escalera: junio 2004

martes, junio 29, 2004

Miró y la escalera

Miró à Michel Leiris, Montroig, 31-11-1924

“L’escalier qui surmonte en spirale dans la Philosophie de Rembrandt.
Hokusai disait qu’il voulait rendre sensible une ligne ou un point, tout simplement. Une ligne en forme de zigzag décrit sur un papier blanc; au bout une espèce d’oeuf (un ovule) d’où jaulissent des étincelles.
Beauté desastres et des lettres”

(Fuente: "El nacimiento del mundo", exposición retrospectiva de la obra de Miró entre 1917 y 1934 en el Museo Pompidou de París, hasta junio de 2004)

lunes, junio 14, 2004

The Window and the Valve

Literatura estadounidense, S.XIX. La crème de la crème: Trabajo sobre Emily Dickinson y Walt Whitman.

The representation of passions is one of the vital functions of literature. Love and power are omnipresent throughout Western literature. They both have something in common, namely the will of possession. I argue that possession is an obsession both in Whitman and in Dickinson; however, Whitman’s modus operandi is inclusive while Dickinson’s poetic possession is rooted in exclusion. In the title of my paper, the window is symbol of Whitman’s openness while the valve represents Dickinson’s closeness. I will argue that this difference is due to different theories of love and, thus, dissimilar concepts of possession. I would like to analyze this phenomenon through three elements regarding the action of love: scope, discrimination, and intensity.
Whitman’s all-embracing love attempts to expand to the whole of humankind. Its scope knows no limits. “I am large, I contain multitudes” (Whitman 85), he says. Possession in Whitman’s poetry is not unilateral and instrumental, but somewhat based on a cyclical conception with its roots in nature and with reminiscences of Eastern philosophy. “The old husband sleeps by his wife and the young husband sleeps by his wife; / And these one and all tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them, / And such as it is to be of these more or less I am.” (Whitman 40). Reciprocity is based on question and answer; transmission and reception; action and passivity. All humans tend inward to Whitman; he tends outward to them. Although poetry is still inevitably an individual experience, Whitman desires to collectivize his feelings beyond all boundaries.
Whitman is the violator of limits. “Unscrew the locks from the doors! / Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs!” (Whitman 48). The common pattern in his lines is excessiveness. He does not understand passion as a tension between licentiousness and restriction but as a simple explosion of sentiment. His love attempts to expand even to the realm of inanimate objects. The consequence of this phenomenon is what I would like to label as “innocent sacrilege”. He deliberately and without malice trespasses forbidden boundaries. The Bible teaches us that a sacred and magic space exists, as opposed to a profane territory: “And he said, Draw not nigh hither: put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground” (Exodus 3:5). Whitman infringes these laws, and that is why I argue that he commits a sacrilege. Besides, he attempts, consciously or unconsciously, to homogenize space and replace limits with global sexuality.
Walt Whitman makes no discriminations. “They young fellow drives the express-wagon …. I love him though I do not know him” (Whitman 37). Here love comes before experience, thus loosing its value for the receptor. His message is universal and the beloved shares his condition with everyone. He is no more and no less than anyone is. This is the effect of homogenization. His poetry is a roller, for it reduces humankind to a compact, auto referential, self-loving mass.
Critics and scholars think of Whitman as a democratic poet. However, he is the central figure in the decision-making of his conception of love. In other words, he does not take into consideration the will of people. “The farmboy ploughing in the field feels good at the sound of my voice,” (Whitman 82). Not only does he love the farmboy, but also he assumes the farmboy loves him back. He arrogates the boy’s right of decision. “The young mother and old mother shall comprehend me,” (Whitman 82). In this case, he steals the other’s comprehension. However, the extreme manifestation of this pattern is the following lines, “I do not ask the wounded person how he feels …. I myself become the wounded person,” (Whitman 63). He delocalizes pain from its natural space and relocates it in his own body. Real individual pain is unable to reproduce itself; its duplication contradicts the very principles of human feelings. It is one of our ultimate rights, one that no one can take out from us; namely, the right to suffer, Dickinson’s “Right of Frost” (Poem 640).
