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¿Vacaciones? ¿30 mini ensayos y una excusa eran vacaciones? Pues sí. La narratología me estaba aburriendo terriblemente (sigo con ella después de desempantanarme un poco), Corpses in the book shelves no avanza a ninguna parte y por alguna razón Crimson Relish no atrae ni a las moscas (escrito porque como audio libro en capítulos se pudriendo poco a poco, volviéndose atractivo).
Pensando del modo que no se les suele enseñar a las chicas (que el problema no está en ellas sino en cómo hacen las cosas), y añadiendo que tenía ganas de hacer algo diferente, pensé que intentar escribir algo con un tema dado y tratar de dar con una solución diferente me ayudaría a enfocarme en dónde están los problemas.
Espero que eso no haya sido un inconveniente para ti y que, al menos, hayas muerto de risa con uno de los cuentos.
It’s been a few pages from Homo Deus by Yuval Noah Harari since the last entry by the same title and should have sported the number one (been a few pages fromThe two towers by Tolkien too, that I haven’t finished reading if you might believe). In those pages, I’ve met a very interesting and logical summary of the social change and its reflection in literary expression since Harari inquired the same from an opposite point of view.
It is also, like reading Joseph Campbell in a Historical perspective —instead of psychological. Harari matches feelings, mainstream ideas and the way they’re presented in literature or media in something that might or not have a nexus to the previous entry: Conceal don’t feel: how to write fiction without naming feelings. To this day, I don’t feel myself able to explain it any better. I might be good at writing but not as good (which doesn’t mean practice won’t turn around the tables).
HUMANISM
To understand it, we need to grasp the fact that Nuval explains Humanism as if mentioning a religion with priests and mysteries and ceremonies. In his opinion, not just the gods gather people around themselves. Also a series of postulates can attract believers among our species’ individuals. Their ideas guiding us through the world as a sort of moral philosophical guide. Such as: democracy, patient-physician confidentiality and medical ethics.
Humanism starts its faith dogmas, with human life’s value as thematic axis or universe’s centre.
Compared to Christianism, which places a trinity (from orthodox to protestant and new age) in the centre of the universe and us as vessels of their unlimited kindness and wisdom….. mere vessels of an external will. For this type of world’s conception, human feelings DO NOT have any interest. Mainly cause otherwise, you can’t manipulate people to waste their lives sowing the fields of their Lord (both in the physical realm and the spiritual one).
In humanism (some or many people mix it up to beliefs in god), human lives are experiences. Those experiences count as… tourism! Art and tourism go hand in hand set in selling great experiences: snow, drunk/stoned orgies, mind blowing fucks. Don’t you believe me? I don’t need you believing me, I need you asking yourself what was the last great experience you coveted? Otomí route, Niagara Falls, Californian wines or taste wine parties (wherever it is that wine is made), Bali trips, fire flights in Tlaxcala, Gangnam exclusive clubs for those under 30 y.o. , the decathlon?
Summarizing: the quest for change through the human experience. To say so, this man speaks of the quest plot as a product of humanism.
Shall I quote a little? Yep, I will quote a little.
FEELINGS AND NARRATIVE
“Similarly, whereas most premodern narratives focused on external events and actions, modern novels, films and poems often emphasize feelings. Greco-Roman epics and medieval chivalric romances were catalogues of heroic deeds, not feelings. One chapter described how a brave knight fought a monstrous ogre, and killed him. Another chapter recounted how the knight rescued a beautiful princess from a fire-spitting dragon, and killed him. A third chapter narrated how a wicked sorcerer kidnapped the princess, but the knight pursued the sorcerer, and killed him. Small wonder that the hero was invariably a knight, rather than a carpenter or a peasant, for peasants performed no heroic deeds.
Crucially, the heroes did not undergo any significant process of inner change. Achilles, Arthur, Roland and Lancelot were fearless warriors with a chivalric world view before they set out on their adventures, and they remained fearless warriors with the same world view at the end. All the ogres they killed and all the princesses they rescued confirmed their courage and perseverance, but ultimately taught them little.
The humanist focus on feelings and experiences, rather than deeds, transformed art. Wordsworth, Dostoevsky, Dickens and Zola cared little for brave knights and derring-do; instead they described
how ordinary labourers and housewives felt.”
After this paragraph, he exemplifies how Survivor[1], instead of gruesome bloody battles, thigh combats to death and one victor; to the likings of the medieval Patrice or Greek-roman spectator, offers us five minutes of challenges p.e. pre-school level and lots of chatting about wat other said and the resulting feelings.
