El Chantaje de Thomas Bernhard

Cuando era cinéfilo, allá en los 1990, frecuentemente aguantaba sentado, impertérrito, a ver todos los créditos después de haber acabado una película. Había leído que eso era lo que hacían los cinéfilos. Si los créditos suman unos cinco minutos por película, pongamos que un mes de mi vida se desperdició así en total; por lo menos, una semana.

Mi error era no entender que la comunicación no es sólo el mero acto de transmisión de información. La demostración de rango y la transmisión de consignas o mensajes políticos (“propaganda“) es igualmente parte de la comunicación. Yo pensaba que los créditos eran información adicional sobre una película, con lo que al prescindir de ellos suprimía voluntariamente parte del contenido. En realidad, los créditos son un mensaje cifrado, aunque no particularmente sofisticado, para profesionales de la cinematografía: los créditos les informan sobre quién trabajó en la película, y permiten que uno reciba crédito por su contribución. Los créditos no son un mensaje para el consumidor.

Algo parecido ocurre con la obra de Thomas Bernhard. Uno puede leer sus escritos y entenderlos, o no entenderlos; disfrutarlos, o no disfrutarlos. Pero todo ello es secundario (no digo que no haya cinéfilo alguno que realmente disfrute los créditos) porque sus escritos no están diseñados para lectores, sino que son una parte del brillante chantaje que Bernhard mantuvo durante su carrera, para asegurarse fama, fortuna y, después, en la opinión de muchos, incluso gloria. Creer que Bernhard escribió al servicio de la literatura, el arte o cualquier otro concepto elevado es como creer que Julio César escribió los Comentario de las Guerras de las Galias para ayudar a estudiar latín a los futuros estudiantes de secundaria.

Bernhard es frecuentemente descrito como un “enfant terrible”. Pero la definición de la Wikipedia en español no hace justicia al modus operandi del auténtico enfant terrible: no es sólo el niño que dice cosas embarazosas a los mayores; es el niño que lo hace porque saben que son embarazosas o carecen de sentido, y que espera sacar algo de ello. Esta es la conversación que Bernhard mantuvo con el resto del mundillo literario austriaco desde que publicó su primera novela, Helada, en 1963, hasta que murió en 1989:

BERNHARD: ¡Sois todos unos nazis! Creéis que nadie se da cuenta, pero yo sí. Sois todos nazis, ¡asquerosos!

MUNDILLO: Toma un premio y cállate la boca, guapo.

BERNHARD: Me quedo el premio, pero no creáis que no esto me vais a hacer callar. ¡Porque sois supernazis y esto hay que seguir denunciándolo!

En Austria, Bernhard era definido como Nestbeschmutzer, el tipo que mancha su propio nido. Era un nido muy bonito y paradisíaco, donde el reciente pasado nazi estaba apenas tapado con una sábana, para que se pudiera echar mano de él si hiciera falta. A Bernhard, sin ir más lejos, le encantaba Austria, y el tipo vivió muy feliz toda su vida en su país nativo, denigrándolo sin tregua, y acumulando medallas y dinerito.

En una reciente reseña de la última biografía de Bernhard, de Manfred Mittermayer (Times Literary Supplement, 9.3.16) Ritchie Robertson destaca un detalle que cita el propio Bernhard en su libro póstumo Meine Preise (Mis Premios), en el que, con toda inocencia, describe las distintas ceremonia de entregas de premio en las que montó el pollo; recibió al menos quince premios en vida, sin contar los que eventualmente empezó a rechazar, así que tuvo la oportunidad de practicar mucho.

En 1967, al poco de hacerse conocido, a Bernhard le dan el Premio del Estado Austriaco. Se presenta el ministro de Educación, Theodor Piffl-Percevic, que mosquea a Bernhard al describirle como extranjero nacido en Holanda (lo que técnicamente era cierto). En su discurso de aceptación, Bernhard declamó: “Todo es ridículo cuando uno piensa en la muerte”, digno lema de artista adolescente, y se lanzó a describir Austria como un país falso con una población inerte y descerebrada.

En Meine Preise, Bernhard escribe que el ministro se le echó encima para soltarle una, pero luego cambió de idea y salió de la sala dando un portazo tan fuerte que las ventanas temblaron. Mittermayer, muy germánico, compara diversas descripciones del acto de otros testigos y concluye que Bernhard se inventó la parte final, y que el ministro no se subió a la parra. Obvio: ¿por qué querría el ministro quedar como filonazi en la posguerra austriaca? ¿Para qué llamar la atención al espacio vacío en su biografía entre 1938 y 1945?

