When Space Heater Buzzes

Fredy GU

Some judge that what you write on blogs is or should be, the most important of our entire industry. Those beings, mostly poets and storytellers, are outraged when a pen claims the right to portray the noble people in ancient marble sculptures of literary glory. say nothing of CAP , the maker of poems well dateados I just sent a Christmas greeting (which I did not read), which certainly put things in place saying "for me what you do not literature if it makes me happy to talk about what you can do, but bla bla bla bla bla ". Vacas. It's that simple. Vacas. For now, do not answer (or read) any mail that is not my taste, not even the Pelafustanio and its system of misery. Let's go to another room, the interest in this post.

SATURDAY 22 DEC. A Los Angeles · WITH FRANKIE GU

Today is the longest day of the year. I L. arrive in Chile, 60 km from calving bus (which here in the picture in picture shows http://www.nacimientodigital.cl/ CR) , under the protection of a sun de puta madre, where I went with Fred Gu, a blond, freckled peasant was once JDC, rather than expel him by pouring a bowl of noodles to the former Mayor Guerrero, because of a promise of the old incomplete. Fredy Gu, who has two brothers working in the same, collects phones and mountains of vertigo and clamor to live without losing the smile on the face and rest in those green meadows that the Lord promises (Psalm 23: 2) . We arrived at the obscene hour of 4 pm with the sun calcining and got off near the JR liquor store, to be the best of all in Chile there, and turned a block to reach a population of flat land, a corner full of similar subjects rather badly, but shoes and phones with display faces, and whose stock did not look too promising, but had that strength and that power without fanfare and quite free, so typical of the suburban house, indestructible in its territory and therefore around the world and at all times .
salute Priest, Chelsea, who invited us to pray in the street and then told us that in half an hour we would join in his parish. We walked half an hour (36 ° C in the shade) and arrived at a site with trees, whose bench was surrounded by shadows and women and children, and one of them looked very sour and claimed despite our presence perfectly agreed.

The priest was somewhat delayed and called us to his cabin staff, who had a beautiful church where the altar stood out with a sculpture of the logo Colo-Colo, classical sculpture with the image of Jesus Christ at the door that led to the kitchen and poster both ways in one of the walls. There were crafts and some phrases that blessed home. After giving the hosts a Fredy, the priest handed him a bottle of rum Pampero. We walked back to top of ice cream, until a local Orompello built in the neighborhood, where they sold a stunning full, then went to the Super and there will be no shortage for the Lord provides this holiday season.

SUNDAY DECEMBER 23

Diana is called, the gazebo and has served 24 years. Say nothing, because nothing else is there to say.

MONDAY, DECEMBER 24. close to 21 ...
is short for Christmas. I hope not too many people kill themselves, it is very annoying for emergency services and police. just arrived from the center of calving. It was very cold and it was empty, then, as always, everyone had already bought their gifts in advance. Al take the bus, a very ugly evangelical said he never met with his relatives because he could not bear to bless a table where there was wine, which had brought her family problems, "but I do not care because only God is to fear and others who get screwed. " Then, after traveling about ten blocks and 5 libraries, I could ring a document, and this time another evangelical, very beautiful and has a shop in front of the library neurosis calving, I just dispensed smiles of joy. All there in the vineyard of Roberto Bolaño (repeated joke, but what the heck). I hope you enjoy your bowl of oatmeal with water and carrot salad oil.

EVERY MAN SHOULD BE ABLE TO ALL THE IDEAS, AND UNDERSTAND THAT YOU WILL BE IN THE ARISING

Prices At Orion Gate In Brampton

NIGHT NOTES ON CHILE, Roberto Bolaño: The bitterness

For technical reasons, is the third time to redo this post, and of course it's funny the joke Emile Cioran, when "Stillbirth of clairvoyance" speaks backwards, saying that the drag on it we love it and need it, I go back to the load:

wrote about NIGHT CHILE (Edit Anagram, 2000) , Bolaño's novel starring Opus Dei priest and literary critic Sebastián Urrutia Lacroix (which in reality there), who ravaged by fever recalls some of his experiences capital: Their friendship, which ends in disappointment, with homosexual conservative critic Farewell (Alone), which makes sexual overtones , the day he met Neruda in Farewell old man's farm and attending the day together at the funeral of the poet, weighting rotaje unpleasant accompanying the poet (both), and the beauty of some young communists (Farewell) Marxism classes Urrutia imparts to the military junta to request, through the intermediary of two dark lords called Heard and Odeim (dialogue Urrutia timid and acquiescent in the enlarged Pinochet, where he is the former president as a kind presumptuous and deceitful intriguing, intellectual declaring unlike all his predecessors, is remarkable, also the description of Cesar Mendoza as a silent and cunning idiot), his experience as an overseer of churches in Europe for a national project of restoration, making it known that they bred falcons deranged priests to slaughter birds to extinction, and especially its final experience in the home of writer Mary Channels , wife of a member of the DINA James Thompson (both existing, and everyone knows their names), which conducts weekly and good food and drink national gatherings of writers, while in the basement of his house are tortured and murdered, and the final conversation with her, who laughs so evil, suffering terribly, but not regret

Night ... is a piece of history, a sample of eruditizante parodically Dionysian style of an author who likes to make fun of learning. It shows its feverish pace, which in a single paragraph of 65pantáginas tight (the book I read it in PDF), no chapters and no points apart (except the final sentence "and then unleashed a storm of shit" ) recreates the memories essential for anything siemple man, perhaps too complex, perhaps too reasonable and aseptic, perhaps too pristine to do what he did to achieve that without being crumpled complicity cassock.

