To have hit the mark, so young and the first time, with an exceptional novel; mirror of a terrifying society that he described with a firm hand. Receive the Nadal award and the consequent media attention; invitations, interviews, compliments, conversations in which you had to always be like the wonderful literary that you were supposed to be. Hear persistent requests for more, more stories and novels as good and better than Any. Maybe get overwhelmed and not be able to keep up, meet expectations. Not being able to meet the endless demands – even if they were only two or three questions, the journalist usually said – that always came to add, never subtract, to the responsibilities acquired as a wife and mother of a middle-class family with perfectionist ambitions. , maybe happy and that they eat partridges.
Carmen Laforet, the centenary of the author of much more than ‘Nothing’
Well, she couldn’t.
Could not with everything that. What that deeply rooted society on a millennial and patriarchal basis. He couldn’t even anticipate that he couldn’t. She would not be able, even if she tried, to act accordingly, to free herself through explanations, words that would try to narrow down the core in which she should feel so trapped. And so liberated. Almost better to shut up and run away, get out, find the vanishing point.
Nor could she say, as soon as she saw that she would probably never be the writer that the reading society predicted that she would be, no, that her body, her hand, her intellect, her words, had already given up long ago. His interests were other things less obvious, more necessarily escapist.
He obeyed too much the man, husband and ex-husband, who asked or demanded that he not write about their relationship
Perhaps he feared that his was perhaps a silenced, censored scream. And for that, it is better not to waste energy.
Important: You obeyed too much the man, husband and ex-husband, who asked or demanded that you not write about their relationship.
This thematic cutout is so striking that it would be drawn like an abysmal border. Don’t go through here, literature. How can the white page be filled with freedom, when it already has a line or a stain that recalls the writer’s limitation? Authentic, deliberate and happy writing practice impossible.
Assuming the slogan of that external, patriarchal authority, the woman censors herself when applying it. Progressively silence swallows his words; his face-to-face and epistolary communications, his increasingly hard-hitting, less and less accomplished literary texts; also neurons, imperceptibly at first. Religious faith does not take long to lurk that void on which to shed the light of the consolation of the blessed. It is the visceral affair of a novel titled La new woman.
This somewhat sad story of a self-silenced writer would not end when she is already there, she is fired with the honors corresponding to Any, the great novel that contains all the noise that reverberated sharply in the society that read it. It has not finished yet, as unpublished documents of the author are published below; letters from intellectuals, men and women, famous athletes; some unpublished novel; affiliate testimonials; more studies and biographies. It is claimed that she lived mostly on the run from herself, her family, and social prejudices. You gossip to admire his humanity; Despite his shortcomings, he wrote that pinnacle of our literature. The story of always ending is not over. The work, life, tensions and correlations of forces that might occur are still being studied with academic care. Who knows, they are all hypotheses. Personally, now I talk about myself, for a change, I wonder about her since my twenties because everyone asked me if I had read Anyby Carmen Laforet. And I am still in them, perhaps imagining too much, writing barbarities or stimulating conjectures such as:
1. Carmen Laforet did not have time to understand and respect her own success. But that of time, who knows what it means. He did not allow it. He did not want. Could not.
2. I want to believe that Carmen Laforet, in addition to Virginia Woolf and William Faulkner, read everything here. Surely read Natacha, Tea Rooms, an article by Luisa Carnés. Perhaps they would comment on it with their leisure-class prejudices in their circle of rather well-off Madrid intellectuals, before deciding not to return to Roman or civil law class.
The woman censors herself, progressively silence gobbles up her words
It is another anniversary, one hundred years after his birth, and surely there will be more. It is the excuse to continue hanging around, trying to listen and understand that kind of lethal silence that he suffered, when perhaps it would be better to focus on the work and stop turning around to claim feminism or rebellion at the wrong time, what difference does it make. Yes, that’s what I’m going to do.
Here are some notes and underlines focused on the character of Andrea, from my rereading two days ago, always amazed, of Any:
“My luggage was a very heavy briefcase – because it was almost full of books – and I carried it myself with all the strength of my youth and my anxious anticipation.”
The novel could be defined as a house, a city, a few loose lives.
The house on Aribau street where Andrea arrives “with a longing for life” to study literature is as ramshackle as the postwar city of Barcelona: “A hell. And in all of Spain there is no city that is more like hell than Barcelona “, in the words of Aunt Angustias.
“After the war their nerves have been a bit bad …”; thus the relatives of Aribau street, sample button.
Andrea inaugurates the line of “rare girls” defined by Carmen Martín Gaite; smart young women and university students who, if from then on they began to appear in the novels, perhaps it was because their somewhat rebellious ways were already beginning to question the norm. They consciously moved away from the loving and domestic uses of the time to gradually create alternatives, launch more intelligent relationships, more measured strategies to expand freedoms.
“I had quickly read a sheet of my life that was not worth remembering more.”
Andrea acts mainly as a witness, witnesses what clouds the surroundings and narrates it with her eyes that hold up to tears; he can also bear that Uncle Roman affirms that he is going through Barcelona “loose like a dog.”
“I was making an effort to see the comic side of the matter, if only imagining my hypothetical lovers.”
After a year: “From the house on Aribau street I didn’t take anything. At least that’s how I thought then.”
Now we would say that it comes out evolved or towards the next season, as if it were a series. But it is more than a series, it is to be read and re-read, interpreted as good novels.
He leaves Aribau after a year with a well-contrived account of life, despite the confusion and harshness.
We close the novel and do not close the matter in our interrupted reflections. We have known, thanks to the exceptional character of the author who conceived it, a human and urban landscape devastated by war and by the first stage of the dictatorship that, after the years, with the return of developmentalism, would begin to disappear greatly. part of the collective memory.
Those Nadal awards would become more commercial, for synthesizing it like this, and for continuing to ponder. As the poet predicted: More bad years would come and they would make us more blind.