Showing posts with label Fantasy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fantasy. Show all posts
Tom awoke at exactly 8:15 in the morning.
His eyes did not open gently. His senses did not return with the usual morning delay. His mind did not carry remnants of his previous dream.
He simply awoke.
He sat on the bed and looked out the window. His one room apartment had only one view: an alley.
How many hours had he spent already in his limited lifetime looking out this particular window, at this exact time, every day of his life? Looking at the same dark corners; at the same damp dumpsters; at the same hookers who prowled even at this time of the day.
It was pathetic to him.
He stood and carried out his usual morning routine: undress, shower, shave, brush, dress, comb his hair, make breakfast, clean the dishes afterward, polish his only pair of black shoes and put them on.
He checked the calendar, even though he knew exactly what day it was. He had been dreading this very day for the last year. Every time he went to sleep and woke up the next day, the only thought that raced through his mind was that he was one day closer to this particular day.
And yet, a part of him was anxious to have arrived at this exact point in time. A part of him wanted today to happen. A part of him was happy that he had chosen this day of all the other days and that this day was finally here.
Today he would decide what to do with the world.
Even though he wasn’t exactly sure if he could actually carry out today’s plan, nothing but that simple fact edged him to stop and consider everything all over again. And that little doubt in him was not enough to convince him to change everything again to another day.
This was the day.
At 10 am, exactly, he walked downstairs and, as he passed all his’ neighbors doors, he tried not to pay attention to all the screams and shouts coming from these ‘kind of people’.
He continued downstairs and finally reached the outside driveway. Would he drive or walk? He thought walking might be more pleasing, considering he might never do so again, and decided to take a stroll. He always enjoyed looking at the people who passed him by. He enjoyed trying to figure out if that person was happy or not. You can tell a lot about someone from the way they treat you on the street. Men bumped against him, as they passed him by. They never even seemed to notice he was there, but he was used to this; Women with too many shopping bags, and still finding a way to talk on their cell phone, never even glanced at him as he smiled at them from 2 feet away; Children too enthralled by their own musings to look up at the man walking beside them; Animals picking at whatever scrap they could find on the street or in the trash. All this he was used to. But that didn’t make it right, anyhow.
Everywhere he looked he saw people who didn’t look back; people who didn’t smile; people who didn’t seem to remember that we are here together in this place, to live together, to be together, to know each other’s names, to, at the very least, acknowledge each other’s presence and communicate some greetings.
People who don’t care about other people.
And this was precisely why today was important.
For the past five years he had been waiting, waiting, waiting. He had constantly changed the date, hoping everything would change. Hoping that people would change. He read books, saw movies, went to work and had his occasional fancy dinner – by himself, of course. He didn’t really have any friends. He saved money, spent money, gave away money and even burned it one night to keep an old man’s burning fire aloft. He traveled, he stayed, he wrote, he filmed; he took pictures of everything he liked and meticulously framed them to later on place on his picture collection. But most of all, he watched, he wept and he waited. Every single day of his pathetic, little existence, he cursed the heavens for putting this burden on him. He thought of ending it himself. Just go out one day and do it. But it had frightened him too much. His body had felt like never before and in that split second he seemed to know everything and everyone. He felt close to everything. At least he thought he did. He stopped after the first shift in sensations and cowered back to his apartment. Since then, he promised himself he would never do that again unless it was the right time.
And by what he was seeing today, that time was now.
He thought of what to do. What would be the last thing to enjoy before he destroyed everything? If that’s what would really happen, which Tom had no doubt it would.
Ice cream.
He would eat ice cream.
He loved ice cream the most, out of all foods. Kind of simplistic, come to think of it. Of all the foods in the entire world, he picks ice cream. However, conveniently, he can find ice cream in a store right in front of him. As he heads towards the ice cream shop, he continues to think of everything he sees. How would it be if everything were perfect? Would we actually be better? Would that utopia lead us to greatness or stump us in a stupor from which we could never recover? Is this constant war with oneself; this self righteousness we don’t deserve; this feeling of hopelessness that drives us to want to die; this desire to want more; this fear of everything we can’t control… is all this exactly what makes this society, this race of human beings, great? Should we be excused of our ways of living our lives, simply because we must be wolves to survive? If we lived in utopist societies, would those feelings still exist?
