Una mica de no gaire bona cosa

Uns quants de dolentots







Acabat (uf!) el 10 de febrer 2012, d’en David Markson, Wittgenstein’s Mistress (1988).





Probablement el llibre més soporífic, somnífer, tediós, que mai he assolit d’enllestir.



Una boja qui es creu sola al món va bavejant fades frases en un martelleig incessant. Bon tros de les frases semblen ésser records malrecordats de notes a peu de full de llibres llegits al llarg d’una vida banal.



Living alone, one is apt to prefer a view of water.



Penelope making love to one after another of all those suitors, while Odysseus was away. (Ço que al capdavall prou sembla més autèntic que no el que ens conten.)



(Hà! on a Anglaterra...) the right side is the wrong side.



There is naturally nothing in the Iliad, or in any of the plays, about anybody menstruating. Or in the Odyssey. So doubtless a woman did not write that after all.



Dürer died from a fever he caught in a Dutch swamp, where he had gone to look at a stranded whale. (Em duu al sensori retrunys de la meua obreta Balenes hi gambaren.)



When my mother was dying my father watched games endlessly. (L’esport, distracció hipnòtica que t’adorm la vera angoixa bo i empeltant-te’n una de trivial i ficta.)



(Odissea merdosa la seua...) I am not especially overjoyed at being the last. (La darrera persona qui escriu — sense cap mena d’inspiració — la història del “món”.)



Spinoza often used to go looking for spiders, and then make them fight with each other. (No crec que sigui veritat, mes en tot cas qui també ho feia, de molt jovenot, era jo.)



Maupassant had taken to crawling about on the floor (...) eating his own excrement. (Això jo encara no.)



En tot cas, ecs, molt dolent.






~0~0~





Acabat (uf, uf) l’onze de novembre 2011, d’en John D. MacDonald, Free Fall in Crimson (1981).






El llibrot davant el Cinnamon Skin. Encara pitjor. Merda moralista. Pornògrafs, drogats i gent de moto i el repel·lent McGee guanyant totdéu, tot i el ruc que és, pobrissó, i tots els qui es moren per culpa seua.



As an adult I learned that the reprehensible and dreadfull sin is to hurt someone purposely, for no valid reason except the pleasure of hurting. (Pontifica sonsament un altre bòfia amic seu. I de sobte, sense que vingui a tomb, l’encerta...) Beware of those turkeys who really believe they are absolutely pure, decent, honest, god-fearing, hard-working, patriotic americans. They’ll slip a rusty blade into your belly, look upward, and proclaim it god’s will. (Hà!)



(Veu unes xiquetes jugant a frisbee.) Their brown leaping bodies and half-formed breasts and hips instilled in me such a wistful lechery, I wondered if it might be best if I turned myself in. (Per comptes de gaudir dels benifets naturals, el típic desgraciat porta un bòfia incorporat qui li ocupa, demoníac, el cervell.)



(És tan ruc i mitjamerda que diu al cap de motoristes negociants amb drogues el que mai no hauria de dir, i només de pensar.) If you give the orders (de trencar-me els colzes), tell them to kill me. You’ll sleep better. (...) I would not come back at you from the front. Something would fall on your head, maybe. Or something you picked up might blow up. Or you could be in a room that catches fire and the door is locked. If I came at you from the front, I might not get you. And I would want to be absolutely sure.



The victims contributed to their own disasters by being hungry for the glamorous life, an appetite that made them vulnerable. (La culpa és de les víctimes? No pas del sistema fastigós qui les impel·leix a la merdegada de les aparences?) And then, like victims the world over, they helped rope new victims because that made them feel their own humilation was diluted thereby. (O perquè qui es creu i s’empantanega al sistema ha d’ésser sistemàtic en l’esplet del que hi ha? Si només hi ha anuncis que anuncien matràfola i falòrnia i hom se’ls ha cregut, el verí continua podrint el cregut sensori del crèdul creient en el sistema.)



(Parla dels pornògrafs, mes en realitat tot el negoci de l’espectacle...) is mob-connected. If somebody consistently pirated the product, I suppose they would arrange a little demonstration of how unhealthy that sort of thing is. (I els governs, tacats amb la mateixa brutícia mafiosa, ajuden els mafiosos de l’espectacle qui sense cap talent altre que el de cargolar l’artista no volen que ningú altre el “pirategi” sinó ells, la màfia “productora”.)



Molt dolent.





