Tag: Novelista

David Viñas (1927-2011) — Crítico social y novelista judío-argentino/Argentine Social Critic and Novelist — “Los dueños de la tierra”/”The Owners of the Earth” — fragmento/excerpt

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David Viñas

Viñas, David

David Viñas nació en Buenos Aires en 1929. Estudió en el Liceo militar a causa de los problemas económicos familiares. Estudió Filosofía y Letras, allí conoció a algunos intelectuales. Fue uno de los fundadores, en 1953, de la revista Contorno. Al poco tiempo publicó su primera novela Cayó sobre su rostro. Recibió en 1962 el Premio Nacional de Literatura. En 1967 fue galardonado con el Premio Casa de las Américas, de La Habana (. También ha sido capital su aportación al ensayo con libros como Literatura argentina y realidad política: de Sarmiento a Cortázar o Rebeliones populares argentinas: De los montoneros a los anarquistas. La dictadura le robó a sus dos hijos, ambos acaban de ser padres cuando los detuvieron, y fueron desaparecidos por los militares, y lo obligó a exiliarse en México y España. En México fundó la editorial Tierra del Fuego junto a Pedro Orgambide, Jorge Boccanera, Alberto Ádelach y Humberto Costantini, en 1981. En 1984 pudo regresar a Argentina tras el fin de la dictadura. Fue nombrado titular de la Cátedra de Literatura Argentina de la Facultad de Filosofía y Letras de la Universidad de Buenos Aires. En los años siguientes se sucedieron los estrenos teatrales. En 1991 recibió la la Beca Guggenheim pero la rechazó como homenaje a sus hijos.

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David Viñas was born in Buenos Aires in 1929. He studied at the Military Lyceum because of family financial problems. He studied Philosophy and Letters, there he met some intellectuals. He was one of the founders, in 1953, of the magazine Contorno. Soon after, he published his first novel. It fell on his face. He received in 1962 the National Prize for Literature. In 1967 he was awarded the Casa de las Américas Prize. His contribution to the essay has also been capital with books such as Argentine literature and political reality: from Sarmiento to Cortázar or Argentine popular rebellions: From the montoneros to the anarchists. The dictatorship stole his two sons, both of whom had just become parents when they were detained, and who were disappeared by the military, and forced him into exile in Mexico and Spain. In Mexico he founded the Tierra del Fuego publishing house together with Pedro Orgambide, Jorge Boccanera , Alberto Ádelach and Humberto Costantini, in 1981. In 1984 he was able to return to Argentina after the end of the dictatorship.He was appointed holder of the Chair of Argentine Literature at the Faculty of Philosophy and Letters of the University of Buenos Aires. Theatrical premieres followed, in 1991 he received the Guggenheim Scholarship but rejected it as a tribute to his children.

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De la novela “Los Dueños de la tierra”, 1958

 

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“Esos de la Guardia Blanca”

