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I have not always read much. For several years I lost hopelessly vague readings left and retaken every two or three months, or in books on science, which, for some inexplicable reason, he found most rewarding were the more arid. But I think mostly I read with intensity.
When I was fifteen or sixteen I started to get closer to poetry, not as the more or less applied language student who had been at school, but as a reader in search of truth. Poetry was a whisper, a secret code that flowed together, but only few were able to decipher.
The institute had some prisons, with sleaze and dirty tricks who is struggling to survive, and had some religious poetry, as a faith that pointed toward a more hopeful horizon (all very childish, yes, but what adolescence, faith or hope not).
poets arrived by different routes. Some almost like a casual waste was among the ossified academic schedules. And others through the troubadours who sang: Miguel Hernandez, Machado, Blas de Otero, Gil de Viedma or Gamoneda appeared in the voices of Amancio Prada, Serrat, Paco Ibáñez Loquillo.
Almost all were losers, or excluded or protest. And maybe that was not difficult identify with them. Perhaps there is a kind of intimate conjunction with poetry, a direct connection between the reader and the poet can only be taken in adolescence. Perhaps there is a vital glow sentenced to die, and that is incompatible with the thirties. Illuminating are the words of Gil de Viedma regard. ("I could remind you that you have no grace. / Let your style and your carefree casual / are tricky / when you have more than thirty years, / and your charming / sleepy boy smile /-sure-is like a rest painful / a pathetic attempt. ")
may only good thing about adolescence is that one day disappears, as if there had been a long and tedious illness, and leaves no sequel off nostalgia, mild, painless.
When I was fifteen or sixteen I started to get closer to poetry, not as the more or less applied language student who had been at school, but as a reader in search of truth. Poetry was a whisper, a secret code that flowed together, but only few were able to decipher.
The institute had some prisons, with sleaze and dirty tricks who is struggling to survive, and had some religious poetry, as a faith that pointed toward a more hopeful horizon (all very childish, yes, but what adolescence, faith or hope not).
poets arrived by different routes. Some almost like a casual waste was among the ossified academic schedules. And others through the troubadours who sang: Miguel Hernandez, Machado, Blas de Otero, Gil de Viedma or Gamoneda appeared in the voices of Amancio Prada, Serrat, Paco Ibáñez Loquillo.
Almost all were losers, or excluded or protest. And maybe that was not difficult identify with them. Perhaps there is a kind of intimate conjunction with poetry, a direct connection between the reader and the poet can only be taken in adolescence. Perhaps there is a vital glow sentenced to die, and that is incompatible with the thirties. Illuminating are the words of Gil de Viedma regard. ("I could remind you that you have no grace. / Let your style and your carefree casual / are tricky / when you have more than thirty years, / and your charming / sleepy boy smile /-sure-is like a rest painful / a pathetic attempt. ")
may only good thing about adolescence is that one day disappears, as if there had been a long and tedious illness, and leaves no sequel off nostalgia, mild, painless.
(That blank stare that Munch painted in his "Melancholy" I refer to those. In this view seems to be more boring than real despair.)
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