What about love?
What about love?
Love is merely an illusion; a sense of complacency; a way of ‘giving up’ on an alternate future that perhaps would have come out better for you. Love is a way of not having to deal with life in a much broader spectrum. It’s an anchor.
Fuck love.
Tom sees no love in the people who pass him by. Tom sees no love in the people who don’t even know he exists. But that’s precisely it, isn’t it? People are not supposed to love others, simply because they know them. Love, in its true form, should be a shared ‘thing’ that everyone must feel reciprocally. Love shouldn’t have bounds. Whether we know them or not; whether they’re poor or rich, dirty or clean, everyone should love each other unconditionally.
But now Tom doesn’t have to worry about that anymore. He’s going to eat ice cream. On the way to the shop, he realizes he has no choice. Today is the day he must decide. He thinks of pushing it back another year, but quickly ignores the thought. Something miraculous would have to happen to change his mind.
He’s going to miss ice cream.
He sits in a corner with a view of the outside, as he enjoys this delicacy. He savors every spoonful and wishes with all his might that he’ll remember that taste, whatever happens. Outside, the oblivious world is the same.
When he’s done eating, he sits there for a while, staring at the world one last time. The clouds are beautiful. The sky has that perfect shade of blue that still confounds normal people. The winds grazing the grass and the leaves in an enormous tree makes him want to dream of all the different possibilities his life could have taken. Had he married and had kids, would this moment be any different? Had he found someone to share his life with, would he still go through with this? Would he still be a pathetic wimp with a pudgy gut, a receding hairline and glasses?
He wished he could see his parents again. But they were dead. They were the happiest people he knew. If he ever had a life and love like that couple did, he probably would have been more like his father: A hero to someone else’s eyes.
But this was it.
Now was the time.
The present was now and he was not a hero.
He was a pathetic wimp with a pudgy gut, a receding hairline and glasses.
He took a deep breath and walked outside.
He stood in the middle of the road.
This is how it’s going to happen.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeper. He started to get in touch with his inner strength; that energy that he had glimpsed just once before and wept before it.
He felt his senses tightening. He could feel it again.
It was growing. His body was sensitive to everything.
He could feel, smell and hear everything. He felt warm. Hot, actually.
He saw the light that had grown within him before.
It raced from his inner consciousness and rose towards him like a speeding train through a dark, wide tunnel. He felt it. It was going to come out.
This was it. He had never gone any farther.
Suddenly, he realized he had been wrong. It was not his senses that changed, but himself. He changed. He was now a part of everything. Everything and everyone was he and he was they. He could see into them. He could feel as them, think as them. Everything turned into one. One consciousness.
One life.
One death.
He felt the warmth rush through his skin, cascading out of him like a river. He felt the energy shift as it traveled.
And then, as he opened his eyes and smiled, it was over.
His eyes did not open gently. His senses did not return with the usual morning delay. His mind did not carry remnants of his previous dream.
He simply awoke.
He sat on the bed and looked out the window. His one room apartment had only one view: an alley.
How many hours had he spent already in his limited lifetime looking out this particular window, at this exact time, every day of his life? Looking at the same dark corners; at the same damp dumpsters; at the same hookers who prowled even at this time of the day.
It was pathetic to him.
He stood and carried out his usual morning routine: undress, shower, shave, brush, dress, comb his hair, make breakfast, clean the dishes afterward, polish his only pair of black shoes and put them on.
He checked the calendar, even though he knew exactly what day it was. He had been dreading this very day for the last year. Every time he went to sleep and woke up the next day, the only thought that raced through his mind was that he was one day closer to this particular day.
And yet, a part of him was anxious to have arrived at this exact point in time. A part of him wanted today to happen. A part of him was happy that he had chosen this day of all the other days and that this day was finally here.
Today he would decide what to do with the world.
Even though he wasn’t exactly sure if he could actually carry out today’s plan, nothing but that simple fact edged him to stop and consider everything all over again. And that little doubt in him was not enough to convince him to change everything again to another day.
This was the day.
At 10 am, exactly, he walked downstairs and, as he passed all his’ neighbors doors, he tried not to pay attention to all the screams and shouts coming from these ‘kind of people’.
