A matter of reflection
One of these nights gave me again by picking up a book of Cortázar. I read the story of the man sprawled on his green velvet chair ("Continuity of Parks"), absorbed in the vagaries of the novel in her hands, reached thanks to the strange world of literature, to be a participant, a character real actor whose work I enjoyed reading the most. It was the reader to read himself.
Then I could see myself in my blue chair, and late at night, excited about that story where another, equally in his chair, enjoying the actions that end up involving them. Felt I also read to himself, but fortunately things remained in place: the fiction and fiction in what we call reality quite apart, as commonly believed. Ana María
Cyan, women given the task of thick and thin invent and carry out discussions, forums, meetings to think that we're back in the Art Gallery Sidor organized what has been giving as a tribute to the Castilian, a conclusion from these lands to commemorate the four hundred years of the Ingenious Hidalgo. Thanks to the gracious invitation Cian participated on Tuesday in the cycle "Don Quixote in the Room", for a group of people read and commentators to embrace shared with the public, fragments of Cervantes. I was fortunate
Chapter IX. There, among other things, how Cervantes has a sheaf of papers in the possession of a lad, it be the story of Don Quixote, written in Arabic by Sidi Hamet Benegeli Muslim scholar and translated, through appropriate measures, by a Moorish hired to that purpose. The story within the story, the mirror image made evident. Leo
the press this morning and skipped it different frames. Frames of the blue slip for days like that, as the additional piece in the giant rosary bead that the days are building. Stories of claims, of bickering, crime, celebrity, exploits. I also find other stories that seem to have no beginning or end because it is a thriller, an echo maintained over time, something like a gelatinous mass which parentheses do not know when it opened and we ignore the time of closure. It is the story of politicians, not politics, of course, but who tend to personalize.
In this country most of the politicians is a reflection in the mirror of the past. Theirs, with few exceptions, is a story very like a grimace, so the final result, mediocre, trivial and stupid, that overall the verb hang them and the facts. In the end, Caldera, Perez and Chavez are quite similar: scavengers of the same misfortunes, each story is contained in the other, the same stench that was belching. Snake biting its tail, the interlocking of politicians formed a circle that we strive to keep intact.
say that history repeats itself, and by no means well. At least, I say, not be linear. You think living in a straight line, but the problem arises eyes pouring the impression that the curves are more than present. The story in history, the image on the image.
A matter of reflection in order.