Comment by Gabriel García Márquez to learn who killed John Lennon
world has been a victory of poetry. In an age in which the winners are always those who take more votes, which put more goals, the richest men and women more beautiful, is encouraged by the commotion caused in the world the death of a man who had not done nothing but sing to love. It is the apotheosis of those who never win.
For 48 hours there was no talk of anything else. Three generations-our, of our hijos y la de nuestros nietos mayores- teníamos por primera vez la impresión de estar viviendo una catástrofe común, y por las mismas razones. Los reporteros de la televisión le preguntaron en la calle a una señora de ochenta años cuál era la canción de John Lennon que le gustaba más, y ella contestó, como si tuviera quince: “La felicidad es una pistola caliente”. Un chico que estaba viendo el programa dijo: “A mí me gustan todas”. Mi hijo menor le preguntó a una muchacha de su misma edad por qué habían matado a John Lennon, y ella le contestó, como si tuviera ochenta años, “porque el mundo se está acabando”.
Así es: la única a common nostalgia with your children are the songs of the Beatles. Each one for different reasons, of course, and with a different pain, as always with poetry. I will never forget that memorable day in 1963, in Mexico, when I first heard it in a conscious one Beatles song. Since then I discovered that the universe was contaminated by them. In our house in San Angel, where he barely had nowhere to sit, had only two albums: a selection of Debussy preludes and the first Beatles album. Throughout the city, at any time, you could hear a cry of crowds: Help, I need somebody. Someone raised again by the time the old theme that the best musicians are those of the second letter in the catalog: Bach, Beethoven, Brahms and Bartok. Someone repeated the same nonsense as always: to include a Bosart. Alvaro Mutis, who like all great scholar of the music has an incurable weakness by bricks symphonic include Bruckner insisted. Another was to repeat again the battle for Berlioz, who fought against it because I could not get over the superstition that a oiseau de malheur, ie a bird of ill omen. However, since I insisted on including the Beatles.
Emilio Garcia Riera, who agreed with me and is a film critic and historian with a little supernatural lucidity, especially after the second drink, he said in those days: "I hear the Beatles with some fear, because I feel that I will remember them for the rest of my life." It is the only case I know of someone with enough foresight to realize that I was experiencing the birth of their nostalgia. One then entered the studio of Carlos Fuentes, and I was typing with one finger of one hand, as it always has, in the midst of a dense cloud of smoke and insulated from the horrors of the universe with music Beatles blaring.
As always, we thought then that we were far from happy, and now we otherwise. Is the trap of nostalgia, which takes its place at times bitter and paints a different color, and puts them where they no longer hurt. As in the old portraits, which appear illuminated by the glare illusion of happiness, and where only were we in awe of young people, not just those who were there, but the house and trees in the background, and even chairs where we sat. Che Guevara, talking with his men around the fire in the empty nights of war, once said that nostalgia begins with the food. True, but only when hungry. On the other hand, always starts with the music. In reality, our personal past away from us from the moment we are born, but sorry only happen when just one disc.
this afternoon, thinking all this against a bleak window where the snow falls, with more than fifty years above and still not quite sure who I am, or what the hell am I doing here, I have the impression that the world was like from my birth until the Beatles started singing. Everything changed then. The men were allowed to grow his hair and beard, the women learned to undress naturally, changed the way they dress and love, and began the liberation of sex and drugs to dream. Were deafening years of the Vietnam war and rebellion university. But above all, it was hard learning a different relationship between parents and children, the beginning of a new dialogue between them that had seemed impossible for centuries.
The symbol of this, "the head of the Beatles-era John Lennon. His death leaves a different world populated by beautiful images. In Lucy in the sky, one of his best songs, is a horse of newspaper with a tie of mirrors. In Eleanor Rigby-with a stubborn low-baroque cello is a desolate girl picks up the rice in the courtyard of a church where a wedding recently. "Where do the lonely?" Asks unanswered. Mac is also the father writing Kensey a sermon that no one has heard, washing your hands over the graves, and a girl who takes off his face before entering his house and leaves it in a jar by the door to put it on again when going out. These creatures have to say that John Lennon was a surreal, which is something that is said all too easily it seems weird, like Kafka often say those who have not been able to read. For others, it is the visionary of a better world. Someone who made us realize that the old are not the ones we have many years, but those that boarded the train in time for their children.
0 comments:
Post a Comment