En Helada, los monólogos del excéntrico pintor protagonista nos indican que Bernhard encuentra a sus vecinos austriacos enfermizos, depravados, violentos, aficionados al incesto y la devastación ecológica. Para documentarse, Bernhard se compró una casa señorial a la que invitaba con frecuencia a sus amigos aristócratas; cuando el estado austriaco cometió el imperdonable crimen de no hacerle director del Burgtheater, y en su lugar le pidió que escribiera una obra para marcar el 50 aniversario del Anschluss, Bernhard incluyó en la obra el iluminador detalle, sin duda no relacionado con lo anterior, de que el “Burgtheater está lleno de nazis” que acaban la obra coreando himnos nazis. Su famosa novela tardía de 1986, Extinción, es sobre el hijo de unos simpatizantes nazis que visita la casa de sus padres para deshacerse de ella.

En 1972, Bernhard escribió lo que creo que es su obra cumbre, una dosis perfecta de antinazismo limpiamanchas morales marca Bernhard: el guión de Der Italianer, una película dirigida por su amigo Ferry Radax. La película va de un hombre que es encontrado muerto, por asesinato o suicidio, en su propia casa. Su hermana organiza un entierro; acuden familiares y conocidos. Durante la ceremonia, se escapa el hijo de un invitado italiano al jardín. Su camino conduce a un bosque en un césped con una fosa común de soldados polacos que han sido asesinados durante la guerra.

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Who will be Shot in the Middle Stages of the Zizekian Revolution?

In the first half of his remarks about Henry James’ The Wings of the Dove in The Parallax View, Zizek looks at the way James uses his long, winding, unexpected style to set a scene in a particular way. In the second part, he looks at the actual meaning of this particular, very Jamesian, scene:

She continued gently. “I think that what it really is must be that you’re afraid. I mean,” she explained, “that you’re afraid of all the truth.If you’re in love with her without it,what indeed can you be more?And you’re afraid—it’s wonderful!—to be in love with her.”

“I never was in love with her,” said Densher.

She took it, but after a little she met it. “I believe that now—for the time she lived. I believe it at least for the time you were there. But your change came—as it might well—the day you last saw her; she died for you then that you might understand her. From that hour you did.”With which Kate slowly rose. “And I do now. She did it for us.”

Densher rose to face her, and she went on with her thought. “I used to call her, in my stupidity—for want of anything better—a dove. Well she stretched out her wings, and it was to that they reached.They cover us.”
“They cover us,” Densher said.

Relying on Seymour Chatman’s 1972 book “The Later Style of Henry James,” Zizek goes on to explain:

Here Kate spells out the truth of Densher’s betrayal: he feels guilty, and refuses to profit from Milly’s death, not because he doesn’t love her and is for this reason unworthy of her gift, but because he does love her—not while she was alive, but from the moment she died. He fell in love with her gesture of dying for him and Kate, with how she turned her inevitable death from illness into a sacrificial gesture. Why, precisely, is this a betrayal? Because such love is a fake, a case of what Freud called “moral masochism.”

Poor Densher. In a footnote, Zizek describes the type:

In more political terms, Densher is a model “honest” bourgeois intellectual who masks his compromising attitude by “ethical” doubts and restraints—types like him “sympathize” with the revolutionary cause, but refuse to “dirty their hands.”They are usually (and deservedly) shot in the middle stages of a revolution (it is all the Millies of this world—those who like to stage their own death as a sacrificial spectacle—whose wishes are met in the early stages of a revolution).

 

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Semprún en Buchenwald

Martín Schifino reseña la última biografía de Jorge Semprún (“Ida y vuelta” de Soledad Fox Maura) en el Times Literary Supplement (de pago), sin considerar la posibilidad de que Fox sea pariente del susodicho, que era nieto de Antonio Maura, primer ministro de la monarquía.