The scope of Whitman’s potential possession, as I argued before, is immense. This should result in a weakening of its intensity, but it does not. His voice remains in the center of lyrical creation. “A call in the midst of the crowd, / My own voice, orotund sweeping and final.” (Whitman 73) He is not invisible; he is the origin and ending of human flow, the center of his own sexual mystification, the unintended God of a particular metaphysics of love.
The issue of possession in Dickinson is radically different. Her area of poetic action is smaller but more intense. “The Soul selects her own Society— / Then—shuts the Door—” (Dickinson, Poem 303). She closes the doors that Whitman tries to open; she regulates the flow of emotions through inclusion and exclusion. She uses a metaphor particularly pertinent for my argument: “Then—close the Valves of her attention— / Like Stone—” (Dickinson, Poem 303). Whitman does not know about valves. Dickinson’s opacity is often due to her tendency to obstruct passageways of interpretation. She hides behind the stone.
This creates an altogether obsessive atmosphere, a tension that produces the real poetry where the unutterable finally ends written on the paper. “It has no Future—but itself— / Its Infinite contain / Its past—enlightened to perceive / New Periods—of Pain” (Dickinson, Poem 650). Here pain feedbacks itself; it contains itself. The mere use of the pronoun “itself” demonstrates it. Pain is a convulsed snake trying to bite its own tail. This endogamy results in a concentration of sentiment, power, and self-possession.
Dickinson even conceptualized her views of the artistic activity: “This was a Poet—It is That / Distills amazing sense / From ordinary Meanings—” (Dickinson, Poem 448). Writing is a distillation. Intensity derives from conceptual and intellectual compression. Words are jails each one with an enormous power inside. This might be another reason for the use of capital letters in some of Dickinson’s words.
Although we hardly ever know whom Dickinson is referring to by “You”, we find in her poetry a will to discriminate and isolate her from the rest. The fact that she differentiates several identities is demonstrated by her use of comparatives, even when it is not grammatically correct: “Though I than He—may longer live / He longer must—than I— / For I have but the power to kill, / Without—the power to die—” (Dickinson, Poem 754). Another example of isolationism: “So we must meet apart— / You there—I—here— / With just the Door ajar / That Oceans are —and Prayer— / And that White Sustenance— / Despair—” (Dickinson, Poem 640). It is a paradox to see how her coldness, distance and loneliness produce a high level of intimacy and intensity in her lines. What links the writer to the reader is the common experience of pain, the “Right of Frost” (Dickinson, Poem 640), the ocean of solitude that all of us experience in a higher or lower degree.
Although Dickinson epitomizes herself and her relationship with a religious “You”, she is not, like Whitman, the center and origin of possession: “My Life had stood—a Loaded Gun— / In Corners—till a Day / The Owner passed—identified— / And carried Me away—” (Dickinson, Poem 754). Who is the owner? Dickinson accepts without remorse that somebody owns her. Sometimes this acceptance even becomes resignation, maybe even a Christian one. However, she is also an active character in her poetry, as one can observe in this anaphor, “Mine—by the Right of the White Election! / Mine—by the Royal Seal! / Mine—by the Sign in the Scarlet prison—” (Dickinson, Poem 528). Here possession is an obsession, but the object of desire is only one, a huge and unbearable one, as opposed to Whitman’s disseminating concept of possession.
In sum, I have reviewed both writers’ conception of possession through their theories of love. I have analyzed how each writer attempts to destroy and preserve the walls of their egos. “I anchor my ship for a little while only,” (Whitman 61), says the democratic poet. He wants no rest. As opposed to that, the use of dash in Dickinson puts possession into brackets, and opens an intellectual forum for reflection and pain. Whitman’s strife for inclusion opens hearts to the grass; Dickinson’s dashes and reclusion close hearts in the sea of their own blood.

The Ladder and the Muse

Literatura estadounidense, S.XIX. Trabajo comparativo sobre Frederick Douglass y Herman Melville, basado en las obras The Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, The Heroic Slave y Benito Cereno.

