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Diciembre 04, 2009
I have no biography - Milorad Pavic
Originalmente en khazars.com
Un día oracular leí una novela que se titulaba El Diccionario jázaro. Todavía conservo el ejemplar femenino de esa primera lectura guardado entre otros libros de mi afecto -que he abandonado y espero un día recuperar. Sin embargo, ese libro a menudo regresa. Atraviesa el océano y mi pensamiento al igual que los cazadores de sueños de la historia se persiguen fatalmente. A menudo recuerdo la imagen del cazador que en su larga travesía por el desierto se tiende junto a una palmera a descansar y de pronto descubre que la sed de la palmera sueña el agua. A veces, sin poder explicarlo, se veo el reflejo de la princesa que lleva escrito en el párpado del ojo un secreto en tinta envenenada, por lo que le están vedados los espejos. De vez en cuando me vuelvo a sumergir en la idea de que los askenazí fueron los jázaros (aunque lo hayan olvidado) y que la secta de los cazadores de sueños no terminará nunca de salir de la persecución dentro del laberinto, que el laberinto es la persecución misma. Un día le escribí al autor de esa novela. Hacía mucho tiempo había abierto una cuenta de correo que llevaba el nombre uno de los personajes femeninos de uno de sus cuentos menos conocidos, el más secreto, mi favorito. Supongo que le hizo gracia . Me contestó muy amable y me dio sin pedir nada a cambio lo que le solicité. Hoy me he enterado que ha muerto el escritor serbio y siento una gran pena. Siempre pensé que volvería a escribirle para decirle que leí su cuento “Partida de ajedrez con piezas mexicanas” -en el que hace una suerte de pase mágico a la manera de Cortázar en “La noche boca arriba”- y le preguntaría si es parte de una broma el gazapo en donde ubica a Teotihuacán. Estoy segura de que me habría contestado, le habría hecho gracia encontrar una vez más en su buzón el email de su personaje salido de un macbookpro. Por esa y otras suertes de espectralidad de la web dejaré que sea él quien yéndose, regrese para contar su vida. Con el deseo de que regrese siempre. Mikaina
Autobiography
I have been a writer for two hundred years now. Long ago, in 1766, a Pavic published a collection of poems in Budim and we have considered ourselves a family of writers ever since.
I was born in 1929 on the banks of one of the four rivers of Paradise, at 8:30 in the morning, under the sign of Libra (ascendant Scorpio), or, according to the Aztec horoscope, the Snake.
The first time bombs rained down on me I was twelve. The second time I was fifteen. In between those two bombings I fell in love for the first time and was made to learn German under the German occupation. I also learned English secretly from a gentleman who smoked fragrant pipe tobacco. At the same time I forgot French for the first time (I was later to forget it twice more).
Finally, in a kennel where I had sought shelter from the Anglo-American bombing, an emigre Russian imperial officer started teaching me Russian from books of poems by Fet and Tyutchev, the only Russian books he had. Today I think learning languages was a kind of transformation into different bewitching animals.
I have loved two Johns - John of Damascus and John Chrysostom (the Golden-Tongued).
I have been far more successful at love in my books than in my life. With one exception, which continues to this day. In my sleep night sweetly clasped both cheeks.
I was the most unread writer in my country until 1984, after which I became the most widely read.
I wrote one novel in the form of a dictionary, a second in the form of a crossword, a third in the form of a clepsydra and a fourth in the form of a tarot book. I tried to be as little trouble to these novels as possible. I believe the novel is a kind of cancer - it lives of it’s metastasis.
To my astonishment, my books have already been translated 73 times into different languages. In short, I have no biography. I have only a bibliography.
Critics in France and Spain have remarked that I am the first writer of the 21st century, but I lived in the 20th century when innocence not guilt had to be proven.
I knew I should not touch the living with the same hand that had touched the dead in my dreams.
The greatest disappointments in my life have come from my victories. Victory does not pay.
I have not killed anyone. But they have killed me. Long before my death. It would have been better for my books had their author been a Turk or a German. I was the best known writer of the most hated nation in the world - the Serbian nation.
XXI century started for me avant la date 1999. when NATO airforces bombed Belgrade and Serbia. Since that moment the river Danube on whose banks I was born is not navigable.
I think God graced me with infinite favor by granting me the joy of writing, and punished me in equal measure, precisely because of that joy perhaps.
Enviado el 04 de Diciembre. << Volver a la página principal << |