En todo caso, la biografía parece tener su interés. Según cuenta Schifino, se mete a fondo en el gran debate sobre Semprún: ¿qué pasó exactamente en Buchenwald, y cómo sobrevivió un año en el campo de concentración? El propio Semprún dio muchas evasivas de las que se alimentó su producción literaria. En ausencia de nuevas pruebas, Fox concluye que es posible que el escritor comunista, de tan buen pedigrí político, recibiera ayuda mediante una llamada del embajador de España en la Francia de Vichy. Schifino añade:

Es seguro que el Partido Comunista, que formaba la burocracia del campo, le protegió. El propio Semprún mantuvo que sólo había sido un burócrata en la oficina Arbeitsstatistik, aunque sus tareas incluían asignar los trabajos en el campo y con ello otorgar una posibilidad de supervivencia (o no). En sus memorias Quel Beau Dimanche! (1980), explica que él y sus compañeros le daban las asignaciones más duras a los presos que estaban demasiado debilitados para sobrevivir de todos modos; pero su testimonio está matizado por otros dos presos de Buchenwald, Robert Antelme y Stéphane Hessel, quienes sostuvieron que los comunistas se protegían unos a otros y dejaban a los demás que se apañaran como pudieran. Fox Maura reconoce que es imposible clarificar lo que ocurrió de verdad.

Buchenwald no era uno de los peores campos. Gran parte de los presos eran políticos o de guerra. Un 76% de los que pasaron por el campo sobrevivieron, incluyendo no sólo Semprún sino futuras luminarias como los Premios Nobel de Literatura Elie Wiesel e Imre Kertesz.

Uno que no sobrevivió Buchenwald fue Misha Defonseca, autor de unas memorias sobre su paso por el campo que resultaron ser ficticias, puesto que nunca había estado allí; fue condenado en 2014 a pagar 22 millones de dólares a su editor. Es curioso que el libro llegara a ser imprimido: la versión de Defonseca era que una manada de lobos salvajes le ayudó a sobrevivir tras su escape.

De hecho, Buchenwald es célebre porque Otto Koch, que comandó el campo durante una temporada (antes de que llegara Semprún), fue ejecutado en 1945 una semana antes de que las tropas estadounidenses llegaran a Buchenwald, por un pelotón de fusilamiento de las SS. El caso, por apropiación indebida e instigación al asesinato de presos, fue promovido por Konrad Morgen, un juez de las SS que insistía en ajustarse meticulosamente a la ley, según la biógrafa de Morgen, Herlinde Pauer-Studer (el artículo es también de pago).

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A New Face in the Snakepit (15)

XV. Victory was an ambiguous concept, that Stalin always had trouble dealing with. He had been successful before: he had managed to escape deportation to Siberia for a second time, by becoming an informer and betraying his comrades; he had been part of the efficient Communist takeover of power in Russia, and the absolute destruction of the only liberal regime the country had ever known; he had triumphed in internal party squabbles, by sending untold numbers to atrocious deaths, and had become undisputed leader of one of the most powerful states on Earth. Yet, he didn’t consider himself a man of success, and the years after 1943, full of accolades and accomplishments, were some of the hardest in his contradictory life.

While the Nazi and Japanese empires shrunk slowly in their respective, unstoppable agonies, the leaders of the new Allied Powers met in a series of conferences, in Moscow, Tehran, Yalta and Potsdam, to design the new world that would result from the eventual defeat of the enemy. These high-level talks were tough challenges for Stalin, as the Western leaders Churchill and, particularly, Roosevelt were more than willing to recognise the Soviet contribution to the war by surrendering much of Europe to the advancing Red Army; and Stalin was faced with the complicated task of rebuffing these generous offers without triggering even better revised proposals.

At that point, the Red Army had become the biggest problem for Stalin’s strategy of minimizing Soviet gains: confounding his expectations, the Soviet troops quickly pushed the Axis out of the Soviet borders, and then kept advancing in all directions, in what looked like a reverse flood to the earlier Fascist wave. Stalin tried to slow the campaign by ordering an unnecessary thrust southwards to the Balkans, against the advice of the Soviet chiefs of staff; and the thrust turned into a complete success, and the Communist takeover of the Balkans, even as the much reduced divisions on Poland kept advancing towards Berlin, smashing the German defenses without a second thought.

Easter Europe was already a Soviet playground; Roosevelt and Churchill had accepted the facts on the ground, and Stalin eventually did so too. There came the day when the news came that Berlin had fallen to the Red Army, Hitler had killed himself. The war was over, and the Soviet Union had won, absolutely.

