Què puja, aquest paio?

Les escales de la gelateria en un dia calorós dels que tenim ara? El camí del coneixement? Alguna altra idea?

El noi del pijama de ratlles

No fa gaires dies que algú em va demanar consell per una bona lectura. Vaig recomanar aquest, després de molt rumiar-m'ho...

La raó d'aquesta vacil·lació rau en el caràcter d'aquest llibre. No és complicat de llegir, ni molt menys: me'l vaig acabar en un dia, i això, en una bona part, sota la taula esquivant les mirades professorals. De fet, està escrit en el llenguatge senzill i innocent que faria servir el protagonista, el Bruno, un nen de nou anys; és un llenguatge ràpid i dinàmic, a més de força tendre.

La duresa d'aquest llibre és degut al gran contrast entre l'impacte del final, totalment inesperat, i la simplicitat de tota la resta; entre la profunditat del tema, un període obscur i tràgic, i la innocència i la incomprensió del Bruno respecte dels fets que observa i el panorama que l'envolta...

Amb un tema tan complicat i espinós com el de la Segona Guerra Mundial, que ha fet córrer tanta tinta i sobre el qual sembla que res ens sorprengui ja, i després d'haver sentit tantes coses, aquest llibre arriba amb una visió totalment diferent, dóna un altre punt de vista que permet observar els fets des d'un angle nou i devastador. I, de pas sigui dit, arriba a tocar bastantes fibres...

The Guitar Player, Jan Vermeer

L'absenta, Degas

Un quadre que m'agrada força… No per és de "bonic", sinó per detalls com l'expressió amarga i plena de tedi de la cara (la de la noia) que, segons crec, és el més valuós del quadre.

Fishing Boats on the Beach, Vincent van Gogh

The Accolade, E. B. Leighton

Edmund Blair Leighton was born in 1853, the son of artist Charles Blair Leighton. He received his first education in the University College Schoool and then went on to the Royal Academy Schools. In 1885 he married Katherine Nash. From 1878 to 1920 he exhibited annually at the Royal Academy. He died in 1922.

He focused mainly on Mediaeval and Regency subjects, his historical paintings being associated with the Pre-Raphaelite and Romantic styles.

This painting is from 1901. I have no information whatsoever about the knight, but the queen might be either Isolde of Cornwall or Guinevere. Apparently, it is not known exactly.

El celler

Noah Gordon, reconegut autor nord-americà de ficció històrica, ha sorprès amb el seu últim llibre, un exquisit tribut a les terres del Penedès.

La història és senzilla: la vida del jove Josep Álvarez, un pagès que s'embolica en uns esdeveniments gens clars on es barregen assassinats, carlistes, el President Prim i una colla de despistats en un caos típic de la Restauració. A causa d'aquests fets, Josep ha de fugir cap al nord. Torna quan mor el seu pare i es troba que ha de refer tota la seva vida en un panorama diferent del que havia deixat enrere tants anys abans... I no només això, sinó que es proposa el repte de fer allò que ningú abans, a la seva comunitat, s'havia plantejat de fer en aquelles vinyes mal aprofitades: un bon vi.

Potser la trama no és tan complexa com en altres llibres del mateix autor, com El metge o L'últim jueu; potser els personatges no hi apareixen amb tanta profunditat psicològica. Però és que els personatges no són el centre de l'obra, aquesta vegada: ara toquen l'entorn, els costums, els paisatges, les vides. Les descripcions són riques, brillants, pictòriques; aquest llibre és un túnel en el temps vívid i agradable que porta de cop, sense esforç i amb realisme, a un dels períodes més interessants de la història de Catalunya i els catalans.

Very Brief Comment On Nineteen Eighty-Four

Nineteen Eighty-Four is one of the saddest, most tragic books I have ever read.

I admit it wouldn’t be unexpected for someone to think “How can a book that describes a totalitarian regime be more tragic than one about the Holocaust or any other misfortune like it, for instance?” (Human nature and existene do not seem to lack happenings of this kind, somehow.) There is a big difference between the society Orwell invents –I will come to this later– and the similar dictatorships that have chastised different peoples in different periods of History: in all places and at all times, people have been allowed to remain exactly this, people, whereas Ingsoc completely and explicitly denies its citizens this right (and duty).

Why? To obtain power, and power as an end, not a means. With the elimination of words in the language –Newspeak– it reduces the possibility of thought (as far as it depends on language, of course); it utterly forbids all kind of privacy and also of individuality; it takes possession of records and also of people’s memory, thus controlling the past, which ends up in controlling the present and the future; in short, it establishes itself as the master of all minds to attain it. Ingsoc reduces the members of the Party, the people it deems worthy, somehow (in opposition to the proles), and all their feelings, emotions, intelligence, memories, to walking automats that do not even think anymore, that do not seem to have the self-consciousness, discernment, freedom, soul, even, that make a human being different to a crocodile or a dandelion, for the sake of absolute power.

Having said that, it is very interesting to see that Winston, if not Julia too, realises the fullness of this question, especially when he remarks that while the proles are human beings, they –Winston and Julia, and I suppose this is extendable to all Party members– are not. The importance of feelings, of nature (human nature, especially), of loyalty from one being to another, of love, of individual relationships, is stressed, and both Winston and Julia think this is a part “they” –The Thought Police, the Party, the authorities– will never be able to take from one.

However, the saddest thing of the book is that they do appear to be able to do that. The last sentence of the book, “He loved Big Brother”, seems to me as of utter defeat and abjection; it was a great disappointment. Admitting “victory over himself” is the same as admitting that an individual can be wiped out totally; that a soul can be eliminated; that fullness can be replaced by emptiness.

I was talking recently to a friend of mine, who has not read the book yet. He asked me if it was fiction. I was very happy and relieved to be able to say yes, it is fiction, something like that has not happened, is not happening, will not happen; in the worst trials, prosecutions and abuses the self has not been consciously and purposefully obliterated like in Ingsoc –even O’Brien explains clearly the difference between both the Mediaeval Inquisitors and the twentieth century totalitarians and what he himself supports and works for–. Nor can it ever be; unlike Winston, I believe in a God who will never let human wickedness reach this point. Not yet, anyway.