parody one of Bolaño's resources (the enumerations with the repetition of some words), I must say that theme of the novel is the memory in the middle of final oblivion, that the issue is a convalescent who understand their possible faults and are blamed for the tragic destiny of a country abandoned by God, but not himself, that the issue is the power (including Neruda), and politics and the influence of these on something so precarious and yet so talkative as literature, that the issue ominous is a fragment of the history of Chile that we are just investigating and enjoying. And the issue is first and foremost, the unreality of an aristocratic intellectual (or rather class), cold, sexless and suspicious of the very idea of \u200b\u200bsex, derogatory to people of flesh and blood, especially if they are poor ( overwhelmed that part when it disappears in the estate of Farewell, another Bolanos Kafkaesque-and seeing the funeral of an angel, feeling disgusted and unable to empathize with the fact ), that recall its existence, driven by a young aged to be insulting to their home (the Bolaño, say, for convenience literary), does nothing to consecrate impunity which at the time edging reached ecumenical ... and more so if it was possible to add that feature the dreaded and despised bookworm, since its spiritual sclerosis masquerading as pristine culture and kindness ( how the Platonic delusion that matches the Good, the Beautiful and the True? ) does not do anything but transparent one of the more subtle forms of evil or error, or confusion or blindness, who thinks he knows too much and yet know so little.

To illustrate, these few lines would suffice indestructible:

"One day I decided it was time to return to Chile. I came by plane. The situation at home was not good. We must not dream, but be consistent, I said. Do not miss after a chimera but be patriot told me. In Chile, things were not going well. For me things went well, but for the country is not going well. I am not a nationalist exacerbated, however feel a genuine love for my country. Chile, Chile. How You have changed so much?, he sometimes said, looking out my window, looking at the echo of Santiago in the distance. What have you done? "They've gone crazy Chileans? Who is to blame? And sometimes while walking through the halls of school or in the corridors of the newspaper, he said: How long do you think continue, Chile? Are you going to become something else? What a monster that no one recognizes? Then came the elections and won Allende. And I approached the mirror in my room and wanted to make the crucial question, which was set aside for the moment, and the question he refused to leave my bloodless lips. That was not just unbearable. The night of the victory of Allende left and walked to the house of Farewell. I opened the door himself. How old he was. Farewell by then in their eighties must years or maybe more and I no longer played the waist or hips when we met. Come in, Sebastian, he said. I followed him to the room. Farewell was making some phone calls. The first person I called was to Neruda. Unable to establish contact with him. Then he called Nicanor Parra. Same thing. I dropped into a chair and covered my face with his hands. Farewell I heard still dial the numbers of four or five poets, to no avail. We started to drink. I suggested to call, if that calmed him, a Catholic poets who both knew. These are the worst, Farewell said, must be all in the street, celebrating the triumph of Allende. Al Farewell Within hours he fell asleep in a chair. I wanted to take it to bed, but weighed too much and left him there. When I got home I read the Greeks. That is what God wants, I thought. I'm going to reread the Greeks. I started with Homer, as tradition, and followed with Thales of Miletus and Xenophanes of Colophon and Alcmeon of Croton and Zeno of Elea (how good it was), and then killed an army general in favor of Allende and Chile established diplomatic relations with Cuba and the national census recorded a total of 8,884,768 Chilean and television began broadcasting the soap opera The right to be born, and I read a Tyrtaeus of Sparta and Archilochus Paros and Solon of Athens and Hypo-nact Stesichorus of Ephesus and Mytilene Himera and Sappho and Theognis of Megara and Anacreon of Teos and Pindar of Thebes (one of my favorites), and the government nationalized the copper and then the salt and iron and Pablo Neruda received the Nobel Prize and Diaz Casanueva National Book Award and Fidel Castro visited the country and many thought it would be to live here forever and killed the former minister of the Christian Democrats and Lafourcade published Pérez Zujovic white dove and I made a good review, almost a triumphal gloss, but deep down I knew it was a novella that was worthless, and organized the first march of the pots in against Allende and I read Aeschylus and Sophocles and Euripides, all the tragedies, and Alcaeus of Mytilene and Aesop and Hesiod and Herodotus (who is a titan more than a man) and in Chile there was a shortage and inflation and black market and long queues for food and agrarian reform expropriated the estate of Farewell and many other farms and created the National Secretariat of Women and Allende visited Mexico and the United Nations Assembly in New York and there were attacks and I read Thucydides, the long wars of Thucydides, rivers and plains, and plateaus winds that cross the pages obscured by time, and men of Thucydides, Thucydides gunmen and unarmed men, those who gather the grapes and watching from a hill the distant horizon, the horizon where I was confused with millions of people, waiting to be born, the horizon that looked Thucydides and where I was shaking, and also reread Demosthenes and Menander and Aristotle and Plato (which is always helpful), and there were strikes and a colonel of an armored regiment attempted a coup and killed a cameraman filming his own death and then killed Allende's naval aide and there disturbances, bad words, Chileans cursed, painted the walls, and then almost half a million people marched in a massive march in support of Allende, and then came the coup, the uprising, the military coup and bombed La Moneda and when the bombing ended the president committed suicide and that was it. Then I stood still, with a finger on the page you were reading, and I thought, what peace. I got up and looked out the window: what silence. The sky was blue, deep blue and clean, punctuated here and there by some clouds. In the distance I saw a helicopter. Without closing the window I knelt and prayed, for Chile, for all Chileans, for the dead and the living. "

lie Is all that Bolaño says that priest there under another name. I doubt it. And if there is any skill or exaggeration, I recall that the literature has nothing to do with courtesy. And sometimes it disguises a much more barbaric than literary.

EVERY MAN SHOULD BE ABLE TO ALL THE IDEAS, AND UNDERSTAND THAT YOU WILL BE IN THE ARISING