XVI. In 1945, Stalin was a frail man nearing his seventh decade. He was tired, and frustrated: his continued efforts over the last four years had only served to strengthen the Soviet Union and, indeed, to turn it into one of two untouchable superpowers, with much control over the newly created United Nations and a whole bloc of “satellite” countries where Soviet divisions and local communists were working to ensure a full, speedy sovietization. Despite the great purges, and the famines, the disastrous collectivization process, the alliance with the Fascist powers that had given them the head-start in the recently finished war, the imprisonment and murder of just about every kind of citizen, the international terrorism that had killed Trotsky, the Ukrainian nationalist leader Stepan Bandera and many others, despite the Katyn massacre, the Soviet Union thrived. Indeed, he wondered whether the whole world had grown convinced that there was “something great and bold,” as Bukharin put it, about such a naked display of nefariousness.

Stalin knew he was running out of energy. For the first time in a decade, he found serious opposition in a key issue, when the Politburo in full balked at his plans to stop the Soviet nuclear drive by eliminating the Nazi scientists in charge of the project. For a while, he toyed with the idea of launching another great purge, including a large element of boldness in it, and replace the entire Politburo with more pliant lackeys. However, he already had the top boot-lickers of the state in the Politburo: any change wouldn’t necessarily be for the best, and would very likely be for worse, given that the creation of the Soviet Nuclear Bomb was the one project that had achieved genuine, widespread support among all the Soviet society. Besides, he just couldn’t be bothered with conspirations and hushed instructions, and the prospect of dealing with some more back-stabbing in the Kremlin bored him to no end. And there was also the issue in question: the Americans already had the bomb, which meant that the British would soon have it. If the Soviet Union didn’t make one for itself quick, there was a real danger that the new American president, or the next one, would gamble on a nuclear attack on the Soviet Union – after all, the period of good relations between both countries had been short-lived, and was already turning into what some smart-asses called a “Cold War,” particularly due to the emergence of copy-cat revolutionary Communist movements all over the world. Hard as he thought, Stalin couldn’t see any moral improvement in letting the U.S. exterminate several Soviet cities, over having the Soviet state doing the extermination by itself. A nuclear balance, even if risky, would surely be healthier, and more comfortable for the few years that Stalin had left.

Stalin started to spend a long time watching cinema and visiting his dachas outside of Moscow. He saw his favorite movie – Boys’ Town, an American 1938 movie starring Spencer Tracy – over twenty times. That movie was about a priest who rehabilitates juvenile delinquents, and most of it is set in a kind of re-education camp, and Stalin also enjoyed Soviet movies about camps, which he found quaint and straight to the point; he loved Jolly Fellows, a 1934 Soviet movie about a local Jewish jazzman, Leonid Utyosov: a true rarity. He had a fondness for comedy, mostly international since Soviet comedy films were scarce, and spent some time trying to get a few decent local comedies shot for the benefit of the masses. His efforts were vain, and the results dispiriting.

Politics didn’t stop while Stalin enjoyed himself. By 1948, the Communist Bloc had been fully formed, and included such exotic additions as Albania, a majority Muslim country; and North Korea, ruled by a sort of madman who spent much of the last war in Soviet territory, intent on staying well clear of the Japanese army occupying his country. Stalin didn’t care: he had left such faraway concerns to the care of several Poliburo members who strove for influence like a pack of wild, bespectacled dogs fighting for a single bone. His only interest on issues like the civil war raging in Greece or the Vietnamese war against the French colonial troops was a factor of Kremlin squabbles: if they motivated such and such ministry to bicker and face off with opposing plans, he watched the dispute in search for humorous moments.

Stalin did retain a taste for bureaucratic jokes. Thus, at first he thought that the decision by the Yugoslavian dictator to break away from the Communist Bloc was some sort of prank. In fact, he had always thought that the Yugoslavian’s dictator nickname, “Tito”, was mildly laughable, and fitter for a clown or an entertainer. A professional ballroom dancer, maybe. But no: “Tito” was serious about the separation, he was told. Perhaps they should do something about it.

The Yugoslavian “crisis” refocused Stalin on high politics: he ordered reports about the situation in other European satellite states, and found to his satisfaction that the situation was uniformly bad.

Where the Communists didn’t rule – France, Italy, Greece – they were popular and taken as effective. The British government had actually given Stalin a Sword of Honour to commemorate the Stalingrad battle of all things, in a sign of understanding towards the Soviet pact with Hitler that led to the invasion of Poland, a British ally that was now an unhappy Soviet fiefdom. The Labour Party had won the first post-war elections in Britain, kicking Churchill off his seat, and several Labour figures had visited Moscow to deliver speeches in which they hinted, with delicious British understatement, that the victory of Socialism, in whichever shape, was inevitable.

