Blue Eyes Brighton Bus Stop
Smile Like A Lemon Peel, Kiss Like A Paper Cut
London : Eyre and Spottiswoode, 1954 [MOSAICS] In the morning the young man who was the English avant-garde of the Tired Ones fet...
El espía negro (1939), primera colaboración de Michael Powell y Emeric Pressburger.
All for Love (1998), con Miranda Richardson, Richard E. Grant, Jean Marc Barr y Anna Friel, a partir de la novela St. Ives, de R. L. Stevenson.
My itinerary is by no means clear to me; the names and distances I never clearly knew, and have now wholly forgotten; and this is the more to be regretted as there is no doubt that, in the course of those days, I must have passed and camped among sites which have been rendered illustrious by the pen of Walter Scott. Nay, more, I am of opinion that I was still more favoured by fortune, and have actually met and spoken with that inimitable author. Our encounter was of a tall, stoutish, elderly gentleman, a little grizzled, and of a rugged but cheerful and engaging countenance. He sat on a hill pony, wrapped in a plaid over his green coat, and was accompanied by a horse-woman, his daughter, a young lady of the most charming appearance. They overtook us on a stretch of heath, reined up as they came alongside, and accompanied us for perhaps a quarter of an hour before they galloped off again across the hillsides to our left. Great was my amazement to find the unconquerable Mr. Sim thaw immediately on the accost of this strange gentleman, who hailed him with a ready familiarity, proceeded at once to discuss with him the trade of droving and the prices of cattle, and did not disdain to take a pinch from the inevitable ram’s horn. Presently I was aware that the stranger’s eye was directed on myself; and there ensued a conversation, some of which I could not help overhearing at the time, and the rest have pieced together more or less plausibly from the report of Sim.
‘Surely that must be an amateur drover ye have gotten there?’ the gentleman seems to have asked.
Sim replied, I was a young gentleman that had a reason of his own to travel privately.
‘Well, well, ye must tell me nothing of that. I am in the law, you know, and tace is the Latin for a candle,’ answered the gentleman. ‘But I hope it’s nothing bad.’
Sim told him it was no more than debt.
‘Oh, Lord, if that be all!’ cried the gentleman; and turning to myself, ‘Well, sir,’ he added, ‘I understand you are taking a tramp through our forest here for the pleasure of the thing?’
‘Why, yes, sir,’ said I; ‘and I must say I am very well entertained.’
‘I envy you,’ said he. ‘I have jogged many miles of it myself when I was younger. My youth lies buried about here under every heather-bush, like the soul of the licentiate Lucius. But you should have a guide. The pleasure of this country is much in the legends, which grow as plentiful as blackberries.’ And directing my attention to a little fragment of a broken wall no greater than a tombstone, he told me for an example a story of its earlier inhabitants. Years after it chanced that I was one day diverting myself with a Waverley Novel, when what should I come upon but the identical narrative of my green-coated gentleman upon the moors! In a moment the scene, the tones of his voice, his northern accent, and the very aspect of the earth and sky and temperature of the weather, flashed back into my mind with the reality of dreams. The unknown in the green-coat had been the Great Unknown! I had met Scott; I had heard a story from his lips; I should have been able to write, to claim acquaintance, to tell him that his legend still tingled in my ears. But the discovery came too late, and the great man had already succumbed under the load of his honours and misfortunes.
Presently, after giving us a cigar apiece, Scott bade us farewell and disappeared with his daughter over the hills. And when I applied to Sim for information, his answer of ‘The Shirra, man! A’body kens the Shirra!’ told me, unfortunately, nothing.
Algunos limericks de Edward Lear:
It was about three years afterwards that one early morning, dressed for school, I came downstairs before anyone else and for some reason looked at the photograph attentively, realising with dismay that I wasn't like it any longer. I remembered the dress she was wearing, so much prettier than anything I had now, but the curls, the dimples surely belonged to somebody else. The eyes were a stranger's eyes. The forefinger of her right hand was raised as if in warning. She had moved after all. Why I didn't know, she wasn't me any longer. It was the first time I was aware of time, change and the longing for the past. I was nine years of age.
The only time I went back to Dominica, long afterwards, I was told I must have a guide to visit Geneva.
I thought, 'A guide to Geneva for me? How ridiculous!' However there was a guide, we went quickly by car and he seemed to know exactly where to take me. Where the house had been was an empty space, the Geneva house was burnt down two, or was it three, times. I stared at it trying to remember the house, the garden, the honey-suckle and the jasmine and the tall fern trees.
But there was nothing, nothing. Nothing to look at. Nothing to say. Even the mounting stone had gone.
When we got to the river I bent down and sipped from it. I was very thirsty and perhaps had some vague, superstitious idea that if I drank the water I'd come back. The guide caught my arm and said, 'Don't drink that. It's very dirty now. You'd be ill if you drank it.'
How many times had I drank from that river when I was thirsty? There are supposed to be three hundred and sixty-five rivers in the island, one for every day of the year. Where they all dirty?
Yes, he seemed to think they were all very dirty indeed. 'Very dirty, not like you remember it.'
No, it wasn't as I remembered it.
Fue unos tres años después cuando cierta mañana, temprano, vestida para la escuela, bajé antes que nadie y por alguna razón miré la fotografía atentamente, y advertí consternada que yo ya no era así. Recordaba el vestido que ella llevaba, mucho más bonito que nada de lo que ahora tenía, pero los rizos, los hoyuelos seguramente pertenecían a otra persona. Los ojos eran ojos de una desconocida. El dedo índice de la mano derecha estaba levantado como en advertencia. Después de todo, se había movido. Por qué no lo sabía, ella había dejado de ser yo. Era la primera vez que fui consciente del tiempo, el cambio y la añoranza por el pasado. Tenía nueve años.
La única vez que regresé a Dominica, mucho más tarde, me dijeron que debía acompañarme un guía en la visita a Geneva.
Pensé: “¿Un guía en Geneva para mí? ¡Qué ridículo!” No obstante hubo un guía, fuimos rápidamente en coche y parecía saber con exactitud a dónde llevarme. Donde estaba la casa había un espacio vacío. La casa de Geneva se había incendiado dos, o quizá fueran tres, veces. Fijé la mirada tratando de recordar la casa, el jardín, la madreselva y el jazmín y los altos árboles de helecho.
Pero no había nada, nada. Nada que mirar. Nada que decir. Incluso la piedra de entrada había desaparecido.
Cuando llegamos al río me incliné y bebí de él. Estaba sedienta y quizá tenía la idea inconcreta, supersticiosa de que si bebía el agua regresaría. El guía me cogió del brazo y dijo:
–No beba de ahí. Está muy sucia ahora. Si la bebe, enfermará.
¿Cuántas veces había bebido en ese río cuando tenía sed? Se dice que hay trescientos sesenta y cinco ríos en la isla, uno para cada día del año. ¿Estaban todos sucios?
Sí, le parecía que estaban todos muy sucios de verdad.
–Muy sucios, no como usted lo recuerda.
No, no era como yo lo recordaba.
Jean Rhys, Smile Please
Traducción de Alan
Hace un tiempo un lector del blog puso en La Canción de Prévert un enlace a este disco, gracias! aquí está de nuevo.
Benjamin Frankel compuso esta obra en memoria del clarinetista Frederick (Jack) Thurston. La dedicatoria dice: "For Thea Thurston, to Jack". Aquí está interpretada por la alumna y esposa de Thurston, Thea King.