaría el prestigioso Booker Prize, cuando puede decirse que Ishiguro se convierte en un auténtico escritor inglés a la altura de otros autores de su generación como Julian Barnes, Martis Amis o Ian McEwan, a los que a veces se alude colectivamente como Generación Granta pues fue esta revista la que los reunió en su número de 1983 dedicado a “Best of Young British Writers“. La adaptación cinematográfica de The Remains of the Day, protagonizada por un extraordinario Anthony Hopkins encarnando al mayordomo protagonista, sin duda contribuyó a que Ishiguro dejara de ser 7un escritor para minorías cultas y empezara a gozar del favor del gran público. Después vinieron The Unconsoled (1995), When We Were Orphans (2000) y esa inquietante distopia también llevada al cine que es Never Let Me Go (2005), incluida por la revista Time entre las 100 mejores novelas en inglés del siglo XX. Su última novela hasta la fecha The Buried Giant (2015) es otro giro de tuerca temático y estilístico en la carrera de Ishiguro: una especie de revival artúrico, ambientado en la Edad Media, una narración bellísima que indaga en la memoria y el olvido, en los fantasmas del pasado, el odio larvado, la sangre y la traición con la que se forjan las patrias y a veces la paz. Algo de una angustiosa actualidad por estos pagos…

Los alumnos de Estudios Ingleses conocen bien a Ish (como le llaman sus amigos) ya que desde hace años leen algunos de sus cuentos en la asignatura Técnicas de Estudio de la Literatura Inglesa, impartida por la profesora Marta Falces a la que the philologist /UGR/ 2.0 le ha pedido un breve comentario al respecto:

«He sentido una enorme alegría al conocer la concesión del Premio Nobel a Kazuo 61zzqrjeszlIshiguro, entre otros muchos motivos, al saber que los estudiantes de primer curso de Estudios ingleses lo han reconocido. Ishiguro es parte de nuestra experiencia estética como lectores: los cinco relatos de  Nocturnes. Five stories of music and Nightfall constituyen una entrada suave y verdaderamente a media luz a la prosa preciosista, limpia y sugerente de Ishiguro.  En nuestro caso, cada una de ellos, nos permite explorar en clase aspectos narratológicos como el tratamiento del tiempo y el espacio, que en este caso nos llevan desde las colinas Malvern en Worcestershire a  Venecia o California entre sonidos de Jazz, voces de Soul, cello clásico o los Beatles. El tratamiento de los argumentos, el punto de vista de la narración no siempre tan claro como pudiera parecer en una primera lectura y la sutil caracterización indirecta de sus personajes a través de la conversación hacen de Nocturnes una colección de historias extremadamente atractivas… en febrero, volveremos a ellas, este curso con más interés si cabe.»

Algunos enlaces de interés:

Kazuo Ishiguro wins the Nobel prize in literature 2017 (The Guardian)

Kazuo Ishiguro: Nobel Literature Prize is ‘a magnificent honour’

The Remains of the Day (1993)
Dir: James Ivory
Cast: Anthony HopkinsEmma Thompson
Never Let Me Go (2010)
Dir: Mark Romanek
Cast:  Keira KnightleyCarey MulliganAndrew Garfield

Especial San Valentín: Selección de textos de (des)amor

Hoy es un día especial, y por eso no sólo tenemos una publicación musical sobre el amor, sino también sobre literatura: poesía, novelas, ensayos, guiones de obras de teatro, etc. Así que os presentamos la selección de textos de (des)amor del equipo de The Philologist UGR y de varios/as profesores/as del Departmento para este San Valentín 2017, ordenadas para que puedas ver quién ha seleccionado cada texto. ¡Esperamos que disfrutéis de esta selección y de este día!

San Valentín textos de (des)amor. Imagen: B.L.G.
San Valentín textos de (des)amor. Imagen: B.L.G.

Selección de M.M.L.

“I Love You” – Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I love your lips when they’re wet with wine
And red with a wild desire;
I love your eyes when the lovelight lies
Lit with a passionate fire.
I love your arms when the warm white flesh
Touches mine in a fond embrace;
I love your hair when the strands enmesh
Your kisses against my face.
Not for me the cold, calm kiss
Of a virgin’s bloodless love;
Not for me the saint’s white bliss,
Nor the heart of a spotless dove.
But give me the love that so freely gives
And laughs at the whole world’s blame,
With your body so young and warm in my arms,
It sets my poor heart aflame.
So kiss me sweet with your warm wet mouth,
Still fragrant with ruby wine,
And say with a fervor born of the South
That your body and soul are mine.
Clasp me close in your warm young arms,
While the pale stars shine above,
And we’ll live our whole young lives away
In the joys of a living love.

Selección de E.R.S.

