Querido y remoto muchacho...

Fragmento de "Abbadón el Exterminador" de Ernesto Sábato


 

Anabelle Lee

 It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me. 

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love -
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulcher
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me
Yes! that was the reason
(as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we
Of many far wiser than we
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In the sepulcher there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea. 

Edgar Allan Poe

Asco

    "Even though it was so late, old Ernie's was jam-packed. Mostly with prep school jerks and college jerks. Almost every damn school in the world gets out earlier for Christmas vacation than schools I go to. You could hardly check your coat, it was so crowded. It was pretty quiet, though, because Ernie was playing the piano. It was supposed to be something holy, for God's sake, when he sat down at the piano. Nobody's that good. About three couples, besides me, were waiting for tables, and they were all shoving and standing on tiptoes to get a look at old Ernie while he played. He had a big damn mirror in front of the piano, with this big spotlight on him, so that everybody could watch his face while he played. You couldn't see his fingers while he played - just his big old face. Big deal. I'm not too sure what the name of the song was that he was playing when I came in, but whatever it was, he was really stinking it up. He was putting all these dumb, show-offy ripples in the high notes, and a lot of other very tricky stuff that gives me a pain in the ass. You should've heard the crowd, though, when he was finished. You would've puked. They went mad. They were exactly the same morons that laugh like hyenas in the movies at stuff that isn't funny. I swear to God, if I were a piano player or an actor or something and all those dopes thought I was terrific, I'd hate it. I wouldn't even want them to clap for me. People always clap for the wrong things. If I were a piano player, I'd play it in the goddam closet. Anyway, when he was finished, and everybody was clapping their heads off, old Ernie turned around on his stool and gave this very phony, humble bow. Like as if he was a helluva humble guy, besides being a terrific piano player. It was very phony - I mean him being such a big snob and all. In a funny way, though, I felt sort of sorry for him when he was finished. I don't even think he knows any more when he's playing right or not. It isn't all his fault. I partly blame all those dopes that clap their heads off - they'd foul up anybody, if you gave them a chance. Anyway, it made me feel depressed and lousy again, and I damn near got my coat back and went back to the hotel, but it was too early and I didn't feel much like being all alone."

 The Catcher in the Rye

Despertar

Del sol he probado

Su jugo dulce y esquivo,

Sobre árboles rebosa

Templada seda lívida,

Que hoy despierta

Una sonrisa tímida

Del sueño doblado

Que aún guardo en el bolsillo,

Ya se agita, y esboza,

Con sus tinturas vívidas

Y mano experta,

Su elísea mímica.

De lienzo el cielo,

Obra maestra

A ras del ciego.

Ay! Carmela

Ay Carmela, me duelen tus ojos
sembrando rastrojos
canela en la nieve.
Como dos carabelas,
tan pintas, tan niñas, tan leves.

Minifalda
con bici a la espalda
y nariz indiscreta,
poco más que decir.
Urge sobrevivir
te mereces un novio poeta.

No me pidas que muera por tí
lo que queda de mí
se subasta a la mejor postora
como un parco motín
en el barco ruín de la aurora.

No me obligues a hacerte la ola
sigue sola tu camino
al fin y al cabo ni sé ni sabo
cuánto nos cobra el destino.

En los bares del foro
rompías el guión
de una peli con final feliz.
No había rubia en el coro
más loro ni más Norma Jean.

Y después de la feria y el cole,
la histeria y el miedo;
si te da por contar
hombros donde llorar
va a sobrarte una mano y seis dedos.

No me canso de hablarte
aunque pronto mi voz
suene a grano de arroz repetido
y desampararte es jugar
a los fuegos de azar del olvido.

Nada amanece, todo envejece,
plancha tu velo de tul.
Tal vez mañana a tu ventana
llamé otro príncipe azul.

Y no sé de qué modo
dejar de adorarte sin duelo
entre nunca y quién sabe.
Cuando quemes tus naves
no me pierdas las llaves del cielo.

Soneto a mi peor crítico

Estos versos para ti voy a medir.
No espero alabanzas, sí puñaladas
de tus palabras, tan bien lavadas.
Ruego a Caín fuerzas para recibir.

¡Qué osadía un soneto escribir!
Donde los maestros hundían armadas
sólo estas sílabas dedicadas,
para ser poeta, o al menos fingir.

No me cabe duda alguna factible,
seguro usted sobre el texto miccione.
Su gusto no es a mi rima asequible.

Propongo antes, señor, que me cuestione,
oferta de rechazar imposible.
¿Qué hay que una cerveza no solucione?

De vuelta

Mis pasos marcan el compás en la acera, las calles se suceden lentamente buscando el final.  La serpiente errática sobre la que camino me lleva sin duda  a la última parada, pero mientras muerde la cola de la siguiente,  su piel se vuelve más y más escurridiza. Está empezando a llover.

Hoy me siento distinto, me encuentro mucho más permeable. Siempre me ha gustado andar bajo la lluvia, tirando del lastre de ropa mojada, sabiendo que no pasará sin mi permiso. Hoy no hay ninguna fisura, no he dejado la puerta encajada ni la ventana abierta. Simplemente he perdido ese don, ahora soy permeable, como las páginas del periódico de ayer.

Estoy calado hasta los huesos, y la textura de mi interior, antes rugosa, ahora es una pasta informe donde se empiezan a confundir las letras y las hojas, lo que antes era nítido ahora es gris y uniforme. Aunque debo tener frío, estoy en un extraño estado de insensibilidad, quizás por eso me cuesta tanto acertar con la llave correcta en la cerradura.

Cuando por fin consigo entrar en casa, me empiezo a encontrar mucho mejor. Espero sentado en el suelo que la estufa seque lo que queda de mí, mirando el montón de ropa húmeda en la esquina de la habitación. Aunque no pueda volver a leer lo que yo era, empiezo a sentirme más liviano y consistente.

Apuro el vaso de whisky y enciendo otro cigarro, aun sabiendo que la resaca será un poco más dura y mis pulmones más ceniza.  Mañana tampoco habrá nadie a mi lado cuando despierte. Apago la luz.

Al menos no recordaré nada de esto, eso me alivia mientras me retuerzo entre las sábanas.