En esta época de duras pruebas,
la indiferencia es buena y
“en realidad, no es
asunto de los
dioses cocer vasijas de arcilla”. No lo
hicieron en este caso. Unos pocos
giraron sobre
los ejes de sus méritos
como si la popularidad excesiva fuera una vasija;
no corrieron el
riesgo de profesar la
humildad. La pulida cuña
que pudo haber
separado el firmamento
quedó sin palabras.
Al fin ella misma saltó
y al caer, concedió un privilegio a un pobre tonto.
“Más grande que todos
por la duración de una charla de quinientos
años”, hubo uno,
cuyos cuentos
de lo que nunca
pudo haber sido cierto—
eran mejores que la demoníaca y antisociable pesadez
de la certeza; su juego escénico
era más terrible en
su efectividad
que el más feroz
ataque frontal.
El bastón, la bolsa, la fingida discreción
de los modales, revelan mucho más el arma, la autoprotección.
Marianne Moore, Kirkwood, 1887 - Nueva
York, 1972
en Marianne Moore, Poems.
London: The Egoist Press, 1921, p. 14
versión ©Silvia Camerotto
imagen de Federico Herrero
In This Age Of Hard
Trying
Nonchalance Is Good, And
“really, it is not the
business of the gods to bake clay pots”. They did not
do it in this instance. A few
revolved upon the axes of their worth
as if excessive popularity might be a pot;
they did not venture the
profession of humility. The polished wedge
that might have split the firmament
was dumb. At last it threw itself away
and falling down, conferred on some poor fool, a privilege.
“Taller by the length of
a conversation of five hundred years than all
the others”, there was one, whose tales
of what could never have been actual—
were better than the haggish, uncompanionable drawl
of certitude; his by-
play was more terrible in its effectiveness
than the fiercest frontal attack.
The staff, the bag, the feigned inconsequence
of manner, best bespeak that weapon, self protectiveness.
Nonchalance Is Good, And
“really, it is not the
business of the gods to bake clay pots”. They did not
do it in this instance. A few
revolved upon the axes of their worth
as if excessive popularity might be a pot;
they did not venture the
profession of humility. The polished wedge
that might have split the firmament
was dumb. At last it threw itself away
and falling down, conferred on some poor fool, a privilege.
“Taller by the length of
a conversation of five hundred years than all
the others”, there was one, whose tales
of what could never have been actual—
were better than the haggish, uncompanionable drawl
of certitude; his by-
play was more terrible in its effectiveness
than the fiercest frontal attack.
The staff, the bag, the feigned inconsequence
of manner, best bespeak that weapon, self protectiveness.
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