He continued downstairs and finally reached the outside driveway. Would he drive or walk? He thought walking might be more pleasing, considering he might never do so again, and decided to take a stroll. He always enjoyed looking at the people who passed him by. He enjoyed trying to figure out if that person was happy or not. You can tell a lot about someone from the way they treat you on the street. Men bumped against him, as they passed him by. They never even seemed to notice he was there, but he was used to this; Women with too many shopping bags, and still finding a way to talk on their cell phone, never even glanced at him as he smiled at them from 2 feet away; Children too enthralled by their own musings to look up at the man walking beside them; Animals picking at whatever scrap they could find on the street or in the trash. All this he was used to. But that didn’t make it right, anyhow.
Everywhere he looked he saw people who didn’t look back; people who didn’t smile; people who didn’t seem to remember that we are here together in this place, to live together, to be together, to know each other’s names, to, at the very least, acknowledge each other’s presence and communicate some greetings.
People who don’t care about other people.
And this was precisely why today was important.
For the past five years he had been waiting, waiting, waiting. He had constantly changed the date, hoping everything would change. Hoping that people would change. He read books, saw movies, went to work and had his occasional fancy dinner – by himself, of course. He didn’t really have any friends. He saved money, spent money, gave away money and even burned it one night to keep an old man’s burning fire aloft. He traveled, he stayed, he wrote, he filmed; he took pictures of everything he liked and meticulously framed them to later on place on his picture collection. But most of all, he watched, he wept and he waited. Every single day of his pathetic, little existence, he cursed the heavens for putting this burden on him. He thought of ending it himself. Just go out one day and do it. But it had frightened him too much. His body had felt like never before and in that split second he seemed to know everything and everyone. He felt close to everything. At least he thought he did. He stopped after the first shift in sensations and cowered back to his apartment. Since then, he promised himself he would never do that again unless it was the right time.
And by what he was seeing today, that time was now.
He thought of what to do. What would be the last thing to enjoy before he destroyed everything? If that’s what would really happen, which Tom had no doubt it would.
Ice cream.
He would eat ice cream.
He loved ice cream the most, out of all foods. Kind of simplistic, come to think of it. Of all the foods in the entire world, he picks ice cream. However, conveniently, he can find ice cream in a store right in front of him. As he heads towards the ice cream shop, he continues to think of everything he sees. How would it be if everything were perfect? Would we actually be better? Would that utopia lead us to greatness or stump us in a stupor from which we could never recover? Is this constant war with oneself; this self righteousness we don’t deserve; this feeling of hopelessness that drives us to want to die; this desire to want more; this fear of everything we can’t control… is all this exactly what makes this society, this race of human beings, great? Should we be excused of our ways of living our lives, simply because we must be wolves to survive? If we lived in utopist societies, would those feelings still exist?
What about love?
What about love?
Love is merely an illusion; a sense of complacency; a way of ‘giving up’ on an alternate future that perhaps would have come out better for you. Love is a way of not having to deal with life in a much broader spectrum. It’s an anchor.
Fuck love.
Tom sees no love in the people who pass him by. Tom sees no love in the people who don’t even know he exists. But that’s precisely it, isn’t it? People are not supposed to love others, simply because they know them. Love, in its true form, should be a shared ‘thing’ that everyone must feel reciprocally. Love shouldn’t have bounds. Whether we know them or not; whether they’re poor or rich, dirty or clean, everyone should love each other unconditionally.
But now Tom doesn’t have to worry about that anymore. He’s going to eat ice cream. On the way to the shop, he realizes he has no choice. Today is the day he must decide. He thinks of pushing it back another year, but quickly ignores the thought. Something miraculous would have to happen to change his mind.
He’s going to miss ice cream.
He sits in a corner with a view of the outside, as he enjoys this delicacy. He savors every spoonful and wishes with all his might that he’ll remember that taste, whatever happens. Outside, the oblivious world is the same.
When he’s done eating, he sits there for a while, staring at the world one last time. The clouds are beautiful. The sky has that perfect shade of blue that still confounds normal people. The winds grazing the grass and the leaves in an enormous tree makes him want to dream of all the different possibilities his life could have taken. Had he married and had kids, would this moment be any different? Had he found someone to share his life with, would he still go through with this? Would he still be a pathetic wimp with a pudgy gut, a receding hairline and glasses?