I argue that both Douglass’ and Melville’s works have a liberating power entrenched in the use of language. However, they differ in the nature of this power —the former is political while the later poetic. In the title of my paper, the ladder symbolizes the ascension from barbarism to civilization in Douglass; while the Muse refers to the poetic enchantment of Melville. I will try to validate this argument through two specific elements; the relationship between civilization and barbarism, and the conception of the sea. Eventually, I will tie these two apparently non-related components together in order to support my main thesis.
The dichotomy civilization-barbarism is a central theme in both Douglass and Melville. I do not refer to them as isolated monads —in Leibniz jargon— but as a gradual continuum. The way in which the writers focus on this duo reveals to us the limits within the struggle for freedom is taking place, and thus determines the kind of power required to transform either the political or linguistic system.
Frederick Douglass depicts the relationship between civilization and barbarism as a hierarchical structure, which brings an ideological content to both The Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass and The Heroic Slave. The former describes the long journey of an individual from barbarism, which is slavery, to civilization, which is freedom. Douglass forms his personality through experience and knowledge, and his story even has somewhat novelistic turning points one example being the fight with his master. Homer teaches us that personality is the collection of decisions in life. A parallel can be drawn between the Odyssey and the steps towards humanization in The Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass.
As Aristotle explains in Politics, “man is the only animal whom she has endowed with the gift of speech. And whereas mere voice is but an indication of pleasure or pain … the power of speech is intended to set forth the expedient and inexpedient, and therefore likewise the just and the unjust.” Language is the tool which permits Douglass to become human and get away from slavery —it is, thus, a political and even biological tool as one can see in this metaphor: “This bread I used to bestow upon the hungry little urchins, who, in return, would give me the more valuable bread of knowledge” (Douglass, 1984:51). In this quotation, language is the bread of the intellect.
The struggle for freedom is portrayed in an evolutionist fashion. Slaves are usually represented as a tribal, primitive society. “This they would sing, as a chorus, to words which to many would seem unmeaning jargon” (Douglass, 1984:28). They are supposed to be inferiors because the institution of slavery has removed their humanity and the tools to achieve it: language, knowledge, and dignity. “Mr. Williams speaks of 'ignorant negroes,' and, as a general rule, they are ignorant” (Douglass on-line: Part IV). While one can see Douglass’ long struggle in The Narrative, in The Heroic Slave we find Madison Washington to be a character without psychological evolution. Since the beginning, Madison is not a slave: “His words were well chosen, and his pronunciation equal to that of any schoolmaster. It was a mystery to us where he got his knowledge of language; but as little was said to him, none of us knew” (Douglass on-line: Part IV). Also Washington’s words are a proof of the sphere to which he belongs. “If I am shot, I shall only lose a life which is a burden and a curse. If I get clear …, liberty, the inalienable birthright of every man, precious and priceless, will be mine. My resolution is fixed. I shall be free.” (Douglass on-line: Part I). This kind of logical chain is a part of the very foundations of Western civilization. While Eastern thought was born in the mountains and developed a contemplative philosophy, Western Civilization was born in the Mediterranean and owns the rationality of the mathematical movement of the waves which is x thus y. Madison Washington’s syllogism is a clear example —he is already on the top of the pyramid of civilization. Here I just try to describe Douglass’ Weltanschauung, but I do not necessarily agree with it.
In sum, I argue that language is a political tool in Douglass. And as the Spanish poet José Ángel Valente states, “politicized literature is reduced to its mere instrumentality —slave of the Intention and its themes, absorbed in the ideological superstructure” (Valente, 1971). This is not to underestimate the value of Douglass’ works, but to underline that his intention is mainly political and thus farer from the sphere of artistic creation. The purpose is another, clearly perceived by Wendell Philips in the letter which precedes The Narrative: “I am glad the time has come when the ‘lions write history’”. (Douglass, 1984:14). That is, it is time for the oppressed to write history. It is crystal clear that this is a political purpose.
Melville does not describe civilization and barbarism, but draws a landscape in which both clash and are mixed up. His aseptic language is not neutral, but poetic. His coldness is thus comparable to the cerebral poetry of Jorge Luis Borges or to some works of Samuel Beckett. His approach to reality plays with perspectives like the best painters do. He is a romantic —that’s why antithesis and irony are so common in his narrative. Reading him is intellectually stimulating: “Captain Delano, unwilling to appear uncivil even to incivity itself, made some trivial remark and moved off” (Melville, 1942:121). As Octavio Paz brightly writes, “irony is the great romantic invention —love for the contradiction we all constitute and consciousness of this contradiction” (Paz, 1990). Irony in Melville is bitter and its negative condition impregnates his whole work.
This is not to say that Herman Melville lacks political purposes —he does not. Benito Cereno is full of relations of power and political messages. But although we can clearly perceive the clash between barbarism and civilization, we are not sure of what to think. Who are the barbarians? Who are the civilized? And what is more important, who retains the “moral” superiority? My opinion is that Babo retains it. However, one can create a lot of arguments against this opinion. Why? Because Benito Cereno is mainly a poetic masterpiece, and it is open to different interpretations. I understand poetry in the broad sense of it being an all mysterious verbal mechanism capable of producing silence.
At the end of the story, Benito Cereno says something very similar to Douglass’ perspective on slavery. “‘Because they have no memory,’ he dejectedly replied; ‘because they are not human’” (Melville, 1942:183). In each line of Benito Cereno we can recognize the hand of the genius painting the wild thoughts of characters that more than individuals are archetypes. The paradox is that they are all a mistake, except for Babo, who does not talk at all except in his role of pretended servant. My interpretation is that silence is the negation of civilization and barbarism, of language and slavery. It is the absolute negation and romanticism was the last absolute negation.
Since I have been talking about abstractions as civilization or barbarism, I would like now to come up with a concrete example to show the different nature of Douglass’ and Melville’s language.
Both The Heroic Slave and Benito Cereno narrate a shipboard rebellion. But whereas Douglass’ ship is a platform for political freedom, in Melville it has poetic implications. This is due mainly to the circumstances. How can a slave focus on the beauty of the ships? “Those beautiful vessels, robed in purest white, so delightful to the eye of freemen, were to me so many shrouded ghosts, to terrify and torment me with thoughts of my wretched condition.” (pp74). One can see that because of his condition of slave he is not able to enjoy of the spectacle of life. However, Melville makes a lot of digressions and is imprisoned by the beautiful jaws of the sea. “The living spectacle it [the ship] contains, upon its sudden and complete disclosure, has in contrast with the blank ocean which zones it, something of the effect of enchantment. The ship seems unreal (Melville, 1942:99).
We are facing different styles. We are facing two writers with different conceptions of life and art, mainly due to their personal experience. I whish I could ask them: what is a ship? Fernando Pessoa says that “a ship seems to be an object which goal is to sail; but its goal is not to sail, but to land in a port. We find ourselves sailing, without the idea of the port in which we should find refuge. […]: to sail is necessary, to live is not necessary” (Pessoa, 1986). Some ships do not think of sailing as its purpose but as a means to land. But some of them sail, and sail, and sail, and they are a beautiful picture. Landing is instrumental; sailing is artistic. Douglass’ goal is to land; Melville’s goal is to sail.

