Voy a postear pedazos de mis trabajos. Espero no les moleste pero pues si esto es la máscara performativa por la cual nos damos a conocer en la red pues qué mejor que pegotear lo que de verdad está ocupandolo a uno en vez de andarse con cuentos de porque SufroSufroSufro. Hasta a mi me aburre mi propia monotematicidad.
en fin:
Once the night has settled there is one sentence that might resume everything about human’s finite condition: “La tierra, ‘este valle de lágrimas’”. The line from the ghostly Pedro Páramo presents our dust as tears of a vale inhabited by nothingness. According to Rulfo, we suffer therefore we live; Eliot would say that this hollowness is what they who have crossed to death’s realm see of us who remain here
Remember us – if at all – not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
To be stuffed with hollowness is to be filled with absence. This absence is what human’s moaning portrays all the time. The ever-present unnerving sensation of incompleteness is what makes us part of Rulfo’s vale. These wishes and whims are always after something unattainable or that has ceased to be. To remember the absence that fills us, is to stress each time what makes us hapless.
The sense of this absence becomes a reminder that the passing of time will be the guiding ghost as we grow older in experiences and absences. Human accumulates ghosts at the same time as experiences. It is coping with everyday life that these wraiths will be freed, and if not, memories may become demons that haunt us. The descriptions of every day’s disappointments help to relief the burden of this grief. Thomas Hardy’s poetry portrays the essence of this dealing with battles that always seem to be lost in advance. Being this probably the cause of his reputation as a pessimistic poet. Hardy’s poetry always scrutinizes the inner ghosts of disappointment revealing the hollowness of the loneliness and desertion.
Haga ud. de leer a Hardy con una caja de clínex y su buena tacita de té. do add some biscuits.
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