Such enthusiasm for the cause was lacking in most Eastern European countries. The Yugoslavs had broken away, and there was talk of restlessness in Hungary and Romania. The Communist bloc appeared to be slowly, satisfyingly crumbling, at least on the European side of things. At the same time, the situation in China was, maddeningly, quite the opposite, and the local Communists led by Mao Zedong were defeating the U.S.-supported Nationalist Party. In 1949, the Communist victory in China was complete and the Chinese Nationalist government took refuge in the island of Taiwan, a former Japanese colony. Stalin saw some possibilities for mischief there: the Americans were pining for a fight against the rising Red tide, and the North Koreans, in plain ignorance of emerging Cold War conventions, were pining for a chance to occupy South Korea.

Stalin gave the green light, and the North Koreans invaded in 1950, taking everyone by surprise. The coup was completed soon thereafter, when Stalin ordered the Soviet representative in the U.N. Security Council to abstain from attending the meeting where the crisis was discussed: that left the way open for the Americans to secure a favorable vote and send U.N. troops – mostly Americans – to defend South Korea.

Throughout 1951, Stalin observed the events in the Korean peninsula with great interest: for a while, he despaired of the Americans’ ability to stop the quick North Korean advance, but then the Americans completely reversed the trend, with an audacious landing in the western coast that allowed them to retake Seoul and, in a matter of days, the North Korean capital Pyongyang. At that point, Stalin attended several Politburo frenzied meetings, where anxious hardliners called for a Soviet intervention on behalf of the North Koreans, seeking to avoid the complete collapse of the Soviet client. Stalin flatly refused to act.

“I’ll take all the blame,” he repeated, with half a smile.

Eventually it was the Chinese who intervened for their own reasons, causing Stalin some disappointment, even as he took all the credit for his remarkable sang-froid: after all, the Communist bloc would fight for Korea, to the last Chinese. For several months, the Korean war proved entertaining, as the Chinese pulled the U.N. troops back towards Seoul, and then took the South Korean capital again – for just a brief time, before the Americans counter-attacked and the front stabilized around the 1950 border.

Stalin had hoped for a stiff beating and swift disappearance of the annoying North Korean regime. Instead of that, he had secured its survival behind a wall of Chinese bodies. Once again, things had not gone according to the plan, and his foray into international politics had proved useless at best.With a heavy heart, he went back to the one proven scheme that had never failed: a new purge was needed.

XVII. Stalin was energized by the realisation that it had been a long time since the last purge, what with the world war and Nazi invasion, and the Soviet people were growing complacent on the inability of the state to murder them and make their lives miserable. He understood that a political purge would not do: it wouldn’t be the first; it would appear a matter of routine. It had to be something conceptually different, worse, so he came to the idea of an ethnic purge.

An ethnic purge had a key advantage: foreigners had to care about it, after the recent Nazi butchery and the Soviet misbehavior with non-compliant Caucasian minorities during the war had lowered the standards for shock. And there was a perfect victim for the new purge: a group that was influential, well-known, recently targeted by similar atrocities, and key for the Soviet economy (so the effects of the purge would be even more acute). A group that was well accustomed to purges.

The creation of the state of Israel in 1948 had provided the perfect excuse: Stalin hadn’t opposed it, out of disinterest for the whole matter, but then it looked as if Israel was becoming an American ally, and Israel’s enemies – that is, the entire group of Arab states – good Soviet friends. Stalin reasoned that such conditionals had to ensure acceptance on the part of the Politburo, no matter how reluctant or qualified: surely they couldn’t put their narrow preferences for not purging such or such ethnic group ahead of Soviet interests.

And so Stalin started his last purge: the purge of the Jews.

Stalin’s idea took everyone by surprise and, by the time a significant group of Politburo worthies had started to organise opposition to the purge, it already had some bureaucratic momentum and a catchy slogan: it wasn’t simply an anti-Jewish drive, one more pogrom in the long Russian history of abuse: it was a campaign against “rootless cosmopolitans.”