He wished he could see his parents again. But they were dead. They were the happiest people he knew. If he ever had a life and love like that couple did, he probably would have been more like his father: A hero to someone else’s eyes.
But this was it.
Now was the time.
The present was now and he was not a hero.
He was a pathetic wimp with a pudgy gut, a receding hairline and glasses.
He took a deep breath and walked outside.
He stood in the middle of the road.
This is how it’s going to happen.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeper. He started to get in touch with his inner strength; that energy that he had glimpsed just once before and wept before it.
He felt his senses tightening. He could feel it again.
It was growing. His body was sensitive to everything.
He could feel, smell and hear everything. He felt warm. Hot, actually.
He saw the light that had grown within him before.
It raced from his inner consciousness and rose towards him like a speeding train through a dark, wide tunnel. He felt it. It was going to come out.
This was it. He had never gone any farther.
Suddenly, he realized he had been wrong. It was not his senses that changed, but himself. He changed. He was now a part of everything. Everything and everyone was he and he was they. He could see into them. He could feel as them, think as them. Everything turned into one. One consciousness.
One life.
One death.
He felt the warmth rush through his skin, cascading out of him like a river. He felt the energy shift as it traveled.
And then, as he opened his eyes and smiled, it was over.
Admito que Quiroga es mejor que yo pero siempre me gustó su interés en los animales. Así que aquí va mi intento a hacer un cuento con animales:
El rey Dionisio
Los esclavos prepararon la última comida del día y se mantuvieron alerta a las ordenes del rey Dionisio. Cuando llegó al comedor, inspeccionó el banquete y sentó su cuerpo orondo en una cama, dado a que no existía una silla que pudiera soportar su peso. Sus brazos no eran largos suficientes para abrazar su gordura, así que tenía sirvientes entrenados para que le empujaran toda la comida que pudiera engastar en su boca. Los demás esclavos, cubiertos sólo por una tela sucia amarrada en la cintura, observaban con penuria mientras la comida se desaparecía frente a ellos.
Al terminar de comerse el banquete solo, le tiró un pedazo de pollo a los sirvientes y llamó a las esclavas para que lo bañaran. Los sirvientes se repartieron el pollo entre ellos y saborearon el único mordisco de comida que tendrían en el día.
En las afueras del castillo, los habitantes del pueblo y los animales carnívoros de la jungla se mueren de hambre. Todas las mañanas, los grupos de cazadores del rey entran en la jungla y recogen todo lo comestible para guardarlo en un almacén privado.
Esa noche, los tigres, teniendo hambre y nada para comer, olfateaban ferozmente siguiendo el único rastro de carne que encontraban en el aire. Se reunieron frente a las entradas del pueblo, donde ocurrió una recolecta de todos los animales hambrientos que fueron llamados por la comida almacenada del rey. Invadieron el pueblo y corrieron por las calles gruñendo y salivándose, dirigidos directamente hacia el castillo. Ignoraron los residentes, que se escondían en sus casas y miraban por las ventanas la ola de alimañas y cuadrúpedos salvajes.
El estruendo llegó hasta el cuarto del rey, donde dormía en una cama enorme, y lo despertó. Sin poder ver lo que ocurría, ni poder salirse de la cama solo, gritó a sus esclavos para que lo buscaran pero nadie fue. Los esclavos y los sirvientes se escaparon cuando vieron los animales feroces regarse por los pasillos del castillo y mordiendo cualquier persona que encontraran de frente. El único que quedaba dentro era el rey Dionisio y temblaba con miedo, lloraba porque nadie lo fue a rescatar.
Después de apoderarse del castillo, el tigre más grande caminaba lentamente por un pasillo, buscando la comida que sentía tan fuerte en su nariz. Detrás de él, otros lo seguían, hasta que llegaron a una puerta abierta donde vieron una cama enorme, con un cuerpo gigantesco acostado. Los tigres se lamieron los labios mientras se subían a la cama del rey. Dionisio les tiró con cojines, les gritaba, trataba de ahuyentarlos pero lentamente más y más tigres se treparon encima de él. Cuando escucharon los gritos, los esclavos sonrieron y abrieron las puertas del almacén para repartir la comida entre los del pueblo y los animales.
