I found Atreyu’s dragon beneath the Tree of the Sad Night (now Victorious night). He said his name was Quetzil. When I asked him about his feathers he slithered, trying to leave.
My father used to take my brother and me to the CU stadium when we were kids. I never felt a strong attachment for the Pumas and that was long before I studied in the University, but going to the stadium was an intimate adventure between the three of us, sharing the football language and rituals. From those days I remember the amazing goals of Luis García, Jorge Campos, and the clever phrases from the Pumas supporters that suddenly broke the crowd’s hustle after a silence that hoovered any other noise.
I remember the cold weather, maybe caused by the cement seats and the strong draughts. On those days I have just seen a movie about Chivas, from the Campeonísimo period. Because of that, Luis García’s goals, the color of Campos and the influence of The Wonder Years series, every midday at the stadium besides following the game, I narrated myself the scene as if I was remembering it in a very distant future, as if I was living a historic moment. I don’t totally recall those narrations but I wasn’t mistaken by thinking that those experiences would be historic and unrepeatable. That what we tell ourselves about our present (even in a fake nostalgic tense) is not necessarily what shapes and leaves a mark on us. The stamp is the shock, the sound of a ball being kicked utterly hard, the roaring of the crowd, the fragrance of the ate guava candy given away by the Morelia rival fans.
Last November the 20th, thousands of people of many colors and from every corner of the country marched together, aching, outraged and fed up. When I saw this kid with the UNAM flag I wanted to look what he was looking, to imagine what was thrilling him, and how he sill narrate himself that afternoon when he held the flag along with his family, among so many people, united, screaming and singing.
We recall. We couldn’t foresee the damage, the implications. ‘Infancy’, we fathom out today. ‘Infancy’, we breathe in as we tuck the shattered dust into our bellies.
From a very early age, perhaps the age of five or six, I knew that when I grew up I should be a writer. Between the ages of about seventeen and twenty-four I tried to abandon this idea, but I did so with the consciousness that I was outraging my true nature and that sooner or later I should have to settle down and write books.
I was the middle child of three, but there was a gap of five years on either side, and I barely saw my father before I was eight. For this and other reasons I was somewhat lonely, and I soon developed disagreeable mannerisms which made me unpopular throughout my schooldays. I had the lonely child’s habit of making up stories and holding conversations with imaginary persons, and I think from the very start my literary ambitions were mixed up with the feeling of being isolated and undervalued. I knew that I had a facility with words and a power of facing unpleasant facts, and I felt that this created a sort of private world in which I could get my own back for my failure in everyday life. Nevertheless the volume of serious — i.e. seriously intended — writing which I produced all through my childhood and boyhood would not amount to half a dozen pages. I wrote my first poem at the age of four or five, my mother taking it down to dictation. I cannot remember anything about it except that it was about a tiger and the tiger had “chair-like teeth” — a good enough phrase, but I fancy the poem was a plagiarism of Blake’s “Tiger, Tiger.” At eleven, when the war or 1914-18 broke out, I wrote a patriotic poem which was printed in the local newspaper, as was another, two years later, on the death of Kitchener. From time to time, when I was a bit older, I wrote bad and usually unfinished “nature poems” in the Georgian style. I also attempted a short story which was a ghastly failure. That was the total of the would-be serious work that I actually set down on paper during all those years. Continúa leyendo Why I Write. George Orwell