A THOUSAND WORDS - Alex Waterhouse-Hayward's blog on pictures, plants, politics and whatever else is on his mind.




 

Rain Is A Thing That Happens In The Past
Thursday, September 04, 2014



I know they accuse me of arrogance, and perhaps misanthropy, and perhaps of madness. Such accusations (for which I shall exact punishment in due time) are derisory. It is true that I never leave my house, but it is also true that its doors (whose numbers are infinite) (footnote: The original says fourteen, but there is ample reason to infer that, as used by Asterion, this numeral stands for infinite.) are open day and night to men and to animals as well. Anyone may enter.
The House of Asterion
Jorge Luís Borges

La casa de Asterión


Sé que me acusan de soberbia, y tal vez de misantropía, y tal vez de locura. Tales acusaciones (que yo castigaré a su debido tiempo) son irrisorias. Es verdad que no salgo de mi casa, pero también es verdad que sus puertas (cuyo número es infinito) están abiertas día y noche a los hombres y también a los animales. Que entre el que quiera.




August 31 2014



Sanity (or an escape from madness), in my case comes from being able to do something. These days the only thing I seem to be able or willing to do is to sit in front on my computer to write.

At one time my early daily blog (in the years right after January 2006) was a problem. I had to find something to write about. I would go to my photo files and randomly sift through names. A name would ring a bell. I would take out the file, scan one of the pictures and sit down to write.

This has changed. I do not need to go to my files. What I want to write about comes into my conscious awareness in non-stop cataracts and sometimes at night in a dream. Finding something to illustrate that idea, is easy; but not always. If I have a particular photograph in mind I get flummoxed and depressed when I cannot find it in those files. Sometimes it is misfiled and sometimes lost in the mess.

The catch is that a blog per day is not sufficient to contain the flow. I could easily write three or four.

A birthday (and I am writing this a few days after August 31, 2014) for me has always been a melancholy experience. It conjures all the people of my past who are gone. I miss them and it becomes more so on days like today, those waning days of summer. I miss my childhood garden parties in Buenos Aires with all my first cousins and friends. A birthday in some way does remind me of my place of birth more than in any other day.

More than any other day I look at this city and I feel I am a stranger within it. The mountains are alien and the cold cyan sky gives me goose bumps and I shiver. The English I hear feels wrong. It rarely does not rain enough so that one can smell the pleasure of just wet pavement.

My only escape in a day like today is to sit down and read Borges. I read his poems about going back to his childhood homes. Reading those poems I can smell that special smell that follows the watering of geraniums and ferns in a patio. I can smell the humid dust that blows in with the pampero (a strong wind from the south) before the inevitable rain and that lovely smell, a petrichor.

The Spanish of Borges is comforting.  


Comforting but isolating. My friend Juan Manuel Sánchez is gone. Raúl Guerrero Montemayor is dead. My connections to that language of romance are just about severed. All I have are the poems of a blind and then dead poet by my beside table.

Amongst my late summer melancholy I have latched on to one piece of positive wonder. I cannot read Dante in Italian or Goethe in German. Saramago in Portuguese is tough and my French is nonexistent. I must read Dumas in Spanish or in English.

But consider this. I can read and enjoy Shakespeare (and Chaucer) in English and Cervantes in Spanish.
I might just add that I can read Jorge Luís Borges in Spanish.

I am afraid that my bragging will go one notch further. So many of Borges’s stories and poems are about Argentina and of Buenos Aires. He wrote about a historical Argentina (his ancestors of the 19th century). These stories are thrilling but not as thrilling as to read about a Buenos Aires or an Argentine Pampa that I saw, smelled and walked. In fact there are precise corners in the Buenos Aires poems of Borges that are in my memory. As a man who was going blind he describes smells and sensations of touch of places that I lived, too. It is not enough to be able to read Spanish to read Borges. You must have lived in the city he wrote about.

Reading Borges is like being a Dorothy whisked away by a windstorm from a black and white life of alienation to a world of loving memory where the ripe colours do not manage to whisk away the melancholy of an isolation that I could describe as being a penguin from the Antarctic who has been thrust into an out of place Arctic.

I must keep my daily reading of Borges in check if I will keep mental balance, well, balanced! Consider:

Llaneza

A Haydée Lange



Se abre la verja del jardín

con la docilidad de la página

que una frecuente devoción interroga

y adentro las miradas

no precisan fijarse en los objetos

que ya están cabalmente en la memoria.

Conozco las costumbres y las almas

y ese dialecto de alusiones

que toda agrupación humana va urdiendo.

