Memoirs

En 2016 tuve la oportunidad de conocer la casa de Pablo Neruda en isla negra, Chile. Ahora, después de tantos años recién entiendo el por qué de tantas decoraciones y souvenirs de todo el mundo en esa casa. Este hombre vivió muchos acontecimientos históricos, conoció personas de renombre mundial, y desconocía su lado político que este libro me ayudó a entender mejor.
Una buena lectura para cualquier compatriota latino. Su narrativa es de mis favoritas, este libro no se queda corto.

livro maravilhoso começando pelo título que eu acho perfeito para uma autobiografia. fiquei chocada com a quantidade de coisa que o neruda viveu, viu e sabia. o final foi tristíssimo ainda mais sabendo que ele morreu poucos dias depois que escreveu o capítulo final pro allende. amei a parte dele no brasil dando um bolo acidental no luís carlos prestes por não saber português. bjs indico

Fascinante auto-biographie d'un homme profondément humain, chargé d'anecdotes et d'Histoire.

Este dificil de citit povestea cuiva de viață repovestită de acesta fără să fie impresionat de tot ce a trăit... Pablo Neruda a trăit în perioada de construire a lumii în care noi trăim astăzi și a cunoscut o mare parte dintre scriitorii mari ai vremii și nu numai, legând prietenii strânse cu mulți dintre ei. A trăit o viață care trebuie cunoscută.

Oscar Wilde once said :" To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist , that is all." There is definitely no precise pattern that can be applied to someone's life, to measure if it was truly lived or not, as everyone can find meaning in various things and can interpret events or people differently.
Coming up to this book, I must say that the phrase that gives its title is very well chosen. Besides being a famous Chilean poet and somehow associated to the communist party, I knew next to nothing about Pablo Neruda. That is not even his real name, but one that he chose inspired by a Czech poet (Jan Neruda), because his father despised the idea of his son becoming a writer. Proving inspiration and talent from a young age, Ricardo Neftalí Reyes Basoalto soon made a name for himself and became recognized as one of South America greatest poets.
But why is the title fit for describing the life of Neruda? I would say because he saw around half of the world in his travels, met interesting or powerful people, was loved by many and hated by some, as he created an opera that will last for hundreds of years, which brought him the Nobel Prize in 1971. He even had a pet mongoose while he was living in Ceylon. Yet , he describes his view of a perfect life as sitting somewhere, isolated, reading his favorite books.
While retelling his life, Neruda talks about his travels and his interactions with the various political regimes and rulers he met. He lived during a period full of turmoil, sometimes being in the center of dangerous events. The Spanish civil war and the Franco regime with the execution of the great poet Garcia Lorca somehow made him change his life and his work, becoming an advocate of communism. Having a rather idealistic view on what communism should be and do, he eventually becomes a senator in Chile, but his activity later forced him to run into exile because of his conflicts with the local authorities. His poetry and actions were highly appreciated by powerful people such as Fidel Castro, Stalin, Luis Carlos Prestes, Salvador Allende, artists like Gabriel Garcia Marquez , Picasso or Garcia Lorca.
Even if it meant facing the opposition of his father, or adapting to a new life and a very different culture as he became a consul in Rangoon or other parts of the world, or confronting the adversities of the political regimes of the 20th century, Neruda seems to have stayed true to his beliefs and spoke his mind when he had the chance. And that's not a bad thing to do when living your life...

