"Estamos solos. La soledad, fondo de donde brota la angustia, empezΓ³ el dΓa en que nos desprendimos del Γ‘mbito materno y caΓmos en un mundo extraΓ±o y hostil. Hemos caΓdo; y esta caΓda, este sabernos caΓdos, nos vuelve culpables. ΒΏDe quΓ©? De un delito sin nombre: el haber nacido".
El laberinto de la soledad,
Octavio Paz.
"El laberinto de la soledad" habla de la caΓda de un hombre en el abismo de su propio ser y su difΓcil, su casi imposible, retorno a la luz del mundo.
ΒΏQuΓ© es un mexicano?, se pregunta el poeta que esto escribiΓ³, y que responde al nombre de Octavio Paz.
Mas para responder a tal pregunta, Paz no convoca a las musas, sino que desciende por sΓ mismo a la morada de los muertos, la morada de la Historia.
Ve, en su descender, las antiguas pirΓ‘mides de piedra volcΓ‘nica, donde aΓΊn parece latir el corazΓ³n de los sacrificados al Sol. Ve la majestad de los dioses antiguos, QuetzalcΓ³atl, la serpiente de plumas, y Tezcatlipoca, el espejo humeante.
Ve luego, como una ola que todo lo inunda, la llegada de otros hombres desde el mar, hombres de hierro y cruz, hombres de otra palabra y otro dios, que rompieron aquel mundo de obsidiana y maΓz como Aquiles rompiΓ³ con su lanza las apretadas filas troyanas.
De aquel encuentro violento, de aquella herida que no cierra con el paso de los siglos, naciΓ³ un pueblo nuevo y desgarrado. NaciΓ³, como dice el poeta, el hijo de la Malinche, el huΓ©rfano de padre, el que lleva en su sangre la espada del vencedor y el llanto silencioso del vencido. Y de aquella herida, oh mortales, naciΓ³ su mΓ‘scara.
Pues este hombre del que canta Paz es un ser de apariencias y silencios. Es un hombre que se cubre el rostro con una sonrisa cuando debiera mostrar la ira, que guarda silencio cuando las palabras le quemarΓan la lengua.
Habla poco y cuando habla, dice menos. Anda entre los suyos como un extranjero, y solo en la soledad deja caer las vestiduras que lo cubren.
Solo en la fiesta, en ese estallido de colores y pΓ³lvora que nada tiene que envidiar a las dionisΓacas, se desnuda su alma y muestra por un instante su verdadero ser. Solo ante la muerte, que en esta tierra no es el final oscuro y temible sino una vieja amiga con la que se juega y se baila, el mexicano se rΓe de su propia sombra.
Porque la muerte, en este libro, es un motivo donde la vida se mira y descubre su vacΓo o su plenitud.
Canta tambiΓ©n Octavio Paz el poder del "grito" y el enigma profundo de la "chingada", palabras que encierran en su vulgaridad todo el misterio de un pueblo que se sabe nacido de la violencia y la entrega, de la violaciΓ³n y el abandono.
Nos lleva por calles de nombres extraΓ±os y polvorientos, por plazas donde el tiempo palidece, por altares donde el maΓz se vuelve ofrenda y la calavera de azΓΊcar se come con dulzura entre los vivos.
Y en todo ello descubre al hombre solo, al hombre que, entre las olas embravecidas, navega entre la multitud sin ser visto, oculto tras la mΓ‘scara que Γ©l mismo se ha tejido para protegerse de la mirada ajena.
Mas no es este un canto de tristeza y lamento, en "El laberinto de la soledad" Octavio Paz canta la soledad del mexicano para que, conociΓ©ndola en toda su hondura, pueda romper los muros de su propio laberinto. Porque el laberinto, oh amigos y lectores de mi post no fue construido para que en Γ©l se viva eternamente, sino para que, tras el esfuerzo y la bΓΊsqueda, se encuentre la salida hacia la luz.
AsΓ termino mi reseΓ±a sobre este extraΓ±o y profundo libro, que sin hablar de dioses ni de hΓ©roes, sin narrar batallas ni naufragios, habla de lo divino y lo heroico que anida en el corazΓ³n de los hombres cuando estos tienen el valor de mirarse a sΓ mismos sin las mΓ‘scaras que los cubren.