miércoles, junio 09, 2004

Red Dragon, "El demiurgo"

Reseña de Dragón Rojo, o lo que quiso ser El silencio de los corderos II

“El miedo es el precio de nuestro instrumento”, dice Hannibal. Su vínculo amoroso es el miedo: uno de los más potentes. Los mundanos se conforman con la pasión. Los códigos que utilizan Hannibal y Graham para relacionarse son los mismos: cambia la intensidad. Podemos entender el canibalismo como una manifestación cultural primitiva y salvaje (es lo que se inculca en la película). Pero no es más que una sublimación de la pasión, un peldaño más en la escalera de la sensación. El miedo gana a la muerte. Y a la vida. Se sitúa por encima del bien y del mal para sobrexcitar el aparato psíquico de los protagonistas. Lo nuestro no es una antropofagia reprimida que se manifiesta en determinados seres.

El inconsciente y el consciente de una película nos desvelan parcelas de la configuración de nuestra psique. Creamos los mitos: unos perviven y otros se ahogan. La mayoría se disuelven en la literatura y en las manifestaciones artísticas y se manifiestan en nosotros de forma inconsciente. Dragón rojo es un producto cinematográfico estereotipado más.

Hannibal Lecter-Graham: ¿duelo maniqueo? El análisis profano nos dice que no: los dos son iguales. Lecter es el personaje sano mentalmente: es un filósofo coherente. Graham somos nosotros: un perturbado que no acepta su condición.

Muhover derrama su semen sobre el altar de la Humanidad: la ciega. Es una herejía inadmisible. El destino de Muhover está determinado por el tantrismo: tiene que comerse a la ciega, es decir, comerse a sí mismo: a la vida que había perdido. Pero en lugar de matarla, se pega un tiro (aunque luego resulte que no era él).