Cartas a un joven poeta – Rainer Maria Rilke

Que los seres humanos se amen entre sí es quizá la tarea más difícil que nos ha sido encomendada, la más extrema, la prueba y el examen definitivos, el trabajo para el que todos los demás trabajos no son más que una preparación.

Selección de F.G.R.

II (From Twenty-one Love Poems) – Adrienne Rich

I wake up in your bed. I know I have been dreaming.
Much earlier, the alarm broke us from each other,
you’ve been at your desk for hours. I know what I dreamed:
our friend the poet comes into my room
where I’ve been writing for days,
drafts, carbons, poems are scattered everywhere,
and I want to show her one poem
which is the poem of my life. But I hesitate,
and wake. You’ve kissed my hair
to wake me. I dreamed you were a poem,
I say, a poem I wanted to show someone . . .
and I laugh and fall dreaming again
of the desire to show you to everyone I love,
to move openly together
in the pull of gravity, which is not simple,
which carries the feathered grass a long way down the upbreathing air.

“Wild Nights – Wild Nights!” – Emily Dickinson

Wild nights – Wild nights!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile – the winds –
To a Heart in port –
Done with the Compass –
Done with the Chart!
Rowing in Eden –
Ah – the Sea!
Might I but moor – tonight –
In thee!

Sonnet 43 (From Sonnets from the Portuguese) – Elizabeth Barret Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

Selección de J.V.R.

Trópico de Cáncer – Henry Miller

“El mundo que me rodea está desintegrándose y deja aquí y allá motas de tiempo. El mundo es un cáncer que se devora a sí mismo…Estoy pensando en que, cuando el gran silencio descienda sobre todo y por doquier, la música triunfará por fin. Cuando todo vuelva a retirarse a la matriz del tiempo, reinará el caos de nuevo y el caos es la partitura en que se escribe la realidad. Tú, Tania, eres mi caos. Por eso canto. Ni siquiera soy yo, es el mundo agonizante que muda la piel del tiempo. Todavía estoy vivo, dando patadas dentro de tu matriz, realidad sobre la que escribir.”

“The Sun Rising” – John Donne

Busy old fool, unruly sun,
               Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run?
               Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
               Late school boys and sour prentices,
         Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride,
         Call country ants to harvest offices,
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
               Thy beams, so reverend and strong
               Why shouldst thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long;
               If her eyes have not blinded thine,
               Look, and tomorrow late, tell me,
         Whether both th’ Indias of spice and mine
         Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw’st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay.
               She’s all states, and all princes, I,
               Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compared to this,
All honor’s mimic, all wealth alchemy.
               Thou, sun, art half as happy as we,
               In that the world’s contracted thus.
         Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
         To warm the world, that’s done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere.

Selección de S.M.C.

Sonnet 130 – Shakespeare

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

Sonnet 75 – Edmund Spencer

One day I wrote her name upon the strand,
But came the waves and washed it away:
Again I wrote it with a second hand,
But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.
“Vain man,” said she, “that dost in vain assay,
A mortal thing so to immortalize;
For I myself shall like to this decay,
And eke my name be wiped out likewise.”
“Not so,” (quod I) “let baser things devise
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame:
My verse your vertues rare shall eternize,
And in the heavens write your glorious name:
Where whenas death shall all the world subdue,
Our love shall live, and later life renew.”

Selección de S.G.L.

The Parliament of Fowls – Geoffrey Chaucer (lines 309-322)

For this was on Saint Valentines day,
Whan every brid cometh ther to chese
Of every kinde that men thinke may;
And that so huge a noise gan they make,
That erthe and air and tree and every lake
So ful was that unnethe was ther space hardly
For me to stonde, so ful was al the place.
And right as Alain in the “Plainte of Kinde”
Deviseth Nature in array and face, describes
In swich array men mighte hire there finde.
This noble emperesse, ful of grace, empress
Bad every fowl to take his owene place,
As they were wont alway, from yeer to yere,
Saint Valentines Day, to stonden there.

Sonnet 116 – Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken,
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Romeo and Juliet – Shakespeare

FRIAR LAWRENCE:

These violent delights have violent ends,
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,
Which as they kiss consume. The sweetest honey
Is loathsome in his own deliciousness,
And in the taste confounds the appetite:
Therefore love moderately, long love doth so:
Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.

“So well go no more a roving” – Lord Byron

So we’ll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And Love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.

“A Decade” – Amy Lowell

When you came, you were like red wine and honey,
And the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.
Now you are like morning bread,
Smooth and pleasant.
I hardly taste you at all for I know your savour,
But I am completely nourished.