Many in the Politburo, including heavyweights like Beria, Khruschev, Malenkov and Bulganin, expressed open dismay: the Soviet Union was a nuclear superpower now, able to appoint pro-consuls all over the world and coerce dozens of countries with just a warning. It was a well-respected country with a dignity to defend, and Stalin’s latest excursion into chaos was inappropiate for such a lofty status; actually, it was more like a 1930s leftover: like one the political brawls that Stalin had used to clear the way, with the enthusiastic help of then young proteges with little to lose (then), like Beria, Khruschev, Malenkov and Bulganin.

Elevated views of the Soviet station in the world were one factor behind high-level opposition to the purge; another factor was of a more down-to-earth nature: the Politburo naysayers were married to Jews, or had Jews among their most trusted aides, or depended on Jewish doctors to stay somewhat healthy, or had been informed that many of the Soviet top scientists, including most of those involved in the all-important nuclear program, were Jews. Or, in same cases, were included in all of the above categories. Thus, the Politburo started to work, in secret, in a plan to get rid of the aged, troublesome revolutionary hero who just couldn’t stay put.

Weeks of subterranean political struggle followed, and Stalin came up with another idea to smooth the acceptance of the purge: the “Doctors’ Plot,” where he presented forged evidence that many of those beloved Soviet-Jewish doctors, including Stalin’s own physicians, had been murdering key Soviet and allied officials to further the interests of Israel and, by extension, the U.S.

The concept of a medical plot was arresting, if absurd. It had its own power, and served to cause some weakening of the emerging anti-Stalin coalition. Some victims were handed for public opprobium, to Stalin’s satisfaction: on December 3, 1952, a committee for the defense of the Rosenbergs – a couple of Soviet spies, of Jewish extraction, caught in the U.S. after they had obtained valuable information on the U.S. nuclear program – was formed in France, following instructions of the local communist party; the same day, Rudolf Slansky and ten other former leaders of the Czech Communist Party were executed in Prague after a trial plagued with the grossest kind of anti-Semitic innuendo.

However, the Politburo had resolved to minimize damage: it was fine to kill Slansky and other foreign communists on trumped-up charges, but not to go down the same dangerous road in the Kremlin. One month later, the Truth newspaper published an article under the toxic headline “Vicious Spies and Killers under the Mask of Academic Physicians,” and the Politburo put in motion its plan to poison Stalin.

The poisoning plan had the best quality of all successful plots, including the one that had eliminated Trotsky: it was simple. Nothing fancy was attempted. Beria picked warfarin, a powerful rat poison that inhibits coagulation of the blood and tends to bring about cerebral hemorrhage, a perfectly reasonable affection for a seventy-four year old man. Plus, warfarin is flavorless, and was easily administrated without Stalin’s noticing anything at all. Even as hundreds of Jews of all walks of Soviet life were arrested and sent to camps during February, 1953, Stalin was heavily dosed with the knowledge all of the members of the Politburo standing committee.

On March 1, Stalin suffered his first stroke after a heavy dinner with his secret murderers. He remained in his room for the next three days, as carefully selected non-Jewish doctors shuffled in and out without much purpose. Khruschev and the rest barely survived the uncertainty: consumed by excitement and fear, they eventually agreed to send in Beria, Stalin’s fellow Georgian.

As he entered Stalin’s room, alone, Beria saw something was wrong: the old man was breathing almost normally, and even showed some signs of consciousness. Beria had been efficiently trained, and he quickly dropped to his knees and kissed his master’s hand. Stalin tried to say something in Georgian (“you dirty old monster”) but failed to complete the sentence. He was very weak, and fell unconscious again, so Beria immediately stood and spat – on the carpet next to the bed, carefully avoiding the bed itself.

Something had to be done to end that long, terrifying agony. So Beria grabbed a large pillow and covered Stalin’s face, pushing with all his strength. As he suffocated, Stalin recovered consciousness for the briefest of moments, and understood that it was Beria himself who was killing him – him, the greatest leader in Soviet history, was being murdered by a fellow Politburo member, in the Kremlin! And Beria would surely get away with it! Stalin died quietly, in the sweet certainty that his work had been completed.

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Sin Título (no, en serio)

Leo en el TLS (28 Noviembre 2016) un largo artículo sobre la problemática de los títulos de cuadro: cómo en el mundo anglosajón se prefiere llamar Mona Lisa a lo que los italianos conocen como La Gioconda; cómo mucha gente se queda pensando en si la joven del cuadro tiene una expresión jocunda, sin saber que su marido (probablemente) era Francesco Giocondo, lo que le obligaba a ser Gioconda pusiera la cara que pusiera.