~0~0~





Acabat, el 12 d’octubre 2011, d’en Dan Brown, The Da Vinci Code (2003).






Promet molt al començament (atacant el repulsiu feixista reinventor de la inquisició, faiçó opus dei, que aplega els més cretins dels cretins, mamelles del vaticà, d’on l’infecte cretinisme esbarria la pútrida miasma, i et dius: som-hi, tot el que dugui divisió a la merda fètida de la religió, prou val), mes en acabat no lliura sinó foteses cagades. El llibret és un “girafulls” sense solta ni volta; infantilisme a tot estrop, exacte com una aventureta d’en Tintín, amb protagonistes qui ni pixen ni caguen ni dormen (neither of them had slept), com ninotets de casa bona, tret que l’argument (pobríssim) és un aplec de rucadetes que només poden interessar als quatre dissortats fetitxistes del collons de bíblia. I, damunt, el bo és el dolent i el dolent és el bo. El qui voldria que tot el pastís abjecte fos descobert al món és el dolent del llibret carrincló. El datpelcul qui tot ho vol amagat n’esdevé el xic! El qui esbombaria la veritat el dolent; els hipòcrites, els “creients”, els cretins, els obscurantistes, els bons. Absurd i pervers.



Symbologists often remarked that France — a country renowned for machismo, womanizing, and diminutive insecure leaders like Napoleon and Pepin the Short (i per què t’atures amb aqueixos, i per què t’atures amb França? el flagell dels mitgesmerdes petitons i despietats és universal) could not have chosen a more apt national emblem than a thousand-foot phallus.



I’m trapped in a Salvador Dalí painting, he thought.



The iconography of goddess worship... (El pentacle, símbol del cardar: cuixes obertes: quatre cames i un fal·lus.) Venus’ pentacle became a sign of the devil... it’s now our foremost symbol of war (el pentàgon, hà). So much for goddess of love and beauty!



(L’espia veí, en Hanssen, treballant alhora al FBI i a l’opus...) he turned out to be a sexual deviant, his trial uncovering evidence that he had rigged hidden video cameras in his own bedroom so his friends could watch him having sex with his wife. (Com si cardar i amb testimonis fos pitjor que treballar per a la bòfia secreta o per a feixistes de l’opus!)



(Els feixistes de l’opus tracten les dones com els moros, a baqueta i fent-les treballar com bruixes i sense emolument, i sobre amb càstigs a betzef...) All as added penance for original sin!



Ridículament, els pútrids purulents de l’opus són molt forts a Andorra, on hi amaguen llur “bastilla” inquisitorial.



(Banyut volia dir ans cardaire trempant i no pas banyut destrempat, com ara, per perversió del terme i inversió de sentit.) (El déu amb cap de boc...) Amon is indeed represented as a man with a ram’s head, and his promiscuity and curved horns are related to our modern sexual slang ‘horny.’ (...) The horned devil known as Satan could be traced back to the fertility god Baphomet; the cornucopia was a tribute to Baphomet’s fertility and dated back to Zeus being suckled by a goat whose horn broke off and magically filled with fruit. (I quan qualque murri aixeca els dots dits de la victòria 0 de les banyes rere el cap d’algú, poc se n’adona...) that his mocking gesture is in fact advertising his “victim”’s robust sperm count. (Hà.)



Tesi carallot i fútil del llibret... La societat dels dotze o tretze marietes protocretins, el creuclavat i els “apòstols”, amagava una dona? Per què fer-hi? Per a fer-li “fer” la cuina i els llits, com la Blancaneus?



A Frare de joia, sor de plaer, afaiçonat per Disney en la bella dorment del bosc, la bruixa qui amaga la princesa qui el príncep es carda és, segons Brown, els capellans qui amaguen l’orinal sagrat.




Dolent. Llibret molt ridícul, ple de datpelculades, ple d’exageracions carrinclones per als americans il·lusos enverinats de bíblia. O, com diu n’Orwell, qui mana s’empesca el passat que més li convé. Les històries dels pobles s’escriuen amb falsificacions com més bèsties millor, només cal anar-les repetint. La gent badoc tot s’ho empassa.






~0~0~





Llegit el 21 d’octubre 2010.



La femme et le pantin (1910), peça d’en Pierre Louys i Pierre Frondaie.




Parlant de dolent, ecs. Una altra gavatxada “epanole”, ço és, pseudo-andalusa. I d’un xaró histèric, de to apujadíssim.



