Letters in Books: O trapecista da malla de rombos

A literatura parece capturar a pura esencia da infancia. Fala do noso eu pequeniño de xeito cativador e envolvente, lonxe do discurso construtivista que categoriza aos/ás nenos/as como "proxectos de persoas" dependentes e inestables que cómpre coidar e educar para que alcancen o seu desenvolvemento pleno.

Por iso nos fascinan personaxes memorables coma Susana (A nena do abrigo de astracán) Oliver (Oliver Twist), Matilda, Balbino (Memorias dun neno labrego), Alice (Alice in Wonderland), Bruno (The Boy in the Striped Pajamas), Anne (Anne of Green Gables), Dorothy (The Wonderful Wizard of Oz) ou Tom (The Adventures of Tom Sawyer).  A través deles recuperamos a frescura e a coloquialidade da voz que nós tamén tivemos unha vez. Recoñecemos a nobreza, o enxeño e a inocencia que eles/as destilan e que pode que nós conservemos... pero xa un tanto esfarrapados.

Fóronsenos esfiañando no camiño cara o desenvolvemento pleno. Fai falta zurcilos. Remendalos cos fíos das historias que nos levan de volta transitoria á patria da infancia que dicía Rilke. Contos que nos fan reabrir o noso baúl (M. Carol), contemplar o remuíño de soños e  ilusión que contén e meternos dentro a apalpar a súa substancia e profundidade. 

Contos coma O trapecista da malla de rombos (2018), a novela máis recente de Alberto Canal. Ao engado dun personaxe peterpanesco únese o atractivo da singularidade e o misterio de Benposta, a Ciudad de los Muchachos. Benposta, unha "cidade" cun autogoberno democrático e autarquía económica que naceu en 1956 e durou uns corenta anos.  A súa Escola do Circo perseguía unha función social e inclusiva, similar ao programa Cirque du Monde do Cirque du Soleil. Acolleu a uns 200 nenos e nenas nos seus 40 anos de existencia.

Fidel desexa ser Iupanki, o trapecista da malla de rombos. Quere ser volteador, e esa ilusión será a súa forza motriz:

"Viña de sufrir un forte ataque de ilusión e iso fixo que por unha miga se sentise o neno máis feliz do mundo" (p.17)

"Non se decatan de que están a xogar cun dos sentimentos máis importantes da historia da humanidade: a ilusión dun neno por interpretar unha cantiga que procura felicidade para o corazón doutros nenos" (p.95) 

"... a memoria do soño de Benposta pervivirá por sempre, porque ningún destes milhomes que se senten poderosos será capaz de matar a ilusión que provoca nos corazóns dos nenos a chegada do circo a calquera lugar do mundo" (p.167)

"Crer, cren os maiores; os nenos só temos ilusión" (p.193) 

Iupanki é o protagonista indiscutible, pero a historia ocorre figurada e literalmente por riba da súa cabeza, no mundo adulto onde os soños deben camiñar pola corda frouxa das acusacións de explotación infantil ou pederastia.

Se Iupanki é o volteador, Benposta e a súa comunidade son o seu portor. Entre os dous (individuo e comunidade) executan o exercicio de equilibrio, balance e tempo. Iupanki non pode realizar as súas piruetas sen as presas de mans que lle serven de apoio no poliedro da vida: Nuna, Maeko, Ruxandra, o padre Silveira, Moacir e os demais. 

"... a Grande Aventura, e esta consistía en vivir unha morea de experiencias humanas na rúa, que lles ensinaban aos rapaces a valorar as cousas importantes da vida" (p.65)

Non se trata dun adoutrinamento. Iupanki é o epítome da resiliencia e a loita por conseguir os obxectivos propostos partindo da súa propia avaliación das circunstancias. A súa agulla de marear sinala a terra dos soños e colle o camiño menos transitado para emerxer ao outro lado da infancia, alén das convencións sociais, a discriminación e os prexuízos. A medida que vai adquirindo a axilidade e o equilibrio do acróbata, vai conformando a súa propia definición do que é a ilusión (p.183).

Canal confronta hábilmente a inocencia do neno cos paradoxos do mundo real, desenmascarando con brutal sutileza as deficiencias da nosa sociedade coma se dunha fábula se tratase, moi ao xeito de  A. de Saint-Exupéry. Non é que faga unha idealización da infancia pero, como en Benposta, quédanos claro que "... os nenos sempre ocupan o cumio da pirámide da xente importante" (p.34).

Saltos, volteos e rotacións argumentais sucédense ao ritmo do gran himno da ilusión, alternándose no poliedro deste circo que é o mundo. Todo o relato constitúe un exercicio de preparación para a "execución d[a] gran pirueta mortal" (p.9) que se presaxia na primeirísima páxina. E como veladura traslúcida deste gran cadro, o amor incipiente de Nuna e Iupanki ou o amor doente de Ruxandra e Moacir:

"Iupanki nunca lera nada tan fermoso como aquela carta de amor que mesmo parecía que fora escrita co sangue que a Ruxandra lle abrollaba do corazón" (p.134)

"O mundo non pode vivir sen ilusión" 

(p.141)

Para saber máis:

• Noticia en La Voz de Galicia (01/04/2016)
• Noticia en el diario.es (05/10/2013)
• Noticia no Faro de Vigo sobre o falecemento do Padre Silva (03/09/2011)
• Noticia en El Mundo (05/12/2004)
• Libro Community Worker's Guide: When Circus Lessons Become Life Lessons (2010)

Unsent Letters

I recently came across this article by The New York Times about unsent letters. It talks about Abraham Lincoln and how when he  felt the urge to tell someone off, he would compose what he called a “hot letter.” He’d pile all of his anger into a note, “put it aside until his emotions cooled down,” Doris Kearns Goodwin once explained on NPR, “and then write: ‘Never sent. Never signed.’ ”

Source: https://upload.wikimedia.org

It seems this was/is a common practice among public figures. Its purpose is twofold. It serves as a type of emotional catharsis, a way to let it all out without the repercussions of true engagement. And it acts as a strategic catharsis, an exercise in saying what you really think, which Mark Twain (himself a notable non-sender of correspondence) believed provided “unallowable frankness & freedom.”

The article also reflects on how we may have switched the format from paper to screen, but the process is largely the same. We feel angry. And we think of a reply, maybe even write it. Emotions cooled, we proceed in a more reasonable, and reasoned, fashion. Or maybe not, because in the world of social media, the enterprise is far more public, and way easier. When Lincoln wanted to voice his displeasure, he had to find a secretary or a pen. That process alone was a way of exercising self-control. Now we need only click a reply button to rattle off our displeasures publicly, and our own fury seems more socially acceptable since others do it too.

There's even a website where you can spill the beans to someone.

Writing in Books: Mala letra

I love short stories. I think it's probably an acquired taste, and I must thank my American literature teacher, Patricia Fra, for introducing me to the genre and for getting us acquainted with the short stories of William Faulkner, Tennessee Williams, Raymond Carver, Flannery O'Connor or Mark Twain among others. I am a very forgetful person, but the details of  "Barn Burning", "A Good Man is Hard to Find" or "A Rose for Emily" have never escaped my mind.

A short story is so brief that, as the Encyclopaedia Britannica says, "the form encourages economy of setting, concise narrative, and the omission of a complex plot; character is disclosed in action and dramatic encounter but is seldom fully developed. Despite its relatively limited scope, though, a short story is often judged by its ability to provide a “complete” or satisfying treatment of its characters and subject." As a genre, it has received little critical attention, and in fact, in the 19th century there was a prevalence of two words, "sketch" and "tale", which establish the polarities of the milieu out of which the modern short story grew.

However, I share William Boyd's view in this article from The Telegraph where he claims that story-telling is hard-wired into our human discourse and that the short form is more natural to us than longer forms, since the stories we tell to each other are short and there is an unconscious predisposition in our minds for the short narrative.

The last collection of short stories I read was Mala letra (2016), by Sara Mesa. As soon as I saw it, it caught my attention because of its cover, which I am sure most of us are familiar with, thanks to the "Cuadernos de caligrafía Rubio" that were an essential part of our school education.

The stories are a real delight, exploring subjects such as guilt, lack of freedom, prejudices, fear or childhood. Personally, my favorites are "Apenas unos milímetros", "Papá es de goma" and "Mármol". We will focus on the last one in this entry: "Mármol", which is also the story that gives its title to the book.

The story made me recall the movie Monsieur Lazhar, since I think both have the purpose of presenting us with a situation (a suicide at a school, a  student's in the book, a teacher's in the movie), exploring the feelings of the people involved and showing us how they deal with their deep hurts while suffusing the story with sadness as well as humor.

On top of that interesting storyline, the subplot of the story focuses on the act of writing itself, which is the reason why I am posting the entry. The narrator is traumatized by her science teacher, who was obssessed with the way she grabbed the pencil, "Parece que tuvieras un muñón, me decía, se te van a hacer callos en los dedos, así sólo te sale mala letra, vas a escribir bien cueste lo que cueste, ¡vas a escribir bien cueste lo que cueste!, repetía, y me mostraba el reverso del cuadernillo con sus dos dibujitos de las manos - está bien claro, ¿no?-, una cogiendo el lápiz bien, la otra cogiendo el lápiz mal, el secreto para una escritura armoniosa y delicada es tomar bien la pluma, sin apretarla, y escribir siempre despacio, no como yo, bruta, cabezota, terca como una mula, te empeñas en hacerlo mal queriendo" (p.23).


However, and as Banu Mushtaq once said, "Writing is an act of rebellion", and the girl goes on writing, first love letters that she then destroys, because the pleasure really resulted from writing them, "en la libre salida de la mala letra de mi lápiz cogido libremente" (p.26); and then becoming a writer ("more or less a writer" as she says) who still resents that science teacher, "Cuánto me gustaría ahora - si es que aún vive- decirle a aquel maestro que a pesar de coger mal el lápiz, y con mi mala letra incluso, acabé por hacerme escritora" (p.23).

In any case, the story makes us aware of the importance of "creative writing", which neurolinguistics has shown to be really good for your brain, since it combines handwriting and cognitive writing proccesses, memory, information processing and integration and verbal thinking. But beyond these benefits, it can be therapeutic, an enjoyable process, a way out.

“I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells.

Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living.” 

(Dr. Seus)