Todo eso me deja pensando en el Congreso de Jóvenes Escritores en Alcalá de Henares al que acudí en 1995, una de las más informativas experiencias de mi vida.

Entre las bastantes cosas que aprendí allí en tres días hay una que me enseñó un Joven Escritor con el que compartí barracón, por así decirlo: que es mejor no poner título a los cuentos o poemas o novelas, que poner uno sólo por que sí. Que uno puede escribir I y II y III, en lugar de infligir al lector un título innecesario. Por ejemplo, está este haiku (se habló mucho de haikus también en aquel congreso, que son como el rap, una moda irritante que parece no acabarse nunca):

Llego al prado

que es verde

y tiene muchas flores.

Dado este material, uno quizá debería escribir Haiku XXXV, por ejemplo, y dejarlo ahí. Lo que sería un pecado, también por ejemplo, sería escribir:

EL PRADO VERDE

Llego al prado

que es verde

y tiene muchas flores.

Porque el título “El prado verde” no añade más que reiteración. Si uno va de listillo y algo metaliterario, podría escribir:

INTENTO DE ESCAPADA

Llego al prado

que es verde

y tiene muchas flores.

Otra posibilidad, que da un sentido completamente diferente:

MI PRIMER DIA CON UNA CONSOLA DE REALIDAD VIRTUAL

Llego al prado

que es verde

y tiene muchas flores.

Luego estaría mi preferencia personal:

SI QUIERES ESCRIBIR HAIKUS, APRENDE JAPONES O ALGUN OTRO IDIOMA ASIATICO

Llego al prado

que es verde

y tiene muchas flores.

 

 

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A New Face in the Snakepit (14)

XIV. Everything had worked as Stalin expected, but Stalin was surprised by the fierceness of the German attack: in a matter of weeks, the Soviet forward armies, caught in their offensive stance and unprepared for defense, were surrounded and destroyed piecemeal: millions of Soviet soldiers were taken prisoners, and vast regions were occupied by Axis troops.

In some of those regions, say the Baltic countries, the Germans were taken as liberators, and local recruits joined the enemy in large numbers; in other regions, guerrilla groups were formed behind the lines to continue the resistance; in all of them, the Nazi murder machine worked at full speed, sweeping everything on its path.

Over that summer, the front quickly moved closer to Moscow, as the Soviet divisions collapsed one after the other. The Tukhachevsky purge had removed most experienced field commanders from the Red Army, and their positions had been filled with political appointees and friends of several Kremlin factions, whose military skill was unrelated to their military grades. Plus, the invasion had laid bare the inadequacies of the Soviet economy, unable to feed and supply millions of men and women under arms.

Kiev fell, the Axis troops penetrated deep into the Ukraine, and Stalin started to realise that, after all, there was a chance that Hitler’s army wouldn’t simply bleed to death in the Soviet vastness, but could actually succeed and conquer the whole country, or at least its European portion. With a full-blown crisis in his hands, Stalin reorganized several key ministries, and ordered the transfer of entire industries to the Ural region, well east of Moscow, to ensure that the fight would continue even if the capital fell. Useless but well connected generals were stripped of their commands and younger, more capable generals with no political god-parents were appointed to replace them. Stringent, Soviet-style directives were issued to field armies: not another inch would be given up. The German invasion had to be resisted to the last man. The survival of the Soviet Union, and more than that, was at stake.

The crisis lasted well into the Fall, with German armies approaching Moscow from the west, despite the early arrival of wintery cold and snow. However, the German offensive petered off at that point, unable to overcome the weather and the desperate resistance of the Soviet armies packed in front of the capital. Stalin cancelled the emergency plans for an evacuation of the Kremlin; on December 12, he ordered champagne to celebrate the Japanese attack on the American naval base of Pearl Harbor, which forced the U.S. entry in the world war.

With the Americans on board and supplying enormous amounts of military hardware by sea, everything was much easier in 1942. The Axis army mounted a respectable summer offensive that took the front to the downtown of Stalingrad, and the feet of the Caucasus; but the Soviets were well-prepared to hit back, and that they did in September, when Stalin approved two large-scale offensives devised by a young, brilliant general named Zhukov: Operation Uranus sought to roll back the Axis’ central army group just southwest of Moscow, and resulted in a costly fiasco, due to the stiff resistance offered by the German troops there; however, Operation Mars brought about the collapse of Romanian and German armies around the Stalingrad perimeter, and the complete encirclement of hundreds of thousands of top Germans troops inside.