El viaje mΓ‘s largo, el mΓ‘s peligroso, no es el que se hace sobre las olas del ponto desde Troya hasta Γtaca, sino el que se emprende desde los ojos hacia adentro, hacia ese reino oscuro y silencioso donde habita, desnuda y temblorosa, nuestra verdad.
βοΈ Contenido Original en espaΓ±ol y traducciΓ³n al inglΓ©s en Google Translation.
π²π½πππ π»πππ’πππππ ππ ππππππππ|ππ΄π πΈπ΄π (π΄ππΏ-π΄π½πΆ)
"We are alone. Solitude, the wellspring of anguish, began the day we were separated from the maternal realm and fell into a strange and hostile world. We have fallen; and this fall, this awareness of having fallen, makes us guilty. Of what? Of a nameless crime: having been born."
The Labyrinth of Solitude,
Octavio Paz.
"The Labyrinth of Solitude" speaks of a man's fall into the abyss of his own being and his difficult, almost impossible, return to the light of the world.
"What is a Mexican?" asks the poet who wrote this, whose name is Octavio Paz.
But to answer this question, Paz does not summon the muses, but rather descends himself into the abode of the dead, the abode of History.
In his descent, he sees the ancient pyramids of volcanic stone, where the hearts of those sacrificed to the Sun still seem to beat. He sees the majesty of the ancient gods, Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent, and Tezcatlipoca, the smoking mirror.
Then, like an all-encompassing wave, came other men from the sea, men of iron and cross, men of a different word and a different god, who shattered that world of obsidian and corn as Achilles broke through the tight Trojan ranks with his spear.
From that violent encounter, from that wound that does not heal with the passage of centuries, a new and torn people was born. Born, as the poet says, was the son of La Malinche, the fatherless one, the one who carries in his blood the sword of the victor and the silent weeping of the vanquished. And from that wound, oh mortals, his mask was born.
For this man of whom Paz sings is a being of appearances and silences. He is a man who covers his face with a smile when he should show anger, who remains silent when words would burn his tongue.
He speaks little, and when he does, he says even less. He walks among his own people like a stranger, and only in solitude does he shed the garments that cover him.
Only at the festival, in that explosion of colors and gunpowder that rivals the Dionysian revels, does his soul bare and reveal, for an instant, his true self. Only before death, which in this land is not a dark and fearsome end but an old friend with whom one plays and dances, does the Mexican laugh at his own shadow.
Because death, in this book, is a motif upon which life reflects and discovers its emptiness or its fullness.
Octavio Paz also sings of the power of the "cry" and the profound enigma of "la chingada," words that, in their vulgarity, encapsulate all the mystery of a people who know themselves to be born of violence and surrender, of rape and abandonment.
He takes us through streets with strange, dusty names, through plazas where time pales, past altars where corn becomes an offering and sugar skulls are eaten sweetly among the living.
And in all of this, he discovers the solitary man, the man who, amidst the raging waves, navigates the crowd unseen, hidden behind the mask he himself has woven to protect himself from the gaze of others.
But this is not a song of sadness and lament. In "The Labyrinth of Solitude," Octavio Paz sings of the Mexican's solitude so that, by understanding it in all its depth, he may break down the walls of his own labyrinth. For the labyrinth, oh friends and readers of my post, was not built for one to live in eternally, but so that, after effort and searching, one may find the way out to the light.
Thus ends my review of this strange and profound book, which, without speaking of gods or heroes, without narrating battles or shipwrecks, speaks of the divine and the heroic that dwells in the hearts of men when they have the courage to look at themselves without the masks that cover them.
The longest, most dangerous journey is not the one made across the waves of the sea from Troy to Ithaca, but the one undertaken from the eyes inward, toward that dark and silent realm where our truth dwells, naked and trembling.
The longest, most dangerous journey is not the one made across the waves of the sea from Troy to Ithaca, but the one undertaken from the eyes inward, toward that dark and silent realm where our truth resides, naked and trembling.
βοΈ Original content in Spanish and translation into English in Google Translation.
