As if a wild animal had come out from the jungle, belonging to another existence, a separate world. She was so beautiful that despite her humble job, she left me disturbed. “She solemnly approached the toilet without giving me the slightest look, without acknowledging my existence, and disappeared with the sordid receptacle on her head, retreating with her goddess steps. They were probably glass, but on her they looked like rubies. On each side of her nose shone two tiny red points. She wore a red and gold sari of the cheapest cloth. From the back of the house, like a dark statue that walked, the most beautiful woman that I had ever seen in Ceylon entered, Tamil race, Pariah caste. I hid in the shadows to watch who passed by. “One morning, I woke earlier than is my custom. In his refuge, he describes how he defecated in a semi-hidden wooden box that appeared clean every morning, obliging him to wake at dawn to discover the mystery and determine what was literally an obscure act. The book’s extract contextualizes the poet in the summer of 1929, when Neruda was named consul of Ceylon at 25 years of age and lived in a bungalow in Wellawatha, in Colombo. Recently, a series of articles and columns have discussed one of the darker, more obscure episodes recognized by the poet himself, which he narrated in his style in the book “I Confess That I Have Lived” (1974), a publication extensively gathering his memoirs. However, through decades of flowers and recognitions, few have commented about the shadows that have marked Neruda’s life. Wednesday 23 September marked the ninth anniversary of the esteemed poet’s death, which has become a sort of emblem of cultural exportation in Chile. Nobel prizewinner for literature in 1971 and communist militant, he returned to public discussion over the last few days when his name came under consideration to rebaptize what is now known as Arturo Merino Benítez International Airport. The figure of the poet Pablo Neruda has never been free from controversy.
Forty-two years since the death of Pablo Neruda, revisiting the interpretation of an obscure episode the poet described in his book of memoirs, “I Confess That I Have Lived,” in which he himself is the author of a rape.
0 kommentar(er)
