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Julio Cortazar. About the feeling that you are not quite here.


August 26, 1914 was born Julio Cortazar, Spanish novelist, short story writer, essayist and poet, who grew up in Argentina. Permanently residing in Paris.




  So I stay in many ways a child, but in me from the very beginning adult lives - in children it happens - but when such monsters grows, it continues to live baby, and nel mezzo del camin matures strange coexistence, albeit rarely peaceful - at least two visions of reality.

To this can be taken as a metaphor, but only if the temperament that will allow to deny the child's perception of the world to pay for the integrity of a mature man. However, such consistency, it's the poet creates, and sometimes - the offender and, of course, hronopa and humorist (all depends on the ratio of doses from a shift in emphasis, finally, on their own choice: I'm doing good running, no - take shape) and leads to the fact that you can not engage the whole of any one of the systems and situations woven a life where each of us is both a spider and midge.


Much of what is written by me, built under the sign of eccentricity, because I did not see the difference between the concepts of "life" and "write"; and if I still somehow manages to hide that I was not all entirely take part in the circumstances of their lives, such a pretense would be absurd that I write, because I'm writing it because of their lack of participation or involvement of only half. In short, I write from a sense of duality, uncertainty, and as soon as I write, hidden in the gap between child and adult, the appeal to others - look for it in yourself and enjoy the garden, where the trees mature - well, precious stones, or something! At the same time, and monsters alive and well.

Julio Cortazar. About the feeling that you are not quite here




  "In parallel with the work on the prose, I always wrote and write poems on the table for themselves. No, I am not ashamed that I was writing them, just think that poetry is something sacred, well, almost as an act of love, what others know about it. "

Cortazar - one of the largest contemporary novelists. And yet the poet - large, no one else like, with its special - touchingly gentle and courageous at the same time - voice, voice, something, perhaps, like the voice of his beloved pipe.



Say you have three minutes


I picked a flower to you even for a moment he found himself in his hand,
drank a bottle of "Beaujolais" to look into the well,

where clumsy dancing bear - the moon,
and now - back home
and in the golden twilight of release myself, like a jacket, leather
and know only too well how lonely I will
the midst of this - the most populous in the world - the city.
You will forgive me for this whining when you know:
it's cold, rain drops falling into a cup of coffee
moldy and damp on the legs spreading everywhere.

Forgive me, the more you know:
I think about you all the time,
I like a clockwork toy, like a fever, chills
or whacky that irons caught the dove
and feels the gentle fingers intertwined and feathers.

I believe that as you feel what I feel your presence,
you are frustrated, perhaps, the same flower that I
and now you're back home, yes, this is true, and we are no longer alone,
we have - a single feather, a single petal.




Love - shell remain in it
memories: images and sounds;
they are just more real - apart:
away from the sea - the sea noise heard.

Flower from the cold autumn days
wring the pain leaves the hands-
and comes to life in joy and agony
under the sun - every cell of his.

Beautiful statues - one,
always the same, and never discouraged
(whether you are proud, but she did not contradict).

stone and dreams created,
of - anything but authentic until now,
whiter than white lily - love.

Julio Cortazar

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