To the Lighthouse

Virginia Woolf (1882-1941)

Novel

THE WINDOW

"Yes, of course, if it's fine tomorrow," said Mrs. Ramsay. "But you'll have to be up with the
lark," she added.
To her son these words conveyed an extraordinary joy, as if it were settled, the expedition
were bound to take place, and the wonder to which he had looked forward, for years and
years it seemed, was, after a night's darkness and a day's sail, within touch. Since he belonged,
even at the age of six, to that great clan which cannot keep this feeling separate from that,
but must let future prospects, with their joys and sorrows, cloud what is actually at hand,
since to such people even in earliest childhood any turn in the wheel of sensation has the
power to crystallise and transfix the moment upon which its gloom or radiance rests, James
Ramsay, sitting on the floor cutting out pictures from the illustrated catalogue of the Army
and Navy stores,1 endowed the picture of a refrigerator, as his mother spoke, with heavenly
bliss. It was fringed with joy. The wheelbarrow, the lawnmower, the sound of poplar trees,
leaves whitening before rain, rooks cawing, brooms knocking, dresses rustling--all these
were so coloured and distinguished in his mind that he had already his private code, his secret
language, though he appeared the image of stark and uncompromising severity, with his high
forehead and his fierce blue eyes, impeccably candid and pure, frowning slightly at the sight
of human frailty, so that his mother, watching him guide his scissors neatly round the
refrigerator, imagined him all red and ermine on the Bench or directing a stern and
momentous enterprise in some crisis of public affairs.
"But," said his father, stopping in front of the drawing-room window, "it won't be fine."

Had there been an axe handy, a poker, or any weapon that would have gashed a hole in his
father's breast and killed him, there and then, James would have seized it

La pasión según G.H.

Clarice Lispector (1920 - 1977)

Novela

II

(…)
Ayer por la mañana —cuando pasé del salón a la habitación de la criada— nada me hacía
suponer que estaba a un paso de descubrir un imperio. A un paso de mí. Mi lucha más
elemental por la vida más primaria iba a comenzar con la tranquila ferocidad devoradora de
los animales del desierto. Iba a encararme en mí con un modo de vida tan elemental que
estaba cercano a lo inanimado. Mientras tanto, ningún gesto mío indicaba que yo, con los
labios secos por la sed, iba a existir.
Solo después me vendría a la mente una frase antigua que se grabó engañosamente hace años
en mi memoria, apenas el subtítulo de un artículo en una revista y que terminé por no leer:
«Perdida en el infierno abrasador de un canyon, una mujer lucha desesperadamente por la
vida». Nada me hacía suponer hacia dónde iba yo. Pero es que nunca he sido capaz de percibir
las cosas en movimiento; siempre que llegaban a un ápice, me parecía con sorpresa una
ruptura, explosión de los instantes, con fecha, y no la continuación de una interrupción.
Aquella mañana, antes de entrar en la habitación, ¿qué era yo? Era lo que los demás siempre
me habían visto ser, y así me conocía yo. No supe decir lo que era. Pero, al menos, quiero
acordarme: ¿qué estaba haciendo yo?
Eran casi las diez de la mañana, y hacía mucho tiempo que no me sentía tan a gusto en el
apartamento. El día anterior, la criada se había despedido. El que nadie hablara, caminara o
pudiera provocar acontecimientos resaltaba aún más el silencio de esta casa donde vivo casi
lujosamente. Me entretenía en la mesa del desayuno; ¡qué difícil está resultando saber cómo
era yo! No obstante, tengo que hacer al menos el esfuerzo de darme una forma primera para
poder entender lo que ha sucedido al perder esa forma. Me entretenía en la mesa del
desayuno, haciendo bolitas con miga de pan; ¿era eso? ¡Necesito saber, necesito saber lo que
era yo! Yo era esto: hacía distraídamente bolitas redondas con miga de pan, y mi última y
tranquila relación afectiva acababa de terminar de manera amistosa con una caricia,
recuperando yo, de nuevo, el gusto ligeramente insípido y feliz de la libertad. ¿Es esto una
descripción? Soy agradable, tengo amistades sinceras, y soy consciente de que siento por mí
una amistad grata, lo que jamás excluye un cierto sentimiento irónico por mí misma, aunque
sin maldad.

Ulysses

James Joyce (1882 - 1941)

Novel

Last Chapter

Nota: este es un trozo del texto más importante de James Joyce. El contexto es el siguiente: la
parte del capítulo que leerás abrirá con los pensamientos de uno de los personajes principales
(Bloom). Acá viene lo interesante: Joyce, aplicando al máximo la técnica narrativa del monólogo
interno, buscará replicar sintácticamente (en orden) y morfológicamente (en forma) el mecanismo
psicológico de una persona al pensar las cosas. Es decir, lo que leerás a continuación está
desprovisto de puntuaciones (porque nadie piensa con comas y puntos), habrá experimentos y
palabras que el mismo Joyce inventará (así como debe ser natural que uno distraídamente imagine
una salchiempanada) y te encontrarás con un reguero de frases inconexas. Léelo sin compromiso,
pues después de todo, se trata de un libro de casi mil páginas y este es, apenas, un fragmento del
último capítulo, más conocido como “El monólogo de Bloom”.

Molly Bloom's Soliloquy

Yes because he never did a thing like that before as ask to get his breakfast in bed with a
couple of eggs since the City Arms hotel when he used to be pretending to be laid up with a
sick voice doing his highness to make himself interesting for that old faggot Mrs Riordan
that he thought he had a great leg of and she never left us a farthing all for masses for herself
and her soul greatest miser ever was actually afraid to lay out 4d for her methylated spirit
telling me all her ailments she had too much old chat in her about politics and earthquakes
and the end of the world let us have a bit of fun first God help the world if all the women
were her sort down on bathingsuits and lownecks of course nobody wanted her to wear them
I suppose she was pious because no man would look at her twice I hope Ill never be like her
a wonder she didnt want us to cover our faces but she was a welleducated woman certainly
and her gabby talk about Mr Riordan here and Mr Riordan there I suppose he was glad to get
shut of her and her dog smelling my fur and always edging to get up under my petticoats
especially then still I like that in him polite to old women like that and waiters and beggars
too hes not proud out of nothing but not always if ever he got anything really serious the
matter with him its much better for them to go into a hospital where everything is clean but
I suppose Id have to dring it into him for a month yes and then wed have a hospital nurse
next thing on the carpet have him staying there till they throw him out or a nun maybe like
the smutty photo he has shes as much a nun as Im not yes because theyre so weak and puling
when theyre sick they want a woman to get well if his nose bleeds youd think it was O tragic
and that dyinglooking one off the south circular when he sprained his foot at the choir party
at the sugarloaf Mountain the day I wore that dress Miss Stack bringing him flowers the worst
old ones she could find at the bottom of the basket anything at all to get into a mans bedroom
with her old maids voice trying to imagine he was dying on account of her to never see thy
face again though he looked more like a man with his beard a bit grown in the bed father was
the same besides I hate bandaging and dosing when he cut his toe with the razor paring his
corns afraid hed get bloodpoisoning but if it was a thing I was sick then wed see what
attention only of course the woman hides it not to give all the trouble they do yes he came
somewhere Im sure by his appetite anyway love its not or hed be off his feed thinking of her
so either it was one of those night women if it was down there he was really and the hotel
story he made up a pack of lies to hide it planning it Hynes kept me who did I meet ah yes I
met do you remember Menton and who else who let me see that big babbyface (…).