One day years 90, we were walking in the street, we left the hotel des Saints-Peres, et Alvaro Mutis stopped short. We were almost at the corner of rue de Grenelle, and he said, : « Emmanuel, I feel that we walked together so long ago in a street in Cadiz. And we wanted the same discussion. "I must not remember our words. I'm sure if Alvaro Mutis was still alive, he would remember.
Alvaro Mutis maintained a special relationship to life. He lived by handling memory and immediate reality. He always puts his feet in one and one foot in the other. His home, these two worlds never left, they were close, were canned, like Siamese, as a one-way life, for the best. Alvaro Mutis lived his life and other lives, lives that he had lived previously, he would live or later. Alvaro Mutis lived mostly, at all times, accompanied by a young boy, yet this child was called Alvarito, it was all our appointments. Carmen, Alvaro wife, accepted his presence even if it was not his son. I've never met anyone like Alvaro Mutis. I mean that the presence of him, His presence next to the same child adult a certain age had something terrifying and intriguing. I told him often. I said that Bernanos, he loved, also had to live with and embodied self afterglow of young beside him.
I come here to tell what I know Alvaro Mutis, Maqroll of el Gaviero and some other… Recent years have been slow and long. We used to correspond much less. It wrote more. He wrote not so long. The tremors had taken precedence. A certain emptiness also. Everything was doomed to disappear as the strain of the dead tree disappeared in a week in the humid furnace of Amsud. Everything had to go, and this spectacle of life in action never ceased to amaze Alvaro Mutis throughout the ninety years he spent on this earth.
Continue reading “Letter to my friend Álvaro Mutis”
The paradox, quite painful for me, is that very young I was already royalist. I could almost say, since childhood. My first readings of history led me to seek whence and how to work the monarchy. I know that the monarchy, as I understand it, and other times experienced it is now unthinkable.[…] For me, a power that comes from a transcendence, of divine origin, and is assumed as such by King, as an obligation to a higher court and be men, is much more convincing. This commitment the king come the source, l'orgigine, the reason for the power which is his for life, and the right of his son to inherit this power, after the coronation ceremony. That seems much more acceptable, and I commune and live with it much better than laws, regulations, codes approved by a majority consensus, to which I must submit and which were created by men in my image. The majority agrees on the fact that the company should be like this or like that, for me it means nothing. For this company deserves my respect, men that I feel concerned by it and that it is entitled to my respect, it must be of superior origin, and not the result of a logical process, chewed and prepared by a group of men who call themselves representatives of a majority of the population. Because in my opinion, then it is the most abominable tyranny that can exist.
extracts Souvenirs and other fantasies, book interviews with Eduardo Garcia Aguilar, Folle Avoine Editions.
[…] The centennial wine mash, the water is sprayed in the cellars.
The power of his arm and bronze shadow.
The window that chronicles her loves and remembers his last battle turns black every day a little more under the smoke of lamps fed a bad oil.
Like the roar of a siren that announces a scarlet boats of fish is the complaint of one who has loved more than any other,
one who left home to sleep against his sword slipped under the pillow and kiss her hard soldier belly.
Like the sails of a ship which swell or collapse, like the dawn dissipates the mist on airfields, Similar to the silent march of a man barefoot in a forest spread the news of his death,
the pain of his wounds open the evening sun, sans pestilence, but with every appearance of a spontaneous dissolution.
The whole truth is not in this story. Lack in words everything that formed the cataract of his life drunk, the scrolls sound of the best of his life that led the singing, his exemplary figure, his sins as so valuable coins, its effective and beautiful arms.
Excerpt from poem the Horseman appeared in Elements of disaster, Editions Grasset. day of tribute to Alvaro Mutis, extraordinary storyteller, great writer, formidable ami.
Fever attracts the song of a bird androgynous
paving the way for insatiable pleasure
which branches and runs through the body of the earth.
Oh ! the unsuccessful sailing around islands
Where women offer the traveler
fraiche balance of their breasts
And heard terrifying deep in their hips !
The soft, smooth skin of the day
discards like the hull of an infamous fruit.
Fever attracts singing sumps
where the water carries trash.
With the poem appeared in Nightlife Elements of disaster, Editions Grasset, I begin this day of tribute to Alvaro Mutis, extraordinary storyteller, great writer, formidable ami.
Alvaro Mutis is a great writer and what does no harm one of my dear friends. As it no longer publishes books for some years, I thought him make a small tribute through quotes “The last stop of Tramp Steamer”, this short novel is full of grace that reading provides Álvaro Mutis. For re-Discover the Colombian writer.
Continue reading “Another stop…”