Al terminar de comerse el banquete solo, le tiró un pedazo de pollo a los sirvientes y llamó a las esclavas para que lo bañaran. Los sirvientes se repartieron el pollo entre ellos y saborearon el único mordisco de comida que tendrían en el día.
En las afueras del castillo, los habitantes del pueblo y los animales carnívoros de la jungla se mueren de hambre. Todas las mañanas, los grupos de cazadores del rey entran en la jungla y recogen todo lo comestible para guardarlo en un almacén privado.
Esa noche, los tigres, teniendo hambre y nada para comer, olfateaban ferozmente siguiendo el único rastro de carne que encontraban en el aire. Se reunieron frente a las entradas del pueblo, donde ocurrió una recolecta de todos los animales hambrientos que fueron llamados por la comida almacenada del rey. Invadieron el pueblo y corrieron por las calles gruñendo y salivándose, dirigidos directamente hacia el castillo. Ignoraron los residentes, que se escondían en sus casas y miraban por las ventanas la ola de alimañas y cuadrúpedos salvajes.
El estruendo llegó hasta el cuarto del rey, donde dormía en una cama enorme, y lo despertó. Sin poder ver lo que ocurría, ni poder salirse de la cama solo, gritó a sus esclavos para que lo buscaran pero nadie fue. Los esclavos y los sirvientes se escaparon cuando vieron los animales feroces regarse por los pasillos del castillo y mordiendo cualquier persona que encontraran de frente. El único que quedaba dentro era el rey Dionisio y temblaba con miedo, lloraba porque nadie lo fue a rescatar.
Después de apoderarse del castillo, el tigre más grande caminaba lentamente por un pasillo, buscando la comida que sentía tan fuerte en su nariz. Detrás de él, otros lo seguían, hasta que llegaron a una puerta abierta donde vieron una cama enorme, con un cuerpo gigantesco acostado. Los tigres se lamieron los labios mientras se subían a la cama del rey. Dionisio les tiró con cojines, les gritaba, trataba de ahuyentarlos pero lentamente más y más tigres se treparon encima de él. Cuando escucharon los gritos, los esclavos sonrieron y abrieron las puertas del almacén para repartir la comida entre los del pueblo y los animales.
El joven se acerca al cristal. La boletera lo mira con angustia y aburrimiento.
-Dos, para Ten Thousand B.C.
-¿Cual? –dice ella, confundida.
-Diez mil B.C.
-¡Ah! Los diez mil años de Cristo…
-¿Perdón? ¿Los qué?
-La película que dijiste…
-¿Diez mil años de Cristo? –el joven mira a la boletera con una risa en la cara-. ¿Cristo vivió diez mil años? ¡Con razón la Biblia es tan larga!
Todos en la fila se comenzaron a reír de la boletera y a mofarse de la ridiculez de unos diez mil años de Cristo.
-¡Esa película debe ser bien vieja, porque todavía no han pasado diez mil años desde que vino Cristo!
Más risas, más mofas. La boletera mira a su alrededor sin saber qué decir. Sujeta los boletos del joven, inmóviles en su mano. Más risas, más mofas. Le apuntan con el dedo y se ríen. Todos en la fila se ríen, todos se dan palmadas en la espalda, todos se doblan por la falta de respiración. Los empleados al lado de ella también se ríen. Todos se ríen. Un señor cae al suelo, su mano en el pecho, tosiendo y riéndose a la misma vez. Los demás se ríen de él. Una joven cae al lado de su novio y se trata de abrir el cuello para respirar pero no puede dejar de reír. Su novio se ríe y pronto cae desplomado encima de ella. La cabeza de uno de los empleados cae sobre el escritorio, con la lengua seca y por fuera. La fila se descompone, las risas se reducen, más personas caen y los que quedan vivos vomitan sobre los cuerpos a sus pies. Se ahogan y mueren.
La boletera mira a su alrededor desierto. Los muertos están apiñados unos encima de otros, cubiertos de sangre y vómito. Las extremidades dobladas en ángulos incómodos, no tuvieron tiempo para acomodarse. Los mira y se ríe.
