Letter of love to Catalonia by David Torres

Letter of love to Catalonia

David Torres
Public.es



I suppose this has no remedy, that I write too late, but I would never forgive to have been silent at the moment. I will not hide you that I would prefer that we continue together, that I sincerely believe that you are mistaken, that we share many more things than you imagine, including the repulsion towards that stale, corrupt and right-sided Spanish that has governed us for so many years.

Barrunto, to say the least, that most of the leaders who now command independence, having picked up the flag of the ground with the same opportunism that Charlot in modern times (though not with the same innocence, of course), are suspiciously similar to those of whom you pretend to become independent now.

No, this letter does not go in that tone.

Even less so in the threatening tone that many are trying to frighten you-political loneliness, economic isolation, corralito-as if a relationship could be maintained by threats.

I am sure that, beyond nationalist demagoguery, historical grievances - real and fictitious - and institutional harassment, there is an authentic desire for separation, a desire to take the road alone.

 I will also assume that this will is a majority in the Catalan people, which, in fact, I doubt very much. But now I speak only to you, the Catalunya who wants to leave. If nationalism is a feeling, I also want to talk about feelings. Mine.

I want to believe, and I hope it does not sound too arrogant, that I speak on behalf of many when I say that Catalunya forms an indissoluble part of Spain, of the best of it, of its past, of its history, of its culture, but also of my own past.

Two of the greatest musicians of Spanish nationalism, Albéniz and Granados, were Catalans. It is no coincidence that, to a large extent, the work of both is fraught with Spanish references. The great pianistic notebook of Albéniz, a legacy comparable to that of Liszt or Debussy, is called Iberia and more than half of the pieces have an Andalusian touch. Of the Twelve Spanish dances of Granados, the genius of Lerida, we can say the same.

The other great name of Spanish nationalism, Falla, was Cadiz but devoted almost exclusively the last two decades of his life to putting music to one of the capital poems of the Catalan language, La Atlántida, by Jacinto Verdaguer.

After all, Castilian and Catalan are brotherly languages, a realization that there are many more things that unite us than those that separate us. Of the need for dialogue spoke much better than I did another great Catalan poet, Salvador Espriu, in his book La pell de brau (1960):

Sometimes it is necessary and forced
that a man dies for a people,
but never a whole people die
by a single man:
Always remember this, Sepharad.
Make bridges of dialogue secure
and tries to understand and estimate
the various reasons and you talk about your children.
Let the rain fall little by little in the fields
and the air passes like an outstretched hand,
soft and very benign on the wide fields.
May Sepharad live forever
in order and in peace, in work,
in the difficult and well-deserved
freedom.

De vegades és necessari i forçós
que un home mori per un poble,
però mai no ha de morir tot un poble
per un home sol:
recorda sempre això, Sepharad.
Fes que siguin segurs els ponts del diàleg
i mira de compendre i estimar
les raons i les parles diverses dels teus fills.
Que la pluja caigui a poc a poc en els sembrats
i l’aire passi com una estesa mà
suau i molt benigna damunt els amples camps.
Que Sepharad visqui eternament
en l’ordre i en la pau, en el treball,
en la difícil i merescuda
llibretat.

That sounds almost as beautiful in its translation into Castilian:

A veces es necesario y forzoso
que un hombre muera por un pueblo,
pero jamás ha de morir todo un pueblo
por un hombre solo:
recuerda siempre esto, Sepharad.
Haz que sean seguros los puentes del diálogo
y trata de comprender y de estimar
las diversas razones y hablas de tus hijos.
Que la lluvia caiga poco a poco en los sembrados
y el aire pase como una mano extendida,
suave y muy benigna sobre los anchos campos.
Que Sepharad viva eternamente
en el orden y en la paz, en el trabajo,
en la difícil y merecida
libertad.

For me Catalunya is not the Barca, or the Bulli, or Pujol, nor Tarradellas, nor the fuet, but rather that poem of Espriu; certain accounts of Quim Monzó, who writes in Catalan; certain accounts of my friend Diego Prado, who writes in Castilian; the way Tete Montoliu caresses the melody of A Child Is Born; some terrible verses of Joan Margarit to the death of its daughter; the crazed cats of Josep M. Beá in Stories of galactic tavern; the many friends of Altaïr; a poem by Joan Pons that I just discovered this week; the inconsolable rage of the Pijoaparte riding his vespa; the vertiginous Christ of Dalí floating on his cross; the almost secret family restaurant where Juan Soto Ivars and his wife took us, after the pinacoteca of scales of the market of the Boquería; the panting monologue of Mercè Rodoreda's diamond plaza; the light of Figueras an unrepeatable afternoon in which I stumbled there with Anthony Quinn; the chilling solo guitar by Max Sunyer in Camí de Rupit, by Pegasus; the bilingual laughter of my comrade Román Piña Valls; the wood with the smell of wine from a tavern near the Barceloneta whose owner was forofa to the death of Real Madrid; the celestial tenderness with which Alicia de Larrocha initiates the modulation in Corpus Christi in Seville, of Albéniz; the sad smile of Pepe Carvalho throwing another poemario to the fire; the children I do not have and whom I once imagined playing among the dragons of Güell Park.

Long before Pepe Carvalho, people were already burning literature in Spain. In the highest book that the centuries saw, Don Quixote de la Mancha, when the priest, in his inquisitive style, expands the library of Alonso Quijano in search of the novels of cavalry in which he ignited his madness, saves one of the First, the Tirant lo Blanc, by Joanot Martorell: "I tell you the truth, Monsieur, who by his style is the best book in the world: here men eat and sleep and die in their house and make a testament before their death, with other things that all other books of this genre lack. " In Barcelona, ​​the only city they visit in their adventures Don Quixote and Sancho, they see for the first time the sea, a paragraph full of movement, light, life and joy.

In Barcelona the Knight of the Sad Figure falls defeated by reality but still does not give his arm to twist and proclaims that Dulcinea del Toboso is the most beautiful lady on the face of the earth. No, I still do not want to believe that Don Quixote clung to his last dream abroad.

Source: http://blogs.publico.es/davidtorres/2017/10/06/carta-de-amor-a-catalunya/