miércoles, 19 de junio de 2013

Looking for Alaska, II

Soy la única boluda que piensa que toda nuestra colección de preguntas que no nos podemos responder, vamos a encontrar la respuesta una vez muertos? Esto lo pienso desde que tengo uso de razón, desde chiquitita. Si me gustaba mucho un chico y sabia que nunca iba a pasar nada, me preguntaba, "me encantaría saber como me ve, o si le gusto o si alguna vez le guste de verdad." Y me respondía sola, "Supongo que una vez que me muerta lo voy a saber" Como si en algún espacio surreal pueda ver todo desde arriba y tenga ahí las respuestas, o una vez muerta, automáticamente se vuelvan parte de mi conocimiento, o venga alguien o algo a contestármelas una por una.
Y si no existe nada de eso? Y si nunca vamos a tener las respuestas a nuestra colección de preguntas? Vamos a sentirnos vacíos? Nos vamos a ir sin nada?  Dejan de tener importancia y nos llenamos de paz sabiendo que, de alguna manera, son irrelevantes? Como se sigue después de eso?

Soy la única boluda que se sostiene a algo tan irreal y fantástico como eso? Me vuelve una persona ignorante o esperanzada? Así como también soy la boluda que cuando ve que se le va el bondi en la cara piensa que capaz justo ese bondi no se tenia que tomar porque algo iba a pasarle, y por tiempos había que tomarse otro, cuando capaz es solo mala leche o capaz hasta en ese bondi que se te fue te podías sentar, y en el que viene no. O capaz es solo mala leche y en ese no te podías sentar pero en el que viene si vas a poder. Me vuelve una persona pelotuda o optimista?

También capaz soy la única pelotuda que piensa que si algo no se da en vez de pensar que hice algo mal, pienso que "Si no se dio es porque no se tenia que dar, si se tiene que dar, en algún momento, de alguna forma, se dará" Me vuelve una persona sabia o una persona horriblemente conformista? Cual es el balance exacto para tener la movilidad de hacer lo que corresponde pero no obsesionarse ni llenarse de bronca cuando no sale? En que hay que creer?

“I never liked writing concluding paragraphs to papers—where you just repeat what you’ve already said with phrases like 'In summation,' and 'To conclude.' I didn’t do that—instead I talked about why I thought it was an important question. People, I thought, wanted security. They couldn’t bear the idea of death being a big black nothing, couldn’t bear the thought of their loved ones not existing, and couldn’t even imagine themselves not existing. I finally decided that people believed in an afterlife because they couldn’t bear not to.

miércoles, 12 de junio de 2013

Looking for Alaska I.

"We are engaged here in the most important persuit in history: the search of meaning. What is the nature of being a person? What is the best way to go about being a person? How did we come to be, and what will become of us when we are no longer? In short: What are the rules of this game and how might we best play it?"

The nature of the labyrinth, I scribbled into my spiral notebook, and the way out of it. This teacher rocked. I hated discussion classes. I hated talking, and I hated listening to everyone else stumble on their words and try to phrase things in the vaguest possible way so they wouldn´t sound dumb, and I hated how it was all just a game of trying to figure out what the teacher wanted to hear and then saying it. I'm in class, so teach me.

And teach me he did: In those fifty minutes, the old man made me take religion seriously. I've never been religious, but he told us that religion is important whether or not we believed in one, the the same way that historical events are important whether or not you personally lived through them.

--- Looking for Alaska, John Green.

jueves, 6 de junio de 2013

The Fault in Our Stars

"Hold on," He mumbled to me. He walked over to Isaac and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Dude, pillows don't break. Try something that breaks."
Isaac reached for a basketball trophy from the shelf above the bed and then held it over his head as if waiting for permission. "Yes," Augustus said. "Yes!" The trophy smashed against the floor, the plastic basketball player's arm splintering off, still grasping its ball. Isaac stomped on the trophy. "Yes!" Augustus said. "Get it!" 
And then back to me, "I've been looking for a way to tell my father that I sort of hate basketball, and I think we've found it." The trophies came down one after the other, and Isaac stomped on them and screamed while Augustus and I stood a few feet away, bearing waitness to the madness.
The poor, mangled bodies of plastic basketballers litteres the carpeted ground: here, a ball palmed by a disembodied hand; there, two torsoless legs caught midjump. Isaac kept attacking the trophies, jumping on them with both feet, sceaming, breathless, sweaty, until finally he collapsed on the top of the jagged trophic temnants.
Augustus stepped toward him and looking down. 
"Feel better now?" he asked.
"No." Isaac mumbled, his chest heaving.
"That's the thing about pain," Augustus said, "It demands to be felt."

Tanto tiempo esperando este libro y me estoy terminando en una semana.
Ya me hizo llorar dos veces, me dio escalofríos, me hizo reír alto en el subte.
Gracias John Green ♥