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Sexo y saxofón

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Gonzalo Arango

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“There were some people in Rayya’s life who had more piercing questions about the omnipresent bottles of bitters than did I. They’d say, “Wait, aren’t you sober? Are you really supposed to be drinking that stuff?” “It’s just herbs,” she would say. “For my digestion.” “But it’s got alcohol in it,” they might protest. Because multiple times over the years—more times than I can count—I watched Rayya blink in amazement and then say with convincing sincerity, “Really? It does? Oh my gosh. I didn’t know that!” I even remember someone once showing Rayya the label of the bottle and pointing to the spot that read “44.7% alc./vol.” To which Rayya responded, “Wow, I can’t even read that without my glasses.” Once I even heard her say to someone, “Bitters aren’t really the same thing as regular alcohol. It’s, like, burnt alcohol.” (His reply? “I don’t know, Ray. I’m pretty sure 44.7 percent alcohol means 44.7 percent alcohol.”) Looking back on it now, I have trouble making sense of how I made sense of this extreme cognitive dissonance. I was watching an allegedly sober person drink every day without admitting that she was drinking—and right in front of my eyes. I was also watching the single most honest person I had ever met pretending—again and again—that she didn’t know her alcoholic drink had alcohol in it. But here’s where my disease comes in: because I somehow made all this okay. I overlooked it, rather than looking it over. I had to overlook it. My fear- and need-addled brain could not handle a reality in which Rayya had any weaknesses or character flaws whatsoever, because she had become my place of safety. Rayya was trustworthiness to me, embodied in human form. And I could not let go of that. I had to keep living in a storyline where Rayya was the soul of all integrity—or else my terror of the world would come back, and I could not bear to have my terror of the world come back. It is truly incredible what you cannot see, when you cannot bear to see it.”

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Book:All the Way to the River
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“Y lo que, por el contrario, me sucede a mí en las raras horas de placer, lo que para mí es delicia, suceso, elevación y éxtasis, eso no lo conoce, ni lo ama, ni lo busca el mundo más que si acaso en las novelas; en la vida, lo considera una locura. Y en efecto, si el mundo tiene razón, si esta música de los cafés, estas diversiones en masa, estos hombres americanos contentos con tan poco tienen razón, entonces soy yo el que no la tiene, entonces es verdad que estoy loco, entonces soy efectivamente el lobo estepario que tantas veces me he llamado, la bestia descarriada en un mundo que le es extraño e incomprensible, que ya no encuentra ni su hogar, ni su ambiente, ni su alimento.”

LifeCapitalismExistentialismModern LifeExistencialismoHesseLoboVida ModernaLobo Estepario
Book:Steppenwolf
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“Cada item de sua casa abrigava memórias das quais ela era então a única detentora. Ela me contou que todos os instrumentos seriam distribuídos a estrangeiros que jamais saberiam suas histórias ou os apreciariam como ela. E, um dia,sua própria morte apagaria, por fim, todas as ricas memórias incrustadas na espineta, no violoncelo, nas flautas, nos flautins e em muitos outros instrumentos. Seu passado sucumbiria juntamente com ela. (...) Agora ela sabia realmente que também era transitória, apenas de passagem pela casa, assim como todos os moradores anteriores. E a casa também era transitória e iria desaparecer algum dia para dar lugar a outra no mesmo terreno. O processo de abrir mão de seus bens e de se mudar foi uma experiência reveladora para Alice, que sempre havia se abrigado na ilusão confortável e acalentadora de uma vida ricamente mobiliada e atapetada. Agora ela aprendia que o luxo das posses materiais a havia protegido da esterilidade da existência.”

ExistencialismoTransitoriedade
Book:Staring at the Sun: Overcoming the Terror of Death
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“Philip dobló, caminó junto al puerto de embarcaciones deportivas; luego atravesó Chrissy Field hasta llegar a la bahía y bordeó la orilla del Pacífico, donde las olas serenas que rompían en la playa y el atemporal aroma salino del mar lo serenaron.Tiritó y se abotonó la chaqueta. En la menguante luz del día, el viento frío del Pacífico atravesaba el Golden Gate y pasaba por su lado a toda velocidad, así como las horas de su vida eternamente pasarían, raudas, sin proporcionarle calor ni placer. El viento presagiaba la escarcha de interminables días futuros, días glaciales en los que se levantaría de la cama sin esperanza de que el porvenir le deparara un hogar, amor, contacto de piel, alegría. La mansión de pensamiento puro que había erigido era helada. Qué extraño que no lo hubiera notado antes. Siguió adelante, pero con la tenue certidumbre de que su casa, su vida entera, se había construido sobre cimientos endebles y falsos”

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Book:The Schopenhauer Cure
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