“I like my body when it is with you” – E. E. Cumings

I Like My Body When It Is With Your
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body.  i like what it does,
i like its hows.  i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones,and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz
of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new

ELEGY XX “To His Mistress going to bed” – John Donne

COME, madam, come, all rest my powers defy ;
Until I labour, I in labour lie.
The foe ofttimes, having the foe in sight,
Is tired with standing, though he never fight.
Off with that girdle, like heaven’s zone glittering,
But a far fairer world encompassing.
Unpin that spangled breast-plate, which you wear,
That th’ eyes of busy fools may be stopp’d there.
Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime
Tells me from you that now it is bed-time.
Off with that happy busk, which I envy,
That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.
Your gown going off such beauteous state reveals,
As when from flowery meads th’ hill’s shadow steals.
Off with your wiry coronet, and show
The hairy diadems which on you do grow.
Off with your hose and shoes ; then softly tread
In this love’s hallow’d temple, this soft bed.
In such white robes heaven’s angels used to be
Revealed to men ; thou, angel, bring’st with thee
A heaven-like Mahomet’s paradise ; and though
Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know
By this these angels from an evil sprite ;
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.
Licence my roving hands, and let them go
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O, my America, my Newfoundland,
My kingdom, safest when with one man mann’d,
My mine of precious stones, my empery ;
How am I blest in thus discovering thee !
To enter in these bonds, is to be free ;
Then, where my hand is set, my soul shall be.
Full nakedness !  All joys are due to thee ;
As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be
To taste whole joys.   Gems which you women use
Are like Atlanta’s ball cast in men’s views ;
That, when a fool’s eye lighteth on a gem,
His earthly soul might court that, not them.
Like pictures, or like books’ gay coverings made
For laymen, are all women thus array’d.
Themselves are only mystic books, which we
—Whom their imputed grace will dignify—
Must see reveal’d.   Then, since that I may know,
As liberally as to thy midwife show
Thyself ; cast all, yea, this white linen hence ;
There is no penance due to innocence :
To teach thee, I am naked first ; why then,
What needst thou have more covering than a man?

Selección de Encarnación Hidalgo Tenorio (profesora del Departamento de Inglés):

The Good-Morrow – John Donne

I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then?
But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den?
’Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.
And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love, all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,
Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.
My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
Where can we find two better hemispheres,
Without sharp north, without declining west?
Whatever dies, was not mixed equally;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.

Selección de Rebecca Cramer:

“Was es ist” – Erich Fried

Es ist Unsinn
sagt die Vernunft
Es ist was es ist
sagt die Liebe

Es ist Unglück
sagt die Berechnung
Es ist nichts als Schmerz
sagt die Angst
Es ist aussichtslos
sagt die Einsicht
Es ist was es ist
sagt die Liebe

Es ist lächerlich
sagt der Stolz
Es ist leichtsinnig
sagt die Vorsicht
Es ist unmöglich
sagt die Erfahrung
Es ist was es ist
sagt die Liebe

Selección de Gerardo Rodríguez Salas:

“Camomile Tea” – Katherine Masfield

Outside the sky is light with stars;
There’s a hollow roaring from the sea.
And, alas! for the little almond flowers,
The wind is shaking the almond tree.
How little I thought, a year ago,
In the horrible cottage upon the Lee
That he and I should be sitting so
And sipping a cup of camomile tea.
Light as feathers the witches fly,
The horn of the moon is plain to see;
By a firefly under a jonquil flower
A goblin toasts a bumble-bee.
We might be fifty, we might be five,
So snug, so compact, so wise are we!
Under the kitchen-table leg
My knee is pressing against his knee.
Our shutters are shut, the fire is low,
The tap is dripping peacefully;
The saucepan shadows on the wall
Are black and round and plain to see.
Selección de M.F.S.:
“Probably it is too early in the morning” – Brian Patten

             Probably it is too early in the morning;
probably you have not yet risen
and the curtains float
like sails against the window.
But whatever, whatever the time, the place, the season,
here I am again at your door,
bringing a bunch of reasons why I should enter,
Probably it is too early inside you yet
for you to gather together what you are and you speak;
But whatever, whatever the time, the place, the season,
it is certainly good to have come this far,
to know what I am and not mistrust.
The earth has many hands and doors upon
which these hands are knocking.
There are chairs for some on which to sit
more patient than the rest,
And here I am again and again am knocking,
holding a fist of primonia
dressed to kill
clean dustless and idiotic.
I might be thought mad, insane or stupid;
My belief in you might be totally unfounded;
it might be called utterly romantic,
but what the hell?
Here I am again and again am knocking,
But probably it is too early;
probably I’m too eager to come rushing towards you,
impatient to share what glows
while there is still
what glows around me.
I bang on the door of the world.
You are asleep behind it
I bang on the door of the world
                 as my own heart a world’s been hammering.

 

Selección: Equipo The Philologist UGR, Encarnación Hidalgo Tenorio, Rebecca Cramer, Gerardo Rodríguez Salas y M.F.S. (profesores/as del departamento)

Imagen: B.L.G.

Fuentes (por orden de aparición):

 

Edición: E.R.S.