La escenografía de Francia, en la época medieval, es suelo común para muchas historias. Considerando que muchas novelas y obras se han escrito con Francia en mente, le quita un poco de esplendor prematuro a cualquier cosa nueva que ocurra ahí. Sin embargo, cuando te presentan a Francia de un modo completamente diferente, y original, cuando te lanzan en una historia puramente makiavélica, cuando el diagrama de un mundo te le empujan de frente con tanta fuerza que te causa sentimientos, pues, eso nunca está mal.
Patrick Suskind, hijo de reporteros y escritores, demuestra sus genes literatos cuando leemos ‘El Perfume’. Una historia increíble, que no deja de serlo a través del tiempo. Un joven francés, Grenouille, es prácticamente empujado hacia el mundo y rechazado desde el nacer. Lo interesante de él es que nació incapaz de emitir olor. Sin embargo, tiene un sentido del olfato ultra-potente. Además de esta característica inusual, el personaje nos enamora con su carisma y planes egoístas.
La novela es moderna. Utiliza un lenguaje preciso y hermoso. Crea una ambientación perfecta, amplia con descripciones que no son excesivas. Suskind escoge perfectamente los detalles que menciona, y la forma de describir las cosas, para que no aburran al lector, y, sin embargo, crearle una visión exacta del paisaje o de la localización. Más importante que todo lo demás es que la mayoría de los detalles son de factores olfativos. El texto completo es basado en olores.
Es casi surrealista el nivel de detalle que esta novela contiene. Todos los olores que Grenouille encuentra, todos los componentes de diferente perfumes, las combinaciones nuevas, los procesos de creación, las herramientas, los olores del mundo… es tan fabuloso ver tanto detalle expuesto de una manera tan original, que causa un poco de delirio. Suskind es un maestro, y de los pocos que puede decir que logró hacer que sus lectores olieran su novela.
El joven Grenouille es un pobre ezclavo por la mayoría de su vida infantil, hasta que logra, gracias a su rasgo importante, conseguirse un lugar bajo la tutela de un gran perfumista, Baldini. Aquí comienza a aprender a controlar su don, y cómo utilizarlo para su provecho. Comienza a poder dominar las emociones humanas, creando olores específicos. Luego el joven tiene unos impulsos incontrolables que lo llevan hacia convertirse en un asesino, para poder crear el mejor perfume del mundo.
La trama se puede ver de muchas maneras diferentes pero, en mi opinión, el perfume que crea Genouille simboliza el amor que él busca por toda su vida. Al igual que de olor, él carece de amor, y pretende hacer que lo amen si crea un perfume que cause esa reacción. Al darse cuenta de que no puede, se rinde y acepta el final inevitable. Nunca lo amaron, y él nunca amó.
Se tocan muchos temas secundarios, como el interés, la codicia, la hipocresía, etc. Todos estos pueden ser sólo una mascara liviana para Suskind poder crear un ambiente irritante para Grenouille. También pueden ser una crítica a la humanidad. Estos son debatible, y realmente no son tan impresionantes como el dolor interno de Grenouille.
El personaje desea ser amado y no lo consigue. Decide crear una manera para crear el amor pero es imposible porque él no siente amor. Esto se demuestra perfectamente cuando se convierte en un asesino. Le ‘roba’ el olor a muchachas jóvenes, para su propio interés. El hecho de que no le importa que mate a seres humanos, los que él tanto quiere que lo amen, demuestra una frialdad incomparable. Realmente no le importa la vida humana, excepto la de él. Todo su conflicto es egoísta. Él busca crear una manera de que lo amen, no crear un amor que se pudiera compartir.
Cuando salió la novela en el 1985, recibió una fanaticada inmediata. Todavía, más de 20 años después, es buscada y considerada una obra maestra. Empujó la literatura un poco más, al demostrar una forma original de contar una historia. Muy pocas realmente pueden sostenerse al lado de esta novela, especialmente las obras más nuevas. Considerando que fue publicada casi en el siglo 21, se siente bien encontrar una novela como ésta, que tiene la capacidad de despertar nuevamente el interés en la lectura.
