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| Foto de Roberto Gargarella. |
Una nueva etapa. Espacio e imaginario distinto. Una nueva ruta de disciplina para el quehacer. Al comienzo de este nuevo transcurrir, me propongo que mis lecturas de sosiego sean aquellas huellas que dejaron escritoras y escritores sobre el acto de escribir, sobre cómo organizaron su tiempo y espacio alrededor de esta actividad. ¿Qué tienen que decirnos aquellos y aquellas cuya pasión, soledad y disciplina nos regalaron las letras que tiempo después, hoy, llenan nuestras almas? Voy a su encuentro. En varias entradas en el blog estaré compartiendo algunos de los más atesorados fragmentos que iré encontrando o que me encontrarán a mí. Aquí el primero, de Marguerite Duras.
“It is in a house that one is alone. Not outside it, but inside. Outside
in the garden, there are birds and cats. And also, once, a squirrel, and a
ferret. One isn’t alone in a garden. But inside the house, one is so alone that
one can lose one’s bearings. Only now do I realize I’ve been here for ten years. Alone. To write
books that have let me know, and others now, that I was the writer I am. How
did that happen? And how can one Express it? What I can say is that the kind of
solitude found in Neauphle was created by me. For me. An that only in this
house am I alone. To write. To write, not as I had up until then, but to write
books still unknown to me and not yet decide on by anyone.
…
The person who writes books must always be enveloped by a separation
from others. That is the kind of solitude. It is the solitude of the author, of
writing. To begin with, one must ask oneself what the silence surrounding one
is –with practically every step one takes in a house, at every moment of the
day, in every kind of Light from outside or from lamps lit in daytime. This
real, corporeal solitude becomes the inviolable silence of writing.”
-Marguerite Duras, Writing (1993, translated by Mark Polizzotti).