No necesito hablar

ni mentir privilegios;

bien me conocen quienes aquí me rodean,

bien saben mis congojas y mi flaqueza,

Eso es alcanzar lo más alto,

lo que tal vez nos dará el Cielo:

no admiraciones ni victorias

sino sencillamente ser admitidos

como parte de una Realidad innegable,

como las piedras y los árboles.



Simplicity

To Haydée Lange



Opens the garden gate

docilely as a page

a frequent devotion interrogates

and inside the glance

need not fix on objects

now firmly in memory.

I know each custom and soul

and that dialect of allusions

every human aggregation weaves.

I need not speak

nor lie about privileges;

well they know me hereabouts,

my anguish and weakness.

This is as high as one may reach,

what Heaven perhaps will grant us:

neither admiration nor victories

but merely to be admitted

as part of undeniable Reality

like stones and trees.


The first two lines in Argentine Spanish (verja is a Spanish word used by Argentines to describe a wrought iron gate) cannot be translated. Those two lines instantly take me to my house on Melián. I might even imagine my friends and cousins rapping on the verja to come in to my August 31 birthday party. Untranslatable into English is the title Llaneza, A llano is flat plain, a pampa. El llano is always out there beyond the urban sprawl of Buenos Aires.

There is this beautiful poem about rain in which time and again Borges mentions a rose (I believe not as much as his obsession with mirrors).


Rain

By Jorge Luis Borges

Translated by A.Z. Foreman



The afternoon has brightened up at last

For rain is falling, sudden and minute.

Falling or fallen. There is no dispute:

Rain is a thing that happens in the past.



Who hears it fall retrieves a time that fled

When an uncanny windfall could disclose

To him a flower by the name of rose

And the perplexing redness of its red.



Falling until it blinds each windowpane,

Within a suburb now long lost this rain

Shall liven black grapes on a vine inside



A certain patio that is no more.

A long-awaited voice through the downpour

Is from my father. He has never died.



Lluvia



Bruscamente la tarde se ha aclarado

Porque ya cae la lluvia minuciosa.

Cae o cayó. La lluvia es una cosa

Que sin duda sucede en el pasado.



Quien la oye caer ha recobrado

El tiempo en que la suerte venturosa

Le reveló una flor llamada rosa

Y el curioso color del colorado.



Esta lluvia que ciega los cristales

Alegrará en perdidos arrabales

Las negras uvas de una parra en cierto



Patio que ya no existe. La mojada

Tarde me trae la voz, la voz deseada,

De mi padre que vuelve y que no ha muerto.



The translation into English of:  

Cae o cayó. La lluvia es una cosa
Que sin duda sucede en el pasado.

Simply does not bring the beauty of that Borgesian Spanish. It may have something to do (and I cannot explain it) with that accent in cayó. I remember when reading the poem that lovely Argentine word for steady drizzle, garúa.

Borges wrote concise little gems like this one:

Macbeth



Nuestros actos prosiguen su camino,

Que no conoce término.

Maté a mi rey para que Shakespeare

Urdiera su tragedia.

Macbeth

Our acts continue on their destined way
which does not know an end
I slew my sovereign so that Shakespeare
might plot his tragedy.

But one of my favourite (one of many about mirrors)

Los Espejos



Yo que sentí el horror de los espejos

no sólo ante el cristal impenetrable

donde acaba y empieza, inhabitable,

un imposible espacio de reflejos



sino ante el agua especular que imita

el otro azul en su profundo cielo

que a veces raya el ilusorio vuelo

del ave inversa o que un temblor agita



Y ante la superficie silenciosa

del ébano sutil cuya tersura

repite como un sueño la blancura

de un vago mármol o una vaga rosa,



Hoy, al cabo de tantos y perplejos

años de errar bajo la varia luna,

me pregunto qué azar de la fortuna

hizo que yo temiera los espejos.



Espejos de metal, enmascarado

espejo de caoba que en la bruma

de su rojo crepúsculo disfuma

ese rostro que mira y es mirado,



Infinitos los veo, elementales

ejecutores de un antiguo pacto,

multiplicar el mundo como el acto

generativo, insomnes y fatales.



Prolonga este vano mundo incierto

en su vertiginosa telaraña;

a veces en la tarde los empaña

el Hálito de un hombre que no ha muerto.



Nos acecha el cristal. Si entre las cuatro

paredes de la alcoba hay un espejo,

ya no estoy solo. Hay otro. Hay el reflejo

que arma en el alba un sigiloso teatro.



Todo acontece y nada se recuerda

en esos gabinetes cristalinos

donde, como fantásticos rabinos,

leemos los libros de derecha a izquierda.