WTF! — comença amb la mentida més grossa, dient el contrari de la merdosa veritat “flamenca” :



—Il n’est de vraies danseuses que les andalouses. Les gitanes sont des étrangères.



—Laissez-moi rire! Sont-elles bêtes, ces femmes de Bohême! Vous avez vu comme elle dansait, avec ses jambes de picador et ses bras en anses de cruche...?



—Aujourd’hui je suis plus noire de péchés qu’une gitane; je ne veux pas devenir femme dans cet état de damnation... Que je cesse un jour d’être vierge et l’on verra!





(El caciquisme “epanole” indesencastable.) —Laissez cette enfant. Je suis don Mateo. Je vous l’ordonne au nom de mon frère l’alcade.



Els “epanole” amen massa apassionadament, només caldria.) —C’est bien le signe suprême de la toute-puissance féminine que cette immunité dont nous cuirassons les femmes... Les Orientaux ne les ménagent pas comme nous, eux qui sont les grands voluptueux. Je les admire.



—L’Italie a la volupté douce; vous y prendrez un bain de faideur, “epanole” que vous êtes.



(...)



(Els catalans, com sempre, són els qui porten la merda a la pura “epana”.) —Ce n’est plus du tout l’Epana de jadis. Le socialisme, vous comprenez? De la canaille de Barcelone!



En fi, caca rai.





~0~0~






Acabat el 9 d’octubre 2010, d’en Matthew G. Lewis, The Monk (1796).






Més capellans cretins, doncs més merda.



(Una guerxa a l’església.) She intended to throw a tender and significant look upon Don Christoval, but as she unluckily happened to squint most abominably, the glance fell directly upon his companion.



(Un altre cretí, un altre capellà ignorant i hipòcrita.) He is reported to be so strict an observer of chastity, that he knows not in what consists the difference of man and woman.



(Una altra “fi del món”, com a l’acabament de les reconeixences d’en Gaddis.) The cathedral seemed crumbling into pieces; the monks betook themselves to flight, shrieking fearfully; the lamps were extinguished, the altar sank down, and in its place appeared an abyss vomiting forth clouds of flame.



[Un “epanole” genocida i castelladre contra els gitans i una gitana qui canta: If any maid too much has granted, her loss this philter will repair... And this will make a brown girl fair. (Hà!)] If I were king of Asspain, every one of them should be burnt alive who was found in my dominions after the next three weeks. (Com els moros, els jueus... els catalans com jo, car “flight is the only means of avoiding the effects of their malevolent resentment”...)



(Capellà hipòcrita, com el cardenal Pirel·li d’en Firbank...) He was no sooner alone than he gave free loose to the indulgence of his vanity.



(Típic dels moralistes.) Rather redouble your outward austerity, and thunder out menaces against the errors of others, the better to conceal your own.



(Això només passa tres dies abans de morir, hà!) I suspected that the abbot was stung by a “cientipedoro”... He cannot live three days.



(Diu que el Tirant és un llibre tediós — ara que comparat al seu, el Tirant rai!) I read the wearisome adventures of Perceforest, Tirant the White, Palmerin of England, and The Knight of the Sun, till the book was on the point of falling from my hands through ennui.



Carrinclonades a doll.



You will even pardon me when I acknowledge that in an unguarded moment the honour of Agnes was sacrificed to my passion.



The latter sentences were written in red ink — to express the blushes of her cheek while she committed an outrage upon her virgin modesty.



I have an estate... in Hispaniola: thither will we fly.



The fair wanton put every invention of lust in practice, every refinement in the art of pleasure which might heighten the bliss of her possession, and render her lover’s transports still more exquisite; Ambrosio rioted in delights till then unknown to him; swift fled the night, and the morning blushed to behold him still clasped in the embraces of Matilda.



(Ai, però.) She soon was aware that she had satiated her lover by the unbounded freedom of her caresses. Her charms becoming accustomed to him, they ceased to excite the same desires which at first they had inspired. The delirium of passion being past, he had leisure to observe every trifling defect.



(Els confessors cretins i llur palesa imbecil·litat.) He (Ambrosio) never saw, much less conversed with the other sex; he was ignorant of the pleasures in woman’s power to bestow... (Com pot llavors enjoin penance en ningú, tot i que tota l’alta societat vol confessar-s’hi, perquè és tan “sant”? Si no saps dels “pecats de la carn”, com collons pots confessar-ne ningú ni menys condemnar-l’en a escrua penitència?)



