The Other Poe
by Abelardo Castillo
Rilke famously taught not to venture into certain issues, on which, having been so much written or excellent, it is almost impossible to add anything. I will desoírlo. Literature as we know, is always a misdemeanor. I'll talk about Chaplin. Chaplin in the film the priest, in my town, spoke Chaplin (and sounds better, sounds like breaking glass) does not belong to me in art history, even to the cinema. Belongs to another story, less grandiose, more bum: a mine. To jump a fence and mud or, crammed the pockets of persimmons, to circumvent the spinster broom indicator of private property. Once, says a poet, gave the whole universe in the box a mustache.
Since then everyone has the Carlitos you deserve. When we are kids we all, a Chaplin identical, with an accent Chaplin, a dizzying Carlitos fantastic dodging punches and both hit you with a mop, as I crush a cream cake at the official nose. E l time passes, and suddenly a suspect if the real Charlie will not be the defender of pale girls, kissing the painful Carlitos to another, to the end of the road.
some reading, some pushing of those who speak Vallejo - "There are blows in life, so strong, I do not know" - and Chaplin starts to be the rectangle with a mustache where it the universe. That each one deserves. As with Don Quixote. As with God. The Chaplin I say it is tragic. It hurts. ale no longer gives Hungary it falls off the seat, just when it should dazzle Paulette Godard. There is something horrible about it to know who are not their fists, as befits the brave hero, if not random, which prevails over the huge mob. And one day he realizes that Charlie is apparent invulnerability.
same elegance is apparent. Dandy outside the walls, a broken and arbritaria of Byron, sewer Brummel-making balance with the feet at an impossible angle, as drunk as the tightrope on a tightrope, "that Chaplin that I use is like another person.
His coat, his stick, his mustache foolish, and especially its manrera drunk to walk, remind me strangely another coat, other staff, other rectangular bigotitoss and walked again for the world. Gomez de la Serna, I think, was the first (perhaps only), which warned the physical resemblance of which I speak. Because the terrible magic wanted to have peace in my soul, Chaplin looked like Edgar Poe.
Viewed from behind, lléndose one dirt road surely leads to the epicenter of hope wandering, the other by the warped perspective of a dark alley in Baltimore, you could swear they are the same. Fantastic dialectical teach that are the same.
Because if everything in its depth, its most terrifying dreams otherwise, from heaven to hell, contempt of piety, love of life to the horror of death, what is the distance? Once imagined that Poe died to live Whitman. Since I do not. Poe was raised in Chaplin dialectically. Trompifai why still haunts him.
There was a Greek who remembered his mu past multiple warrior, tree, fish, girl, Chaplin was once ignored Poe. However, in a movie appear - back-to the door of a tavern, with his foot wrapped in a cloth.
And you remember then a jump that recorded the biographies of Poe, and a seam the most immortal hitting the wall in a shoe that records the history of poetry because it happened to one pair of boots that had the greatest poet of his time. I do not know if Poe foot wrapped in a cloth, but the tavern. Always was.
A year before his death Poe, United Esatdos annex the largest gold deposits of the continent, Poe did not have time to make the backpack and go find some grain, sold the most beautiful poem in the English language for five dollars . The small Virginia Clemm, then, died of consumption. Another man, many years later, filming a movie, find a site and save a girl.
Both understood that the surrender of the men is to be like the guys ; Carlitos recovered them for children of laughter for fear Poe to the horrors of the pure, elemental. Sometimes Poe's dreams become entangled with those of Charlot and write a story as the method of Professor Dr. Tar and Feather, which could be imagined by Chaplin, and this film Monsieur Verdoux, which could be a nightmare of Poe. Usher blocked the women; Verdoux the burn.
pursued Every man is the attempt of another man. I say walked the stumbling a terrible night in Baltimore. Silhouetted against the grim streets, his good looks old Southern gentleman, worn, gave a rare appearance of the creek dandy.
Turning a corner, drunk to death, with laudanum-was about to fall sprawling and Vigilant was smoothed his mustache. For a second there was only Moon hysterical, Flake, on the street. And then it happened. The figure tropezante knight suddenly had forever solved the biggest problem of his life. was the October 7, 1849, and for that he had escaped from a remote home Eve. Beautifully restored the balance. He opened his feet, reboleó stick, he grew outrageous Punchinello shoes, turned on his heels, and come back, his hat in greeting, went fast, very plump, with the night watchman perplexed. Then he invented a way.
And walks through the world, as whole, greeting people for any reason, saving girls, breaking glass, raising a red flag, eating the laces of his boots, playing forever be Carlitos.
included in the words and the days,
Abelardo Castillo, Emecé, 1988