Claudio, rey de una tarde, rey soñado,

no sintió que era un sueño hasta aquel día

en que un actor mimó su felonía

con arte silencioso, en un tablado.



Que haya sueños es raro, que haya espejos,

que el usual y gastado repertorio

de cada día incluya el ilusorio

orbe profundo que urden los reflejos.



Dios (he dado en pensar) pone un empeño

en toda esa inasible arquitectura

que edifica la luz con la tersura

del cristal y la sombra con el sueño.



Dios ha creado las noches que se arman

de sueños y las formas del espejo

para que el hombre sienta que es reflejo

y vanidad. Por eso no alarman.





I, who have felt the horror of mirrors

Not only in front of the impenetrable crystal

Where there ends and begins, uninhabitable,

An impossible space of reflections,



But of gazing even on water that mimics

The other blue in its depth of sky,

That at times gleams back the illusory flight

Of the inverted bird, or that ripples,



And in front of the silent surface

Of subtle ebony whose polish shows

Like a repeating dream the white

Of something marble or something rose,



Today at the tip of so many and perplexing

Wandering ears under the varying moon,

I ask myself what whim of fate

Made me so fearful of a glancing mirror.



Mirrors in metal, and the masked

Mirror of mahogany that in its mist

Of a red twilight hazes

The face that is gazed on as it gazes,



I see them as infinite, elemental

Executors of an ancient pact,

To multiply the world like the act

Of begetting. Sleepless. Bringing doom.



They prolong this hollow, unstable world

In their dizzying spider’s-web;

Sometimes in the afternoon they are blurred

By the breath of a man who is not dead.



The crystal spies on us. If within the four

Walls of a bedroom a mirror stares,

I am no longer alone. There is someone there.

In the dawn reflections mutely stage a show.



Everything happens and nothing is recorded

In these rooms of the looking glass,

Where, magicked into rabbis, we

Now read the books from right to left.



Claudius, king of an afternoon, a dreaming king,

Did not feel it a dream until that day

When an actor shewed the world his crime

In a tableau, silently in mime.



It is strange to dream, and to have mirrors

Where the commonplace, worn-out repertory

Of every day may include the illusory

Profound globe that reflections scheme.



God (I keep thinking) has taken pains

To design that ungraspable architecture

Reared by every dawn from the gleam

Of a mirror, by darkness from a dream.



God has created nighttime, which he arms

With dreams, and mirrors, to make clear

To man he is a reflection and a mere

Vanity. Therefore these alarms.

Interesting it is that the translator in that last sentence misrepresented Borges’s meaning in order to keep the rhyme! It should read Therefore they do not alarm.

During most of my life I have been attracted to and pulled by mirrors. I may have been 6 or 7 and my mother had been doling out to me American candy corn (never enough of it) from her bedroom armoire. One afternoon I decided to help myself to more. I opened one of the doors and snatched the bag of precious American Embassy booty. As I was about to feed myself I noticed that there was a mirror on the inside of the door. I stared at myself. I saw a stranger (There is someone there). Then slowly like a big explosion in my head I identified that stranger as myself. Perhaps on that day I became an individual. Perhaps hidden from me but instilled by the guilt I felt in hoarded all that candy corn, the idea of something called death. Borges writes and wrote about labyrinths, tigers, roses, mirrors, blindness and death.

Borges wrote in his Al Espejo (to the mirror) these wonderful last two lines;

Cuando esté muerto , copiarás a otro
Y luego a otro, a otro, a otro, a otro... 

When I am dead, you will copy another
And then another, an another, and another, and another...



     

