Hace tanto que no escribo! He leído tanto, submergido en libros, que no me ha dado para escribir…A veces el silencio también habla…meditativa, escuchando, pensando…Por qué será que pienso mucho.  A veces me gustaría ser como aquellas personas que no piensan, sólo se limitan a divertirse, a salir, a trabajar, a ver tele….No, creo que eso no es para mí.

“What?” asked Montag of that other self, the subconscious idiot that ran babbling at
times, quite independent of will, habit, and conscience. He glanced back at the wall. How like a mirror, too, her face. Impossible; for how many people did you know that refracted your own light to you? People were more often-he searched for a simile, found one in his work-torches, blazing away until they whiffed out. How rarely did other people’s faces take of you and throw back to you your own expression, your own innermost trembling thought? What incredible power of identification the girl had; she was like the eager watcher of a marionette show, anticipating each flicker of an eyelid, each gesture of his hand, each flick of a finger, the moment before it began. How long had they walked together? Three minutes? Five? Yet how large that time seemed now.”

Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451.  Sí, un libro que, para mí, todas las personas deberían leer.  Surrealista, moderno, actual, humano.  Cómo así que alguien pueda reflejarse en uno y adelantarse a nuestros actos, como una sombra que nos acompaña y nos completa?  Esta es la magia de Ray Bradbury.  Nos hace pensar, viajar, volar a realidades no pensadas pero existentes.  Te amo Ray Bradbury!

There are too many of us, he thought. There are billions of us and that’s too many.
Nobody knows anyone. Strangers come and violate you. Strangers come and cut
your heart out. Strangers come and take your blood. Good God, who were those
men? I never saw them before in my life!
Half an hour passed.
The bloodstream in this woman was new and it seemed to have done a new thing to her. Her cheeks were very pink and her lips were very fresh and full of colour and they looked soft and relaxed. Someone else’s blood there. If only someone else’s flesh and brain and memory. If only they could have taken her mind along to the drycleaner’s and emptied the pockets and steamed and cleansed it and reblocked it and brought it back in the morning. If only . . .

Otro trecho para pensar.  Fahrenheit 451 fue escrito en 1953.  Una sociedade en el futuro se vislumbra vacía, sin pensamientos propios, sin cuestionamientos, sin libros.  Sí, sin libros.  Aquí, Guy Montag, el protagonista, se pregunta por qué su mujer es como es, dónde está aquella mujer que él conoció en el pasado?  Cuántos no nos hemos preguntado eso alguna vez?  La idea de llevar a una persona a la lavandería para que pudieran lavar su alma, vaciarle los bolsillos, lavarla y traerla a la casa limpiecita y planchadita es la perfecta metáfora para decir cómo necesitamos limpiarnos de las pequeñeces de la vida que nos van dejando más egoístas, más vacíos, menos interesantes.

Oh, they don’t miss me,” she said. “I’m anti-social, they say. I don’t mix. It’s so strange. I’m very social indeed. It all depends on what you mean by social, doesn’t it? Social to me means talking about things like this.” She rattled some chestnuts that had fallen off the tree in the front yard. “Or talking about how strange the world is.  Being with people is nice. But I don’t think it’s social to get a bunch of people together and then not let them talk, do you? An hour of TV class, an hour of basketball or baseball or running, another hour of transcription history or painting pictures, and more sports, but do you know, we never ask questions, or at least most don’t; they just run the answers at you, bing, bing, bing, and us sitting there for four more hours of film-teacher. That’s not social to me at all. It’s a lot of funnels and a lot of water poured down the spout and out the bottom, and them telling us it’s wine when it’s not. They run us so ragged by the end of the day we can’t do anything but go to bed or head for a Fun Park to bully people around, break windowpanes in the Window Smasher place or wreck cars in the Car Wrecker place with the big steel ball. Or go out in the cars and race on the streets, trying to see how close you can get to lamp-posts, playing `chicken’ and ‘knock hub-caps.’ I guess I’m everything they say I am, all right. I haven’t any friends. That’s supposed to prove I’m abnormal. But everyone I know is either shouting or dancing around like wild or beating up one another. Do you notice how people hurt each other nowadays?”

 

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