(Bon toc psicològic.) They who are conscious of mankind’s perfidy and selfishness, ever receive an obligation with apprehension and disgust; they suspect that some secret motive must lurk behind it; they express their thanks with restrain and caution, and fear to praise a kind action to its full extent, aware that on some future day a return may be required.



(Sobre la bíblia; es diu el frare, amb raó, que és el llibre més corruptor possible contra un cervell verge, ço és, ignorant.) Antonia reads the bible, and is still so ignorant! No reading more improper could be permitted to a young woman; the annals of a brothel would scarcely furnish a greater choice of indecent expressions. (Hà, i en Sade prou se n’aprofità, de la idea.) (La mare doncs fa fer una versió de la bíblia tota censurada, i diu que si s’ha filla hagués de llegir res “brut”, s’estimaria més...) putting into her daughter’s hands Amadis de Gaul, or the Valiant Champion, Tirant the White... and the lascivious jokes of damsel Plaerdemavida.



(Hà. La televisió ja inventada pels dimonis.) She put the mirror into his hands... Matilda pronounced the magic words... a confused mixture of colours and images presented themselves to the friar’s eyes, which at length arranging themselves in their proper places, he beheld, in miniature, Antonia’s lovely form.



(La llagoteria duu lluny.) His feigned timidity flattered the vanity of the nuns... his answers were perfectly satisfactory and perfectly false.



(Hà, el galliner esvalotat.) The trembling nuns, terrified at the noise and universal confusion, had dispersed, and fled different ways. Some regained the convent, others sought refuge in the dwellings of their relations, and many, only sensible of their present danger, and anxious to escape from the tumult, ran throught the streets, and wandered they knew not whither. The lovely Virginia was one of the first to fly. (I més tard la “caritat” cretina en acció...) Agnes protested... the nun approached with the fatal goblet; the domina obliged her to take it and swallow the contents. She drank, and the horrid deed was accomplished. The nuns then seated themselves round the bed; they answered her groans with reproaches; they interrupted with sarcasms the prayers in which she recommended her parting soul to mercy; they threatened her with heaven’s vengeance and eternal perdition; they bade her despair of pardon, and strewned her with yet sharper thorns death’s painful pillow. Such were the sufferings of this young unfortunate, till released by fate from the malice of her tormentors. She expired in horror.



(I ara sor Helena.) To be in this melancholy place in the middle of the night, surrounded by the mouldering bodies of my deceased companions, and expecting every moment to be torn to pieces by their ghosts who wander about me. (Lorenzo troba que això és superstició, però no pas, és clar, creure en déu, en els capellans, en l’església, en els “misteris” no pas menys supersticiosos dels babaus o “creients”; sembla doncs d’il·lús dir que...) Against the attacks of superstition you must depend for protection upon yourself... (i no aplicar-s’ho a si mateix.)



(No hi ha pietat per a qui “peca”. Matant-li el bordet...) The prioress exclaimed “Dare you plead for the produce of your shame? Shall a creature be permitted to live, conceived in guilt so monstrous?” (El bordet mort...) Soon became a mass of putridity, and to every eye was a loathsome and disgusting object; to every eye but a mother’s... Often have I at waking found my fingers ringed with the long worms which bred in the corrupted flesh of my infant. At such times I shrieked with terror and disgust, and, while I shook off the reptile, trembled with all of a woman’s weakness.



I ara l’inquisidor, i la seua creu d’or. La creu dels cretins: objecte màgic, és clar, que “crea” màgia, una “màgia” sovint pitjor (només cal veure’n les proves) que cap màgia dels “salvatges”.



(I, com tots els torturats, l’Ambrosio ara...) disclosed every circumstance of his guilt, and owned not merily the crimes with which he was charged, but those of which he had never been suspected. (Sota tortura tothom confessa el que ha fet i no fet, el possible, l’impossible, l’absurd.)



Al capdavall, l’autor es caga (i qui es caga la caga grossa) i la bona dona calda no és dona, és dimoni disfressat.



I doncs, ara el llibre espatllat sense remei.



El pastitx es clou amb una invocació i un retret i una admonició a la “verge” i per extensió a totes les “verges” monàstiques? Qui quan l’Agnes, penedida d’haver cardat sense haver-se abans casat i amb un bordet al pit qui la prioressa vol mort, li demana perdó i compassió, i la “verge” l’envia a la merda.