Previous Posts
Texas - Jorge Luís Borges - I Dream Well There

Lorien & A Waning Summer

An Echo Of Selfies

The Philospher King & The Philosopher Queen

Damnatio memoriae

Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae

An Almost Perfect Day

Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest

Rosemary My Rosemary

Over There - Anoto Salami



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2/12/12 - 2/19/12

2/19/12 - 2/26/12

2/26/12 - 3/4/12

3/4/12 - 3/11/12

3/11/12 - 3/18/12

3/18/12 - 3/25/12

3/25/12 - 4/1/12

4/1/12 - 4/8/12

4/8/12 - 4/15/12

4/15/12 - 4/22/12

4/22/12 - 4/29/12

4/29/12 - 5/6/12

5/6/12 - 5/13/12

5/13/12 - 5/20/12

5/20/12 - 5/27/12

5/27/12 - 6/3/12

6/3/12 - 6/10/12

6/10/12 - 6/17/12

6/17/12 - 6/24/12

6/24/12 - 7/1/12

7/1/12 - 7/8/12

7/8/12 - 7/15/12

7/15/12 - 7/22/12

7/22/12 - 7/29/12

7/29/12 - 8/5/12

8/5/12 - 8/12/12

8/12/12 - 8/19/12

8/19/12 - 8/26/12

8/26/12 - 9/2/12

9/2/12 - 9/9/12

9/9/12 - 9/16/12

9/16/12 - 9/23/12

9/23/12 - 9/30/12

9/30/12 - 10/7/12

10/7/12 - 10/14/12

10/14/12 - 10/21/12

10/21/12 - 10/28/12

10/28/12 - 11/4/12

11/4/12 - 11/11/12

11/11/12 - 11/18/12

11/18/12 - 11/25/12

11/25/12 - 12/2/12

12/2/12 - 12/9/12

12/9/12 - 12/16/12

12/16/12 - 12/23/12

12/23/12 - 12/30/12

12/30/12 - 1/6/13

1/6/13 - 1/13/13

1/13/13 - 1/20/13

1/20/13 - 1/27/13

1/27/13 - 2/3/13

2/3/13 - 2/10/13

2/10/13 - 2/17/13

2/17/13 - 2/24/13

2/24/13 - 3/3/13

3/3/13 - 3/10/13

3/10/13 - 3/17/13

3/17/13 - 3/24/13

3/24/13 - 3/31/13

3/31/13 - 4/7/13

4/7/13 - 4/14/13

4/14/13 - 4/21/13

4/21/13 - 4/28/13

4/28/13 - 5/5/13

5/5/13 - 5/12/13

5/12/13 - 5/19/13

5/19/13 - 5/26/13

5/26/13 - 6/2/13

6/2/13 - 6/9/13

6/9/13 - 6/16/13

6/16/13 - 6/23/13

6/23/13 - 6/30/13

6/30/13 - 7/7/13

7/7/13 - 7/14/13

7/14/13 - 7/21/13

7/21/13 - 7/28/13

7/28/13 - 8/4/13

8/4/13 - 8/11/13

8/11/13 - 8/18/13

8/18/13 - 8/25/13

8/25/13 - 9/1/13

9/1/13 - 9/8/13

9/8/13 - 9/15/13

9/15/13 - 9/22/13

9/22/13 - 9/29/13

9/29/13 - 10/6/13

10/6/13 - 10/13/13

10/13/13 - 10/20/13

10/20/13 - 10/27/13

10/27/13 - 11/3/13

11/3/13 - 11/10/13

11/10/13 - 11/17/13

11/17/13 - 11/24/13

11/24/13 - 12/1/13

12/1/13 - 12/8/13

12/8/13 - 12/15/13

12/15/13 - 12/22/13

12/22/13 - 12/29/13

12/29/13 - 1/5/14

1/5/14 - 1/12/14

1/12/14 - 1/19/14

1/19/14 - 1/26/14

1/26/14 - 2/2/14

2/2/14 - 2/9/14

2/9/14 - 2/16/14

2/16/14 - 2/23/14

2/23/14 - 3/2/14

3/2/14 - 3/9/14

3/9/14 - 3/16/14

3/16/14 - 3/23/14

3/23/14 - 3/30/14

3/30/14 - 4/6/14

4/6/14 - 4/13/14

4/13/14 - 4/20/14

4/20/14 - 4/27/14

4/27/14 - 5/4/14

5/4/14 - 5/11/14

5/11/14 - 5/18/14

5/18/14 - 5/25/14

5/25/14 - 6/1/14

6/1/14 - 6/8/14

6/8/14 - 6/15/14

6/15/14 - 6/22/14

6/22/14 - 6/29/14

6/29/14 - 7/6/14

7/6/14 - 7/13/14

7/13/14 - 7/20/14

7/20/14 - 7/27/14