De hecho, la muerte nunca llega. Se desvía y se mantiene en vilo nuestra pasión. Nos tranquiliza saber que esta dialéctica licencia-represión no va a desaparecer. Pero sobre todo nos gusta saber que la gran licencia nunca sucederá: el asesinato (la muerte).

La religión. La sumisión a Dios, la fusión con Dios, la superación de Dios (Graham). Dios (Lecter): nunca morirá. Se retiene el fin natural de la historia: la muerte. Nunca llega porque no queremos que llegue
Blake. Cuando se come el grabado se fusiona con Dios. ¡Lo digiere! El es Dios y él es su propio esclavo: no está al servicio de su Dios-dragón (interpretación que se desprende), sino que él es en ese instante el Dios-dragón y eyacula a Dios de nuevo. Pierde energía. Y se lo come. Y lo vuelve a eyacular. Él es su tirano. Y se necesita, se quiere.

Hannibal y Graham son la pareja perfecta, pero el primero es consecuente con su doctrina y el segundo se engaña a sí y a su familia.

Apunte sobre Matrix

José Luis Brea publicó el 9 de junio un artículo en el suplemento Cultura/s de La Vanguardia titulado "La hipótesis Matrix". El autor explica cómo, en Matrix, la realidad es una producción social de un colectivo concreto: en este caso, las máquinas. La falacia es que el hecho de ser una producción no quiere decir que sea una ficción; muy al contrario, ser un producto es una condición sine qua non para existir.

Para otras ironías, ver el enlace: es un artículo de Sloterdijk.

martes, junio 08, 2004

La voluntad

Leamos a Schopenhauer: "Toda voluntad es voluntad de algo, tiene un objeto, un fin de su querer; si esto es así, ¿qué querrá, pues, en último término, o a qué aspirará esa voluntad que constituye la esencia en sí del mundo? Esta pregunta, como otras muchas, tiene su causa en que se confunde la cosa en sí con el fenómeno". "Igualmente, todo acto aislado de voluntad de un individuo consciente (el cual sólo es manifestación de la voluntad como cosa en sí) acusa necesariamente un motivo sin el cual el acto no se produciría; pero, así como la causa material no contiene más que la determinación de que en tal momento, en tal lugar y en tal materia debe aparecer una manifestación de esta o aquella fuerza natural, el motivo no determina tampoco más que el acto voluntario de un sujeto que conoce en un momento, lugar o circunstancia determinados y para cada acto en particular, pero no la volición de este individuo en general ni siquiera de un modo determinado, esto es, la manifestación de su carácter inteligible, el cual, como la voluntad misma, la cosa en sí, carece de causa por estar situada fuera del dominio del principio de razón. De aquí que también obedezca constantemente en su conducta a fines y motivos, y sepa dar en cualquier momento cuenta de sus acciones; pero si se le preguntase por qué quiere en general o por qué quiere existir, no sabría qué contestar y hasta juzgaría absurda la pregunta; y así expresaría propiamente la conciencia de que no es más que voluntad y que el querer se comprende por sí solo, no necesitándose el motivo sino para un acto concreto y para cada caso particular".

¿Por qué quieres existir? No es que quiera, es que existo: no es cierto. Queremos existir. Lo de los motivos es el gran problema filosófico de los "motores" del que hablaba Aristóteles. Tiene que haber un principio; y ese principio no tiene motivos. Todos los móviles son movidos por algo o alguien, pero para que todos sean movidos tiene que haber un móvil que no sea movido (otherwise, reductio ad absurdum). Por supuesto, el motor no movido es Dios. Aquí en Schopenhauer el motor no movido es la voluntad. Que la voluntad no tenga motivos puede escandalizar. Como fuerza motriz, como esvástica en el corazón, la voluntad crea y recrea; viste y desviste: hace que miremos y no mira ni discrimina. La voluntad se entiende en sí; en los adentros contiene y se desboca, existe tan brutalmente que deja intacta la estructura de la realidad; y es ella misma su creadora. Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung. Es imposible no ser antropocéntrico.

