literatura

Contenidos relativos a literatura, lingüística, traducción, etc.

525

The gods have given me almost everything. I had genius, a distinguished name, high social position, brilliancy, intellectual daring; I made art a philosophy and philosophy an art: I altered the minds of men and the colours of things; there was nothing I said or did that did not make people wonder. I took the drama, the most objective form known to art, and made it as personal a mode of expression as the lyric or sonnet; at the same time I widened its range and enriched its characterisation. Drama, novel, poem in prose, poem in rhyme, subtle or fantastic dialogue, whatever I touched, I made beautiful in a new mode of beauty: to truth itself I gave what is false no less than what is true as its rightful province, and showed that the false and the true are merely forms of intellectual existence. I treated art as the supreme reality and life as a mere form of fiction. I awoke the imagination of my century so that it created myth and legend around me. I summed up all systems in a phrase and all existence in an epigram. Along with these things I had things that were different. But I let myself be lured into long spells of senseless and sensual ease. I amused myself with being a flâneur, a dandy, a man of fashion. I surrounded myself with the smaller natures and the meaner minds. I became the spendthrift of my own genius, and to waste an eternal youth gave me a curious joy. Tired of being in the highs, I deliberately went to the depths in the search for new sensation. What the paradox was to me in the sphere of thought, perversity became to me in the sphere of passion. Desire, at the end, was a malady, or a madness, or both. I grew careless of the lives of others. I took pleasure where it pleased me, and passed on. I forgot that every little action of the common day makes or unmakes character, and that therefore what one has done in the secret chamber one has some day to cry aloud on the house-tops. I ceased to be lord over myself. I was no longer the captain of my soul, and did not know it. I allowed pleasure to dominate me. I ended in horrible disgrace. There is only one thing for me now, absolute humility.

[Extracted from De Profundis, by O. Wilde]

524

El dolor verdadero no hace ruido.
Deja un susurro como el de las hojas
del álamo mecidas por el viento,
un rumor entrañable, de tan honda
vibración, tan sensible al menor roce,
que puede hacerse soledad, discordia,
injusticia o despecho. Estoy oyendo
su murmurado son que no alborota
sino que da armonía, tan buido
y sutil, tan timbrado de espaciosa
serenidad, en medio de esta tarde,
que casi es ya cordura dolorosa,
pura resignación. Traición que vino
de un ruin consejo de la seca boca
de la envidia. Es lo mismo. Estoy oyendo
lo que me obliga y me enriquece a costa
de heridas que aún supuran. Dolor que oigo
muy recogidamente como a fronda
mecida sin buscar señas, palabras
o significación. Música sola,
sin enigmas, son solo que traspasa
mi corazón, dolor que es mi victoria.

[Como el son de las hojas del álamo, extraído de Alianza y Condena, de Claudio Rodríguez]

Ya sé q tengo un humor algo negro, pero…

– ¿Qué te parece la lista de invitados a la boda?

– Normal, no sé. Una lista más o menos típica, vamos, no sé. Bien, digo yo. No es demasiada gente, ni nada.

– Pues hay algo en ella un tanto sorprendente.

– Cuéntame.

– Los invitados.

– Qué.

– Todos los invitados.

– ¿Qué narices pasa con los invitados?

– Fíjate. Todos están muertos.