7/27/14 - 8/3/14

8/3/14 - 8/10/14

8/10/14 - 8/17/14

8/17/14 - 8/24/14

8/24/14 - 8/31/14

8/31/14 - 9/7/14

9/7/14 - 9/14/14

9/14/14 - 9/21/14

9/21/14 - 9/28/14

9/28/14 - 10/5/14

10/5/14 - 10/12/14

10/12/14 - 10/19/14

10/19/14 - 10/26/14

10/26/14 - 11/2/14

11/2/14 - 11/9/14

11/9/14 - 11/16/14

11/16/14 - 11/23/14

11/23/14 - 11/30/14

11/30/14 - 12/7/14

12/7/14 - 12/14/14

12/14/14 - 12/21/14

12/21/14 - 12/28/14

12/28/14 - 1/4/15

1/4/15 - 1/11/15

1/11/15 - 1/18/15

1/18/15 - 1/25/15

1/25/15 - 2/1/15

2/1/15 - 2/8/15

2/8/15 - 2/15/15

2/15/15 - 2/22/15

2/22/15 - 3/1/15

3/1/15 - 3/8/15

3/8/15 - 3/15/15

3/15/15 - 3/22/15

3/22/15 - 3/29/15

3/29/15 - 4/5/15

4/5/15 - 4/12/15

4/12/15 - 4/19/15

4/19/15 - 4/26/15

4/26/15 - 5/3/15

5/3/15 - 5/10/15

5/10/15 - 5/17/15

5/17/15 - 5/24/15

5/24/15 - 5/31/15

5/31/15 - 6/7/15

6/7/15 - 6/14/15

6/14/15 - 6/21/15

6/21/15 - 6/28/15

6/28/15 - 7/5/15

7/5/15 - 7/12/15

7/12/15 - 7/19/15

7/19/15 - 7/26/15

7/26/15 - 8/2/15

8/2/15 - 8/9/15

8/9/15 - 8/16/15

8/16/15 - 8/23/15

8/23/15 - 8/30/15

8/30/15 - 9/6/15

9/6/15 - 9/13/15

9/13/15 - 9/20/15

9/20/15 - 9/27/15

9/27/15 - 10/4/15

10/4/15 - 10/11/15

10/18/15 - 10/25/15

10/25/15 - 11/1/15

11/1/15 - 11/8/15

11/8/15 - 11/15/15

11/15/15 - 11/22/15

11/22/15 - 11/29/15

11/29/15 - 12/6/15

12/6/15 - 12/13/15

12/13/15 - 12/20/15

12/20/15 - 12/27/15

12/27/15 - 1/3/16

1/3/16 - 1/10/16

1/10/16 - 1/17/16

1/31/16 - 2/7/16

2/7/16 - 2/14/16

2/14/16 - 2/21/16

2/21/16 - 2/28/16

2/28/16 - 3/6/16

3/6/16 - 3/13/16

3/13/16 - 3/20/16

3/20/16 - 3/27/16

3/27/16 - 4/3/16

4/3/16 - 4/10/16

4/10/16 - 4/17/16

4/17/16 - 4/24/16

4/24/16 - 5/1/16

5/1/16 - 5/8/16

5/8/16 - 5/15/16

5/15/16 - 5/22/16

5/22/16 - 5/29/16

5/29/16 - 6/5/16

6/5/16 - 6/12/16

6/12/16 - 6/19/16

6/19/16 - 6/26/16

6/26/16 - 7/3/16

7/3/16 - 7/10/16

7/10/16 - 7/17/16

7/17/16 - 7/24/16

7/24/16 - 7/31/16

7/31/16 - 8/7/16

8/7/16 - 8/14/16

8/14/16 - 8/21/16

8/21/16 - 8/28/16

8/28/16 - 9/4/16

9/4/16 - 9/11/16

9/11/16 - 9/18/16

9/18/16 - 9/25/16

9/25/16 - 10/2/16

10/2/16 - 10/9/16

10/9/16 - 10/16/16

10/16/16 - 10/23/16

10/23/16 - 10/30/16

10/30/16 - 11/6/16

11/6/16 - 11/13/16

11/13/16 - 11/20/16

11/20/16 - 11/27/16

11/27/16 - 12/4/16

12/4/16 - 12/11/16

12/11/16 - 12/18/16

12/18/16 - 12/25/16

12/25/16 - 1/1/17

1/1/17 - 1/8/17

1/8/17 - 1/15/17

1/15/17 - 1/22/17

1/22/17 - 1/29/17

1/29/17 - 2/5/17

2/5/17 - 2/12/17

2/12/17 - 2/19/17

2/19/17 - 2/26/17

2/26/17 - 3/5/17

3/5/17 - 3/12/17

3/12/17 - 3/19/17

3/19/17 - 3/26/17

3/26/17 - 4/2/17

4/2/17 - 4/9/17

4/9/17 - 4/16/17

4/16/17 - 4/23/17

4/23/17 - 4/30/17

4/30/17 - 5/7/17

5/7/17 - 5/14/17

5/14/17 - 5/21/17

5/21/17 - 5/28/17

5/28/17 - 6/4/17

6/4/17 - 6/11/17

6/11/17 - 6/18/17

6/18/17 - 6/25/17