خاطرات پابلو نرودا، خاطرات شاعری است که در دوره‌ای مبارز سیاسی بوده است، در دوره‌ای دیگر سفیر و در دوره‌ای نامزد ریاست جمهوری! انگار که به جای چندین تن زندگی کرده باشد، آنچنان که زندگی‌اش پرفراز و نشیب است.
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خاطرات پابلو نرودا، به نوعی تلفیق زندگانی یک شاعر با تحولات تاریخی سطح کلان جهانی است. شاعری که جنگ اسپانیا را از نزدیک دیده است. با چه‌گوارا دیدار کرده، به ملاقات استالین رفته و به نفع سالوادور آلنده از نامزدی ریاست جمهوری کنار کشیده است. شاعری که کره زمین را در شب بعد از ترک معشوق سابقش، بسیار تنها می‌یابد.
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خاطرات پابلو نرودا، تنها بیان زندگی روزمره نیست، بلکه تحول تاریخی دوره‌ای از جهان، از نگاه یک شاعر متعهد وابسته به ایده‌آل‌های کمونیستی برابری و رهایی هم هست.
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این کتاب، به صورت بخش‌های کوتا�� جدا از هم نوشته شده است. گویی که شاعر، خاطراتش را بصورتی پراکنده به یاد می‌آورد و آن‌ها را با مخاطب به اشتراک می‌گذارد. برخی از بخش‌ها از جذابیت بالایی برخوردار است، اما درک و جذابیت بعضی از بخش‌های دیگر، مستلزم برخورداری از حداقل اطلاعاتی در مورد اشخاص و وقایعی است که نرودا درباره آن‌ها سخن می‌گوید.

Uff, vaya final para una autobiografía, me ha dejado con el corazón en un puño.

A decir verdad leer este libro en los tiempos que corren, me ha hecho reflexionar mucho sobre política, sobre economía... Sin embargo sé que es un libro que debe transmitir muchas nuevas cosas en cada lectura; ya comprobaré qué me aporta la próxima vez.
Por momentos he sentido envidia de la vida que ha gozado Pablo Neruda, principalmente por todo lo que ha visto, lo que ha conocido, lo que ha recorrido... Por momentos, también ha logrado "cabrearme"...
Ha despertado muchas cosas en mí, muchas nuevas inquietudes, cuestiones...

He leído algunas biografías, pero se quedan vacías si se comparan con una autobiografía, y sobre todo si está así redactada, con tantos sentimientos, pensamientos, curiosidades, inquietudes... No falta de nada.
Además gracias a este libro he aprendido muchas cosas que no sabía sobre variedad de países, de la más diversa índole. También me ha ayudado a conocer mucho más acerca de Chile y sus gentes, su política, sus riquezas...

Me lo recomendó una amiga, que me decía que lo tenía en la mesita de noche y que le encantaba leer fragmentos de vez en cuando; abrir la página y sumergirse en el mundo de Neruda. Cuando me lo dijo pensé algo así como: ¡qué exagerada!. Pero un buen día lo vi, lo compré y comencé a "implicarme" en la vida de este gran poeta y esta gran persona. ¡Me alegro de haberlo hecho!

I hate to say this but I think Neruda is a little heavy handed with words. He uses tons, he uses a whole freaking mountain worth of words and then some – homeboy can throw down some words. The man goes on and on, he makes every sentence obese with words, and more words. He’s a poet for Christ sake, isn’t he suppose to be all sparing with the words? What happened? Those guys usually just write a couple-a-fragmented-sentences and then call it a day, go drink some red wine, moan about the injustice of it all. And what’s the deal with the attention-deficit-disorder-jump-around-short-attention-span-can’t-keep-on-the-same-subject-for-more-that-six-pages thing? I’ve had more linear conversations with actively using crackheads.

“Ah, the poets, the poets. There’s Juan Carlos el Topo del Norte, one of the finest poets the world has ever known. Too bad his words were never written down and published. That woman is looking at me, she wants me, of course she wants me. I’ll make love to her now. I need to go to Paris. Ah, the mountains, the forest, the land of my youth. It’s winter in France, where are my pants? Don Chi Chi del Pinnochi comes into my room, says you must try this woman, please, yes, I will try this woman, serve her to me like a side of Argentinean beef on a silver platter. She is magnificent, like no other, we both take her, we both agree, like no other we say – then we lose her in a taxicab. Oh, I’m an ambassador to Guam. There is a woman there that wants me, I know this, her beauty is like the poem I published in my book Pedacitos Poéticos Squirmy. Franco, what pain he cause his country. Where’s my ambassador salary? Look it’s Gandhi! The Fascists are in Germany. Are we there yet? She wants me, yes, yes she does. I Think I married her, we lived together for years. I was not at the consulate in Buenos Aires long. Barcelona. Oh, the poets, the poets…”