A narrative change.
[1] I’ve never watched the programme, I’ll have to believe him.
La siguiente imagen es una especie de broma; lo que no elimina totalmente el riesgo de que sea cierta, no hay forma de saber qué demonios o cómo procesa las cosas la mente de un escritor.
Deep inside the hallway, in a cell carved from the wall, a man suffered hunger.
The place had dim light and it wasn’t impossible to pass by without noticing. And only those with an audience would roll by that hallway. That’s when, sometimes, you might notice his eyes looking at you and his protruding bones under the mocking purple velvet.
I hated the hallway. I hated the audience hall. To the most, there was this person whom I wanted to burn to ashes, among all those dead just picked flowers and gold and carvings. The elders said it was awe of god but… What awe can be there with despair?
To my own fortune, I’m… well, just me. Not long necked or busty or… Well, pretty. That man has funny ideas of what to do with you if you’re pretty. None of the pretty partners I have had the last year have lasted more than a month in the job. We’re supposed to get in and clean all the human… Yes, that. Which is difficult to be done in the quasi darkness in there and being watched by his snake eyes that never blink.
Today, full moon, I did something I won’t ever be able to confess to anyone. The last black moon, the uncrowned king decided he didn’t want anyone feeding them in the cage. He made a sign and the two winged guards took me from the waist and presented me as if I were a fruit from a tree. It burnt like a giant mosquito bite. That itchiness of the fire and then nothingness.
I might have stumbled all the way home and by then it was night again. They made me go back to the hall.
The hungry man wasn’t a man. It was just a wood carving put there to scare us. I realized using my ears and nose to get to myself to do the job. Greb introduced me to Carol. In spite of his name, Carol was a guy. A very soft skinned guy. I thought he, would like to whip him till he flyed his sweet nature. Oh I can tell. The two winged guards kicked me a few times. Carol tried his best to clean with me and he doubted about getting close to the throne when I advised him not to.
Yet, the waxing moon came and I found Carol with a thorned crown on his head lying in the cage carved in the wall. I could feel and listen to his breath. I could feel and smell his blood. His face all gone.
His wounds I wrapped in pieces of cloth wet with pee. Then I took him out the place to the stables. It was even harsher getting water from there than from the kitchen but I did. Next, I think I drugged the wine bottle for tomorrow night.
Tonight, I got close to his throne. The winged guards didn’t even look at me. They think they can kick me anytime. I had the thorn crown he had placed on Carol’s head with me.
The darkness was there for those who see, to despair. No light, no human lord. Nothing to do against his power. Well, I got myself behind his throne.
A knife on a «god». Then, as he was mostly ignoring me; I plunged the crown into his skull. And, since I meddle a little with a heavy stone inside the velvet, the biggest nail I fixed in a side, cracked the bone. The king couldn’t wince or protest…
Tomorrow, the elders with an appointment will find something else than a king.
Soft, smooth, and lullaby like, vibrated her voice in the bar. Gretchen kept on singing to Kore’s sax and Will’s piano. This was a one night jig to replace the Sly painted bistro’s singer: Naomi. Of course, the place was almost crowded with the ennui of cemeteries.
Gretchen was struggling to meet ends this month. She was waiting by day at Pepe tacos and selling Maybelline the weekends. With the historical tip of one unit (fill in with your local currency) miserable bill all month and two gloss’ tubes sale. Worse than pathetic. So, here she was, trying to sing her best with a voice that was beautiful but jiggly-puff cursed.
The couple a few tables to her left was eating each others’ lips and being frisky. The guy in the bar was about to fall from his seat. Head over ass on the floor. Will’s big cleavage wasn’t enough to keep him interested. And her cleavage was something worthy, thought Gretchen. More than worthy. It was like soft butter in her hands. Like the sun warming her days. Oh, she wanted to go out with Wilhelmina. The owner was in a corner with that face. The face of no people, no money. Gretchen stopped singing and turned around to her tote. It was actually a big tote almost capable of swelling the universe. She took the 22mm gun outside. It wasn’t really a gun buy it had been cheaper than a 9mm.
Kore stared at her. She threw her beloved sax to a side. But Gretchen was already making fire on the owner. The owner looked at the hole on his chest in disbelief. It was a small caliber and she was a woman…
Gretchen shot again to the couple who stared at her, terrified. First her, begging with tears on her eyes. Then him, a little more scared than his girl. The guy falling asleep didn’t wake up. He was already dead of a stroke.
Gretchen went to the bar owner and said: «this place was dead anyway».
