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  back - I TELL YOU - 01/05/08
 

Once upon a time…

[From Isabel Allende’s book El oficio de contar, El Corte Inglés, 2007)

“At the end of the seventies I was working in Venezuela in a school for problem children. One day the music teacher did not come and I was asked to watch the children for the period. I found myself locked in a classroom with twenty savages out of control who were jumping about and hitting each other with their flutes and violins. I was about to run away in a terror when the door opened and in came a fat, soap-smelling, pleasant-looking woman with a bucket and a broom. I suppose she was coming to wash, but on seeing the situation she decided to intervene, and, without raising her voice, in a quiet and kind way, she began to say: ‘Once upon a time…’. Suddenly the whole turmoil subsided and the air seemed to stand still. She repeated those four words: ‘Once upon a time…’, and she conquered them! The monsters sat down in absolute silence when she began to tell them a story. That woman had the gift of narrative. I don’t remember the story, but I do remember I was hanging on her words, caught up by the suspense, the rhythm, the characters, the plot. She charmed the twenty hyperactive children as well as myself. This is what I try to do with each of my books: to catch the reader by the neck and not to let them go till the last line.

‘One upon a time…’. These are magical words. Stories have accompanied humankind since the beginning of time. Some of them, repeated time and again, describe our journey through life and death and become myths; The Garden of Eden, The Mother Goddess, The Deluge all over the planet, the heroes in search of the Father, the fight between Good and Evil, de brave deeds, the impossible loves, the necessary sacrifices, the battles against dragons in our own souls. The great themes repeat themselves any number of times, we can only weave new versions, but a skilled narrator can recreate history with the charm of the first narrative.” (p. 12)

“When I was a child they punished me for telling lies; now that I live on those lies they call me a writer.” (20)

“I write much, I write always, because I feel that my life will not stretch out enough to cover all that I want to tell.” (23)

“I grew up in a house where the walls were covered with shelves full of books. The books multiplied themselves in a mysterious way creating a wonderful jungle of printed paper. At night I seemed to hear from my bed the characters of the stories that were escaping from the pages and wandered about the dark rooms. Knights, maidens, witches, pirates, bandits, saints, and courtesans filled the air with their adventures. One morning, during one of our famous earthquakes, the shelves came down with a terrible crash. In my terror I understood that the characters could not find their way back to their pages and would be compelled to find shelter in the first volume within reach. Can you imagine the confusion, the chaos, de undoing of time and space in their stories? The image of those characters, forever exiled from their own books, has haunted me since then. Sometimes I imagine those lost souls come to me to ask me to write a story where they can feel at home again.” (4)

“What is a book before someone opens it and reads it? Just a bundle of sheets sewed together at the side. It is the readers that instil into them the breath of life.” (5)

“I do not choose a theme. The theme chooses me.” (8)

“As my granddaughter says, I remember things that never happened.” (10)

From one side to the other

[Quotations from Plato and a Platypus Walk Into a Bar… by Thomas Cathcart and Daniel Klein, Planeta, Barcelona 2008.]

“It was autumn and the Indians in the reservation asked their new chief whether the winter was going to be hard. He was a young man trained in modern methods but ignorant of the old secrets, and he had no way to know whether the coming winter was going to be particularly cold or not. To be on the safe side he advised his tribe to gather abundant firewood to face a cold winter.

A few days later, as an afterthought, it occurred to him to call the US national meteorological service and ask them what kind of winter, cold or mild, were they predicting for this year. The meteorologist answered him they believed the coming winter was going to be very cold. The chief then advised the members of his tribe to gather even more firewood.

A couple of weeks later the chief called again the meteorological service.

- Do you still think the winter is going to be hard? – asked the chief.
- Of course – answered the meteorologist – a very hard winter indeed.

The chief, accordingly, urged the members of the tribe to collect any piece of wood, however small, as they were facing a severe winter. After a couple of weeks he called the meteorological department and asked how they were now foreseeing the coming winter. The technician answered him:

- Our forecast is that this is going to be one of the coldest winters of all times.
- Really? – wondered the chief. – And how are you so sure?
- Because the Indians are collecting firewood like mad! – answered the meteorologist.” (p. 51)

“The sacristan of the Königsberg cathedral is known to have set the clock daily observing the moment Kant walked in front of the tower. But nobody knew that Kant was setting his own watch according to the clock in the tower as he passed in front of it.” (84)

“John Lennon: ‘In the beginning was Elvis…’.” (10)

“When the XX century novelist Isaak Bashevis Singer was asked whether he believed in free will, he answered somewhat ironically, “Yes, of course, I have no other choice’.” (29)

“Disciple: There are so many conflicting philosophies… How can I know which is the true one?
Master: Who has told you there is a true one” (35)

“Nietsche: ‘God is dead.’ Graffiti at the death of Nietsche: ‘Nietsche is dead’.” (99)

“An old Christian woman comes out of her door every morning and shouts in the street: ‘Praise the Lord!’ And every time her neighbour next door, who is an atheist, comes out by the side and shouts: ‘God does not exist!’
The scene is enacted day after day, week after week, with ‘Praise the Lord!’ on one side and ‘God does not exist’ on the other. A time comes when the lady falls into financial difficulties and she has hardly enough left to eat. She comes out and, after praising God, she asks him aloud to help her with her daily purchase of food in the market. Next day, as she comes out of her door, she finds a bag full with the food she had asked of God. Delighted, she shouts, ‘Praise the Lord!’, and at that moment the atheist comes out at his door and shouts, ‘Nonsense! It is me that has bought and brought you this food. God does not exist.’ The old woman looks at him and smiles. She shouts out, ‘Praise the Lord! He not only has brought me my food, but he has made Satan pay for it and bring it to my door!’” (111)

“An Irishman comes into a pub and straightaway asks for three tankards of Guinness. He places the three tankards in front of him and goes on drinking a draught at a time from each of the three in turn. He explains to the barman that they are three brothers, one in America, one in Australia, and himself, and the three had promised to drink always in this way, each one in his country, to keep their common bond. The barman was impressed by the exemplary love of the three brothers.

One day the Irishman turns up at the pub and asks for two beers only. The barman understands, and thoughtfully offers him his condolences and asks him which of his two brothers has died, the one in America or the one in Australia. He explains: ‘No, no. They are both fine, thank God. The thing is, I have become a Mormon, and I don’t drink any more’.” (37)