Maybe it’s the translation. You can blame a lot on those insufferable translators. Yet what could anyone do with a couple of lines like this: “Girls of various colorings visited my campaign cot, leaving no record but the lightning spasm of the flesh. My body was a lonely bonfire burning night and day on that tropical coast.” (page 99)

Ouch! Ick! Smoking sex machine, eh? Pablo just never stops, he’s sort of full of himself, sort of. I admire his ego, his stamina, his gall - although I had to fight the urge to take a shower between chapters – but I got tired of it really, really quick. That and the incessant name-dropping, the obscure references to published work, his and others, and the words. Too many words, man. Too many words.

There is one scene/passage, it starts right after that horrid “lonely bonfire burning night and day on the tropical coast” line (middle of page 99 – 100). Where Pablo beds/forces a Tamil woman, who cleans out his shit pail every morning, to have sex with him. He goes on about her beauty, he compares her to a sculpture, and when they have sex he states: “It was the coming together of a man and a statue.” Ooooh, nice. Then he writes: “She kept her eyes wide open all the while, completely unresponsive. She was right to despise me. The experience was never repeated.”

Right when I was about to toss the book across the room, for the fifth time I might add, Neruda goes and lets me see that he knows he’s a womanizing self centered egomaniac. She’s stiff as a statue, unresponsive to his machismo, submissive, because she was born into the pariah caste. She let him have his way, but she isn’t into it or him. Even Pablo, or Pablo’s ego actually, can grasp that she’s not interested. I know, no big revelation here, except, for a second I’m thinking maybe old Pablo really didn’t hold himself in such high regard as it appears he did – that it’s all mainly bravado, and he knows it.

Then I threw the book across the room.

However:

“placid lakes, high up in the mountains, like eyes forgotten by wasteful gods.” (pg.155)

Is such a lethargically beautiful image.

“it was easier to pull a Mexican’s tooth then wrest his beloved gun from him.” (pg.157)

This guy kills me.

Yet I totally must admit the style, the language, and the pace, of the book is what really drove me insane. The truth is these days I want a little methamphetamine drive prose, just a little – too much and I’m shot to the curb, rubbing my eyes, wanting to go to sleep. David Sedaris, has just the right amount of ADD to keep the pace flowing and my interest engaged. Denis Johnson can get vague and wander a little bit. Ok, a lot. But when I’m reading one of his books I’m not looking at the map trying to figure out where he turned left and somehow we ended up in Winnemucca – he pointed me in that direction a long time ago, we’ve just made a few hundred stops along the way. Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s incredible memoir: Vivir Para Contarla (Living to Tell the Tale), while highly poetic and prose driven, managed to get me from point A to point B, in one smooth linear motion. And Marquez, sexist as he was/is, didn’t leave me with a queasy porno booth voyeur feeling – and besides, he’s freakin Gabriel Garcia Marquez, 100 years of Solitude man! Mary Karr composed the most beautiful dysfunctional memoir ever written and when I was done I wanted more, read Cherry, still wanted more – addictive she is.

I had no preconceived notion as to what to expect from Neruda, I was interested, I was intrigued, I’ve never knowingly read his poetry, but I certainly knew who he was and have nothing but respect for the man and his politics – and still I found him hard to read. Perhaps he was a tad unleashed with the prospect of just writing about himself? I mean, I know the feeling. I’m so self-absorbed that’s all I write about – me, me, bloody me! Have I gone off the subject yet? Is this Winnemucca?

Did I mention there were too many words?