Haughty lady, why shrank you back when yon poor frail one drew near? Was the air infected by her errors? Was your purity soiled by her passing breath?



Lady, to look with mercy on the conduct of others is a virtue no less than to look with severity on your own.



Res.





~0~0~





10 de maig 2010.



Llegit, d’en Gore Vidal, Duluth (1983)





Patafi empastifat on els anys setanta surten suposadament retratats, amb una vila on l’empatollada guerra guerrejada faiçó urbana té lloc.



(Tècnica sòlita de totes les bòfies estatals.) A deserted hovel on whose walls Viva Castro has been painted over and over again by agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigations in order to make it seem as if Castro is behind all the disorder in the barrios, when, actually, it is the FBI itself that instigates most of the riots.



“That ID could be a forgery. Like the uniform.” Captain Eddie, like every police chief in the nation, hates and fears the FBI even more than he hates and fears Communists.



“We got the CIA on Nixon’s tail. Of course he’s got the FBI on our tail. J. Edgar Hoover is Nixon’s man. He’s been dating Betty Grable, by the way. Hoover, that is.”



“I thought Hoover was a fag.”



“He is, but that doesn’t mean he can’t use a beard from time to time.”



(...)



(Insinuant que l’FBI en foren els assassins o, si més no, còmplices per omissió.) “After all, they got Kennedy.”



“Who killed Kennedy?”



“Which one?”



“Either one.”



(...)



You always can tell if the CIA is involved in a political murder if the police are able to find a diary that shows just how lone and crazed the patsy of choice is.



The world knows that anyone who keeps both a diary and a photograph of Jodie Foster is a lone, crazed killer, eager to kill a television president or mayor or even a chief of police on television.



(...)



(Fantasies de marieta, amb el biaix punxegut, com a Myra.) She hopes that he will just hold her in his arms for six or seven hours. That is all she wants in this world. But then that is all that any woman ever wants.



Adult bookstores are losing money, as no one can read anymore. So cut back on all books except kiddie-porn.



Cada llibre fa un món — un món ficte, com qualsevol altre.



Dolentot; rucades rai; grotescs episodis onírics que recorden, amb menys gràcia, les rutines d’en Burroughs.





~0~0~






El vuit de maig 2008.



Llegits, seguits, també d’en Gore Vidal, doncs, Myra Breckinridge, 1968.



I, en acabat, llegit el feble subproducte: Myron, 1974.






Montag refuses too accept any evidence that does not entirely square with his preconceptions.



(Bisbe borni, mitrat.) Mitred one-eyed beast. (La cigala amb prepuci o barretina.)



Like all analysts, Randolph is interested only in himself. In fact, I have often thought that the analyst should pay the patient for allowing himself to be used as a captive looking-glass.



(Penombra sexual mai resolta. Justificatiu per a l’autor, mes poc interessant per al lector. De fet, el film de 1970 amb la Welch i en John Huston millor que no el llibre; les imatges si més no colpeixen amb més força que no el text, molt apagat. L’esca del relat encesa probablement ran d’un dels contes (el d’en Shubunkin) de l’associació manipuladora que en Nigel Dennis dibuixa excel·lentment a Cards of Identity, 1955, llibre que jo llegia recentment.)



(...)



(No sé si és l’autor o el personatge qui s’erra, car als somnis prou pots llegir i escriure — sobretot si ets un escriptor!) Normally I would think that I was dreaming except that in your usual dream you can’t read anything at all no matter how hard you try...



The suicide of George Sanders [a Castelldefels, prou me’n record] was an act of self-definition equal to my own; and all honor to one who found it better to be dead than bored.



According to police statistics, cooks [i els oficis veïns de metge, soldat, botxí i boquer!] are responsible for more acts of violence than are the members of any other profession except that of the police themselves [tots acostumats a matar impunement].



(Per comptes de “cigala” diu el nom d’algun dels jutges del tribunal suprem.) Let’s hope J. Edgar’s having a ball or two up there in the biggest closet of them all, making it with Dillinger, a plaster cast of whose rehnquist I am told (he) used to keep under his pillow. (Per a encular-se’n.)



The death of Marilyn Monroe at the hands of the two Kennedys.



(El cinema com a literatura aberrant.) No, Breckinridge, you are my aberration.



(...)



Tot plegat molt poc.





~o~o~