Un escriptor que escriu en castellà, la llengua materna del qual és el català.
Un escriptor que escriu en català, la llengua materna del qual és el castellà.
Llengües paradoxals per explicar mentides o dir-se les veritats.
I jo em pregunto. No hagués estat aquesta una tertúlia magnífica, sublim, per portar al Construmat de Llibres d'enguany? Sense complexes.
I ja callo.
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Molt interessant el bloc. Intercanvien enllaç? www.ulldepoll.cat
Completament d´acord.
Altra volta el discurs d´apertura monzonià ha estat objecte, pel meu gust, d´unes benaurances un pèl llepes i exagerades; no li vaig saber trobar el què. Ara, aquest senyor ja ens va deixar una veritable perla plena de sensibilitat que anava molt més al fons de lo que representa la Fira per a un autor com ell. Va ser al Cultura/s del 3 d´octubre. Aquell conte sí que em va emocionar.
Subal, si al Construmat del Llibre no hi va anar un dels dos escriptors va ser exactament perquè no va voler, no pas perquè no l'hi volguessin. Ara bé, aquesta falta de voluntat és molt ben recompensada. No sé si m'explico.
Segurament tens raó, Carles. Observa que no dic pas de qui és culpa que no hi hagi anat un dels dos escriptors.
les dues últimes frases no les entenc, però és que sóc curtet, curtet, jo.
A mi sí que em va agradar, el discurs d'en Monzó, vaig riure. A veure si recupero el Cultura/s que assenyales, pecador.
No, les curtes són les frases; que vull escriure sense enrotllar-me i no en sé. Senzillament volia dir que Vila-Matas va fer el que li tocava fer, lo que estaba mandado, vist on (llengua, diari...) té el cul llogat. I content.
With mustard
QUIM MONZÓ
In October, pyramids of apples are to be found in the middle of the courtyards of many buildings in Frankfurt. It´s because their ground floors are cider shops. October is the season for cider, and the aroma from tidy mountains of fermenting apples wafts through the streets in such a way that without having the slightest idea where these establishments actually are, you can stumble upon them by simply following your nose.
I went to Frankfurt a few times during the Book Fair at the end of the 80s and early 90s. It was a period in which, without too many hassles, I could allow myself to get away from Barcelona for a week. I tagged along with my Catalan editor, Jaume Vallcorba. Since Vallcorba liked driving, we would cross France, we´d gorge ourselves - blood-dripping steaks (yet warm to the core!), andouillettes,oysters… - and, on arriving in Frankfurt, he would go about his business -at the Fair -and I would settle in at the hotel and check out the city, its restaurants and the Taunusstrasse.
At night I´d end up at the bar of the hotel Frankfurter Hof where everyone hung out - publishers, agents, writers- and had drinks. I drink a lot, but I must admit that among that crowd my thirst wasn´t even in the running. One night, whilst lying on one of the sofas in the bar, I suddenly had a vision: Tom Wolfe decked out in his official uniform (white three-piece suit, a flower in the buttonhole and a cane in his hand). I thought: you´re a bit sloshed, you´d better get off to bed. But the vision wouldn´t go away, and besides now I was talking with Jorge Herralde. I thought: I could go up to him and say that, when I was younger, his books fascinated me, and how they´ve fascinated me ever since (and still do now): Radical Chic and Mau-Mauing the Flak Catchers,The Painted Word,The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby...But fortunately I refrained from going ahead with such antics. I remained seated, looking at him and thinking: "You´re so damned good, you son of a bitch!"
Years later I had a German editor: Joachim Unself, of Frankfurter Verlagsanstalt.One night (not necessarily in October) he took me out to get to know the bars where he had spent many a night during his bachelorhood, which was about to come to an end, and where, from what I could see, he had been ruthlessly successful. Unseld married a few months later. Another afternoon he took me to the house he was having renovated, where, after the wedding, he would live with his wife. We sat down amidst ´pladur´walls and the new electrical installation cables and he started opening boxes of photographs. Many of them were of old girlfriends and, after showing them to me, he looked at them one last time and put them to one side, in order to destroy them later. It fascinated me that he would allow me to be there to witness that purification ritual (so to speak) and I tried to imagine what it would have been like to be a heartbreaker in a Frankfurt that - it´s unavoidable- I´ll always look at from the other side of the glass wall.
I això de posar-ho en l´idioma dels anglicans? A qué treu cap? Doncs res, me´n torno al tros.
Doncs és així com apareix en el Culturas corresponent, almenys a internet. ¿Vols dir que en paper ho van publicar en la llengua dels falangistes?
Senyor anònim. Les llengües no tenen amo. La llengüa dels totalitarismes és la ignorància i l'estupidesa.
Si l'anglès és "l'idioma dels anglicans", el castellà pot ser perfectament "la llengua dels falangistes"; tan arbitrària és una atribució com l'altra.
Les llengües vives no tenien amo. Ara tot té amo, i preu.
D'acord. El que vostè vulgui.
No coneixia aquest curiós detall. Suposo que tots dos tindran les seves bones raons. Personalment, es podria dir que jo soc un vilamatista (gairebé) convençut en aquest sentit.
I sí, hagués estat un bonic debat.
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