Es en el ocaso cuando los humanos reflexionan sobre lo roto.

Las grietas del cuerpo y del alma se llenan de recuerdos,

y las articulaciones se sulfatan.

Invitation to a Beheading - Vladimir Nabokov (45/50)

Mr Nabokov writes in way easy to free reader from stereotypes, prejudices and boredoom. This time, "Invitation to a Beheading" is the story of Cincinnatus, a prisioner who has been condemened to death penalty because a crime that is not mentioned, only suggested, in the book.

Nabokov's novels tend to focus on good fiction; however, metaphor is used in a fancy and efficient way. Cincinnatus has feature, he is able to be transparent. If it is a symbol or a fact is not clear in the text; however, the main character tends to disengage his body and let the light pass through his body.

Surrounded by ridiculous characters that try to be kind, Cincinnatus keeps his dignity and keeps his temperant attitude. He is introduced to Monsieur Pierre, a extremely courteous man. The prisioner is honest, the partner is friendly. 

Cincinnatus is under the pressure of director and guards will. He has the habit to read; actually, there is a book that particularly interested him: Quercus, which tells the story of a tree a long history. It witness of world changes. 

The story is told in a funny voice. In spite of its merry and simple narrator style, it is unavoidable to feel touched by conversation between Cincinnatus and his mother, Cecilia C. It is supposed to be a comedy or a soft story but cruel Nabokov takes the reader to the heart of an abandoned child whose mother tries to give relief. 

"...'Why do you tell me all this?' asked Cincinnatus.

She was silent.

'What's the point of all this? Don't you know that one of these days, perhaps tomorrow...'

He suddenly noticed the expression in Cecilia C's eyes. -Just for an instant, an instant- but i was as if something real, unquestionable (in this world, where everything was subject to question), had passed through, as if a corner of this horrible life had curled up..."

Cincinnatus reveals in a letter to his wife the relationship they had. It was horrible according the writer. In spite of the straightforward tone of the text, she visits him. Of course, it is suggested she has had sex with the director in order to break the rules. She also does it naturally with one guard. It is told in a delicate ang comic language.

Finally, Monsieur Pierre reveals he is the person who is going to kill Cincinnatus. He has pretended to be a prisioner in order to get Cincinnatus friendship and esteem. The prisioner is near death. He walks in dark places and some beautiful literarian details may be appreciated. For example, when he walks he is able to read "ffice". I consider it a genuine way to express in words the effect of walking fast and barely read an inscription.

When Cincinnates is conceded his final desire, he wishes to have 3 minutes to think. He wonder about what he is living. He becomes big and the executioner small. He walks and leave the place.

I LOVE YOU NABOKOV

   

Alcíbiades Enamorado (II)

Ojos Color Ciénaga

Los humanos sólo somos completos con un lado oscuro. Ahí, es el espacio donde habitan los secretos. Ya te deben haber contado que vine a la ciudad, estudié, hice dinero y quizás me queden un par de décadas para vivir. Pero nadie te contó los detalles, ni las razones. Simplemente, enunciaron hechos dispersos de un hombre que no merece ser revelado. Sin embargo, en tu mutismo y ausencia, he logrado comprender que la verdad más que una virtud, es una cuestión de sed, un impulso que de no saciarse lleva a la muerte. 

Había llegado a la ciudad en uno de esos buses destartalados que llaman flotas. En esa época, aunque te cueste creerlo, yo también era hermoso. Mi piel era de un color dorado, mis piernas suaves y de mi cabeza descendían un par de risos. Mi pantaloneta, mis chanclas y mi camisa de esqueleto gritaban a voces que yo era pueblerino. La gente solía tratarme con suficiencia y usaban el arma de la antipatía para convencerse a ellos mismos que eran superiores. Con los años me he aprendido a acoplar a la miseria de esta ciudad y he notado que no es el acento, ni la ropa, lo que delata el origen de alguien. Los jovencitos que llegan a humildes pensiones a menudo traen en sus ojos el color de las ciénagas, cargan pieles algún día bañadas por ríos turbulentos y aunque callen por vergüenza, su aroma habla de caseríos lejanos y estrellas transparentes.

Una tía con el rostro aplastado por la cotidianidad me dio posada. Pero debes saber que en esta ciudad para ese entonces, éramos ratas. Tras un par de meses, me dirigió una mirada de arzobispo y pontificó: "Si sus papás supieran, la semilla que sembraron, se avergonzarían porque cayó entre los espinos". Eso es el destierro. Pero no te confundas, yo a ti no te he expulsado de nuestro paraíso. En cambio tú, has escapado como los soldados romanos cuando pierden una batalla ¿a dónde se ha ido tu mirada azul? Tal vez a Roma.