Patrick Suskind, hijo de reporteros y escritores, demuestra sus genes literatos cuando leemos ‘El Perfume’. Una historia increíble, que no deja de serlo a través del tiempo. Un joven francés, Grenouille, es prácticamente empujado hacia el mundo y rechazado desde el nacer. Lo interesante de él es que nació incapaz de emitir olor. Sin embargo, tiene un sentido del olfato ultra-potente. Además de esta característica inusual, el personaje nos enamora con su carisma y planes egoístas.
La novela es moderna. Utiliza un lenguaje preciso y hermoso. Crea una ambientación perfecta, amplia con descripciones que no son excesivas. Suskind escoge perfectamente los detalles que menciona, y la forma de describir las cosas, para que no aburran al lector, y, sin embargo, crearle una visión exacta del paisaje o de la localización. Más importante que todo lo demás es que la mayoría de los detalles son de factores olfativos. El texto completo es basado en olores.
Es casi surrealista el nivel de detalle que esta novela contiene. Todos los olores que Grenouille encuentra, todos los componentes de diferente perfumes, las combinaciones nuevas, los procesos de creación, las herramientas, los olores del mundo… es tan fabuloso ver tanto detalle expuesto de una manera tan original, que causa un poco de delirio. Suskind es un maestro, y de los pocos que puede decir que logró hacer que sus lectores olieran su novela.
Al igual que de olor, él carece de amor, y pretende hacer que lo amen si crea un perfume que cause esa reacción.La novela es narrada en tercera persona, omnisciente. El autor nos deja saber todo sobre todos los personajes. Desde sus pensamientos, hasta sus muertes inevitables. Es bastante fácil de leer, sin interrupciones irritantes, ni temas que nos alejen del conflicto central. Todo ocurre de una manera que tiene que suceder.
El joven Grenouille es un pobre ezclavo por la mayoría de su vida infantil, hasta que logra, gracias a su rasgo importante, conseguirse un lugar bajo la tutela de un gran perfumista, Baldini. Aquí comienza a aprender a controlar su don, y cómo utilizarlo para su provecho. Comienza a poder dominar las emociones humanas, creando olores específicos. Luego el joven tiene unos impulsos incontrolables que lo llevan hacia convertirse en un asesino, para poder crear el mejor perfume del mundo.
La trama se puede ver de muchas maneras diferentes pero, en mi opinión, el perfume que crea Genouille simboliza el amor que él busca por toda su vida. Al igual que de olor, él carece de amor, y pretende hacer que lo amen si crea un perfume que cause esa reacción. Al darse cuenta de que no puede, se rinde y acepta el final inevitable. Nunca lo amaron, y él nunca amó.
Se tocan muchos temas secundarios, como el interés, la codicia, la hipocresía, etc. Todos estos pueden ser sólo una mascara liviana para Suskind poder crear un ambiente irritante para Grenouille. También pueden ser una crítica a la humanidad. Estos son debatible, y realmente no son tan impresionantes como el dolor interno de Grenouille.
El personaje desea ser amado y no lo consigue. Decide crear una manera para crear el amor pero es imposible porque él no siente amor. Esto se demuestra perfectamente cuando se convierte en un asesino. Le ‘roba’ el olor a muchachas jóvenes, para su propio interés. El hecho de que no le importa que mate a seres humanos, los que él tanto quiere que lo amen, demuestra una frialdad incomparable. Realmente no le importa la vida humana, excepto la de él. Todo su conflicto es egoísta. Él busca crear una manera de que lo amen, no crear un amor que se pudiera compartir.
Cuando salió la novela en el 1985, recibió una fanaticada inmediata. Todavía, más de 20 años después, es buscada y considerada una obra maestra. Empujó la literatura un poco más, al demostrar una forma original de contar una historia. Muy pocas realmente pueden sostenerse al lado de esta novela, especialmente las obras más nuevas. Considerando que fue publicada casi en el siglo 21, se siente bien encontrar una novela como ésta, que tiene la capacidad de despertar nuevamente el interés en la lectura.
Hello.
I don't necessarily intend to make some kind of breakthrough blog here. However, I just want to write about what I want to write about. Yes, I WILL write in english and spanish, so be prepared.
What exactly do I want to write about?
Well, hopefully stories and info on Fantasy & Science Fiction in general. Maybe a rant or two...
All these things interest me, and I KNOW there are others who also find it appealing....there just HAS to be other people like me...
I hope you find it interesting.
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