lunes, junio 07, 2004

El fenómeno judío

¿Cuántos de los intelectuales influentes que conocemos son judíos? ¿De los economistas? ¿De los filósofos? ¿De los políticos? Kafka, Freud, Horkheimer, Adorno, Stiglitz, Friedman, von Mises, Marx, Kissinger, Chomsky, Zinn, Spielberg, Kubrick, Einstein... Poco a poco me he ido dando cuenta de que son un elevado porcentaje. Es increíble. El número aumenta exponencialmente cuando hablamos de personajes de descendencia judía, es decir, con "algo" de sangre judía (perdóname, Sforza, las simplificaciones son útiles). Hoy la marea me ha llegado a los cerebros: Fernando Pessoa, uno de mis pocos dioses, también. "He wrote also under the pseudonyms of Alvaro de Campos (“first engineer on a tanker, who wears a monocle and is of Jewish extraction, as was Pessoa himself...". Only extraction, but anyway.
http://www.poetrymagazines.org.uk/magazine/record.asp?id=7658
http://myweb.lsbu.ac.uk/~stafflag/pessoa.html
"His family was a middle-class with a mixture of aristocratic Jewish and Azorean descent". ¿Cómo es posible? Expertos me han respondido: "Contrary to widespread belief [siempre, siempre es así: al contrario de lo que te imaginas, hombre ignorante], the large majority of Spanish Jewry did no leave the Iberian peninsula following the Expulsion order of 1492. The majority converted, and most of those who refused to convert went to Portugal,where they were not given the option of going into exile following the Royal decree that ordered the conversion of Portuguese Jewry several years later. So most of Iberian Jewry simply melted into the larger Iberian population, particularly into its middle and upper classes. Most of the people in these classes, even today, have "some Jewish blood," as is the case for much of the Caucasian populations of Brazil and Mexico. So it's never quite clear what is meant when prominent Hispanics are said to be descended from Conversos, Marranos, etc." Si os interesa saber más nombres, http://www.jinfo.org/
Por cierto, hay algunas sorpresas...



El lenguaje I: ¿violencia de género?

¿O violencia doméstica? La Real Academia Española ha publicado en su página web un breve informe. Se lee una vez y ya está, no se olvida para nunca y nada de siempre: http://www.rae.es/

Escribir. Warum?

La escalera pide que pisemos su primer peldaño. Vamos a lo básico. ¿Por qué escriben los humanos? Recall George Orwell:
"1. El egoísmo agudo. Deseo de parecer listo, de que hablen de uno, de ser recordado después de la muerte, resarcirse de los mayores que le despreciaron a uno en la infancia, etc., etc. Es una falsedad pretender que no es éste un motivo de gran importancia. Los escritores comparten esta característica con los científicos, artistas, políticos, abogados, militares, negociantes de gran éxito, o sea con la capa superior de la humanidad. La gran masa de los seres humanos no es intensamente egoísta. Después de los treinta años de edad abandonan la ambición individual muchos casi pierden incluso la impresión de ser individuos y viven principalmente para otros, o sencillamente los ahoga el trabajo. Pero también está la minoría de los bien dotados, los voluntariosos decididos a vivir su propia vida hasta el final, y los escritores pertenecen a esta clase. Habría que decir los escritores serios, que suelen ser más vanos y egoístas que los periodistas, aunque menos interesados por el dinero.
2. Entusiasmo estético. Percepción de la belleza en el mundo externo o, por otra parte, en las palabras y su acertada combinación. Placer en el impacto de un sonido sobre otro, en la firmeza de la buena prosa o el ritmo de un buen relato. Deseo de compartir una experiencia que uno cree valiosa y que no debería perderse. El motivo estético es muy débil en muchísimos escritores, pero incluso un panfletario o el autor de libros de texto tendrá palabras y frases mimadas que le atraerán por razones no utilitarias; o pue- de darle especial importancia a la tipografía, la anchura de los márgenes, etc. Ningún libro que esté por encima del nivel de una guía de ferrocarriles estará completamente libre de consideraciones estéticas.
3. Impulso histórico. Deseo de ver las cosas como son para hallar los hechos verdaderos y almacenarlos para la posteridad.
4. Propósito político, y empleo la palabra «político» en el sentido más amplio posible. Deseo de empujar al mundo en cierta dirección, de alterar la idea que tienen los demás sobre la clase de sociedad que deberían esforzarse en conseguir. Insisto en que ningún libro está libre de matiz político. La opinión de que el arte no debe tener nada que ver con la política ya es en sí misma una actitud política."