#30Libros Dia 3 Trópico de Cancer de Arthur Miller

Un libro que sea un placer culposo

Trópico de Cáncer no es una novela para una persona de 13 años, pero fue a esa edad cuando lo leí. Mas allá de su supuesta pornografía, de su sutil lenguaje, de sus extraordinarias imagenes, lo que me impresiono mas del libro fueron sus imágenes de Paris: lugar para amar, para ser amado, para descubrir todo aquello que la humanidad podía brindar. Tuve que leerla en la clandestinidad de mi cuarto. El pasaje que describe Paris lo dice todo:

"One can live in Paris—I discovered that!—on just grief and anguish. A bitter nourishment—perhaps the best there is for certain people. At any rate, I had not yet come to the end of my rope. I was only flirting with disaster. ... I understood then why it is that Paris attracts the tortured, the hallucinated, the great maniacs of love. I understood why it is that here, at the very hub of the wheel, one can embrace the most fantastic, the most impossible theories, without finding them in the least strange; it is here that one reads again the books of his youth and the enigmas take on new meanings, one for every white hair. One walks the streets knowing that he is mad, possessed, because it is only too obvious that these cold, indifferent faces are the visages of one's keepers. Here all boundaries fade away and the world reveals itself for the mad slaughterhouse that it is. The treadmill stretches away to infinitude, the hatches are closed down tight, logic runs rampant, with bloody cleaver flashing."

Desde ese momento siempre quise ir a Paris...

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