In early 1943, the Sixth German Army of Stalingrad – now reduced to a few tens of thousands of starved, defeated survivors – gave up hope and surrendered. The war was won, even if the Nazis would refuse to concede defeat for two more years.

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Retrato del artista como Demiurgo, por @mahn

Habiendo leído la muy buena novela Intento de Escapada, de Miguel Angel Hernández, habrá quien piense que pinta un panorama terrible del mundillo del arte, ejemplificado en su mefistofélico protagonista, el Artista Montes. Personalmente, yo creo que se queda corta, pero en la buena dirección, así que no hay quejas. Observa este diálogo entre la “empresaria” cultural de la novela, Helena, y Marcos, el héroe-narrador inocente que descubre todo al tiempo que el lector; Marcos acaba de revelar la existencia del diario de un inmigrante africano, que puede servir de material para una ambiciosa obra de Montes:

Cuando Helena escuchó hablar del diario, abrió los ojos de par en par y exclamó:

–Fantástico, Marcos. Es el material perfecto.

Me sorprendió que utilizase exactamente las mismas palabras que había empleado Montes. El material perfecto.

–Perfecto, sí –dije–. Pero sobre todo tremendo y terrible.

–Claro, claro –corrigió ella–. Una tragedia cotidiana. Eso por encima de todo. Pero Montes la transformará en arte y la hará visible. Es decir, visible de verdad. Una historia no es nada si nadie la cuenta –dijo, abriendo la puerta del bar e invitándome a entrar antes que ella.

Magia. Pensé que el arte no era otra cosa. Magia, ilusionismo, pura prestidigitación. El artista era un mago, pero ya no un alquimista, como quizá había sido en el pasado, sino un prestidigitador, un embaucador y quizá también un equilibrista. El arte contemporáneo no era demasiado distinto al circo y a la feria. Quizá ésa y no otra fuese la verdadera filiación del arte, el espectáculo de las curiosidades, la feria de freaks, con la mujer barbuda, el forzudo y el mago. El arte era el nuevo «pasen y vean». Incluso cuando no había nada para ver o cuando era imposible pasar.

El arte moderno no es solamente el nuevo “pasen y vean”. De hecho, muy pocos pasan y ven (el cine y la música son más de masas en estos tiempos). Lo más relevante del arte moderno es que presenta una religión alternativa; ya que Dios ha muerto, el nuevo santuario está compuesto de Artistas:

La apostasía de la religión antigua es, obviamente, clave para ser admitido en la nueva. A ver quién me cita el nombre de un artista moderno prominente que promueve el Cristianismo (o el Islam). Y la religión nueva tiene una liturgia y un catequismo, sus propios pecados y sus propias penitencias; su propia clerecía.

En un momento dado, Hernández cita un poderoso poema del profeta de la nueva religión Brecht (que transcribo en prosa porque lo merece, como hizo George Orwell con los “Four Quartets” de T.S. Eliot; no tiene rima ni musicalidad, es el típico ejemplo de pieza que sólo quiere ser llamada poema para reclamar la atención del lector):

“Me han contado que en Nueva York, en la esquina de la calle Veintiséis con Broadway, en los meses de invierno, hay un hombre todas las noches que, rogando a los transeúntes, procura un refugio a los desamparados que allí se reúnen. Al mundo así no se le cambia, las relaciones entre los hombres no se hacen mejores. No es ésta la forma de hacer más corta la era de la explotación. Pero algunos hombres tienen cama por una noche, durante toda una noche están resguardados del viento y la nieve a ellos destinada cae en la calle.”

El narrador continúa:

Montes había dicho en más de una ocasión que todo lo que hacía era reproducir el mundo. Pero yo había creído que en el fondo algo cambiaba, que en esa repetición había un cambio, y que «aunque no era ésa la forma de hacer más corta la era de la explotación», «algunos hombres tenían cama por una noche». Sin embargo, tras pensarlo con detenimiento, aquella tarde llegué a la conclusión de que el único que tenía cama era el propio artista. Nadie salía de allí, nadie se resguardaba por una noche, tan sólo el propio artista. Él era el único que guardaba las distancias, el único que lograba no quemarse con la realidad. Porque incluso en las obras en las que arriesgaba su cuerpo, Montes era consciente del lugar que ocupaba. Y ese saber dónde estaba era lo que le permitía mantenerse a salvo.

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