Claro que estaban ésos de la guardia blanca. Vicente ya los conocía; en Buenos Aires, desde su departamento de la calle Ayacucho los había visto golpear a la gente del barrio en la semana de enero en 19.[i] Y rompían vidrieras y ensuciaban las sinagogas. Había sido un lunes y por las calles de la ciudad deambulaban algunos hombres solitarios y sudorosos, con las corbatas flojas y el saco en la mano. Los que acababa de ver en el puerto y los que tiraban bombas de alquitrán contra las sinagogas de Buenos Aires se parecían, desde la manera de golpear y reírse al mismo tiempo, hasta la insolencia se confeccionaban para insultar y pararse en medio de la calle con las piernas abiertas. Eran tipos que gritaban”—Judío sucio” con la misma calma que se instalaban a la salida de un jardín israelita para obligarles a cantar el Himno, “Oíd mortales el grito sagrado!” Sí, pensaba. Y desde su balcón de la calle Ayacucho había visto a esos chiquilines que cantaban destempladamente, espiando a sus maestras y esperando que les ordenasen que se callaran de una vez porque el Himno no se canta así, o que se largaran a correr hacia sus casas. Pero en 1910, cuando el Centenario.él, él mismo, Vicente había hecho algo parecido. Era más joven claro. Pero las balas de su revólver corrían por debajo del paño verde de los billares en esos cafés oscuros y bajos de la calle Libertad. Dos, tres, seis tiros sobre esas mesas mientras los parroquianos se apoyaban en sus tacos con inquietud hieráticos, extranjeros, pero con esa silenciosa y acusadora dignidad de las víctimas. Había olor a pólvora en aquella sala de billar. Un judío de rancho, insignificante, había seguido frotando la tiza sobre su taco. Vicente vació su revólver sobre una de las mesas de billar. Las balas se deslizaban por debajo del paño como unos extraños gusanos veloces y aturdidos. Eso había sido para divertirse, por cierto. Como él iba a pasar sus horas muertas en uno de los prostíbulos enfrente a los tribunales, le quedaba cerca. Era una diversión cercana. “Un trabajo a un paso de la farra”, comentaban en el Gimnasia y Esgrima. Los tribunales de un lado, y a la vuelta, el prostíbulo y los billares judíos de la calle Libertad. Todo ahí no más. ”Un verdadero centro de diversiones” proclamaba entonces. Pero es que todos los prostíbulos estaban atestados de judíos y muchos judíos andaban en ese negocio.[iii] “Las polacas”, les decían los amigos en el club. “Y una polaca le da vuelta y media a cinco francesas”.  Y todos se divertían con las judías que al fin de cuentas, eran lo mismo. Él, sus compañeros de la facultad en el año del Centenario y la guardia blanca en la semana de enero del 19. Pero con la diferencia que él lo había hecho para pasar el rato, total, no eran más que los paños de los billares. Además, unos días después había ido a pagarlos. Pasar el rato, de eso se trataba, porque él no tenía nada contra los judíos, que eran gente trabajadora y no se metían con nadie. Aunque un poco… un poco… ¿Cómo diría?, calculaba Vicente. Poco elegantes. Ahí estaba. No eran lindos los judíos y qué se la iba a hacer. Se nacío fiero o se nacía con pinta de macho. Una vez le habían comentado en la mesa de Ingenieros: “Usted es el precursor de las guardias blancas. Verá—“ Y Vicente no había sabido si se lo decían en serio o en divertirse. Él no tenía prejuicios. Y no pensaba eso para darse una explicación que lo tranquilizarse.

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[i] La Semana Trágica es el nombre con el que se conoce la represión y masacre sufrida por el movimiento obrero argentino, en la que fueron asesinadas cientos de personas en Buenos Aires, en la segunda semana de enero de 1919, La misma incluyó el único pogromo (matanza de judíos) del que se tiene registro en América. Dentro de la Semana Trágica se produjo el único pogromo (matanza de judíos) del que hay registro en el continente americano. El pogromo tuvo su epicentro en el barrio judío de Once. El pogromo se desató cuando promediaba la Semana Trágica y se sumaron a la represión los civiles de clase alta, Fue llevado a cabo por la Liga Patriótica Argentina, “la guardia blanca”; incendiaron sinagogas. Hubo centenares de muertos

[ii] La prostitución en Argentina fue dominada por judíos por muchos años. Fue terminado por protesta vehementes de la comunidad judía y legislación del gobiernos.

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From the novel: “The Rulers of the Earth, 1958”

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“Those of the White Guard”

Of course, those of the White Guard were there. Vicente knew them already; in Buenos Aires, from his apartment on Ayacucho Street, he had seen them strike the people of the neighborhood in the January week of 1919. [i]And they broke store windows and the befouled the synagogues. It had been a Monday and solitary and sweaty men wandered the streets, with their ties loose and their jackets in their hands. Those that he had just seen in the port and those who threw tar bombs at the synagogues of Buenos Aires seemed, from their manner to punch and laugh at the same time, to the insolence they had for insulting and stopping in the middle of the street with their legs apart. They were guys who shouted “Dirty Jew” with the same calmness who stood in the exit of a Jewish kindergarten to force them to sing the National Anthem, “Hear, O Mortals, the sacred shout!” Ye, he thought. And from his balcony on Ayacucho Street he had seen those little ones who were singing off-key, spying at their teachers and hoping that they would order them to be quiet at once because the Anthem was not song in that way, or that they leave to run home. But in 1910, which was the Centenary, he, he himself, Vicente had done something similar. Surely, he was younger. But the bullets from his revolver shot below the green cloth of the billiard tables in those dark and humble cafes on Libertad Street. Two, three, six shots over those tables while the neighbors were leaning on their cues. A Jew from the farms, insignificant, had continued rubbing the chalk on his cue. Vicente opened his revolver on a billiard table. The bullets slid under the billiard cloth like some strange and confused worms. This was for fun, of course. Just like he was going to spend his free time in one of the brothels near the courts. It was a nearby diversion. Work just a step from the party, they commented at Gym and Fencing . The gym on one side and, around the corner the Jewish brothel and billiard parlors on Liberty Street. Everything there. That’s it. A true center of entertainment, they proclaimed in those days. But it was that all the brothels were filled with Jews and many Jews were in that business. [ii]“The Polish girls”, his friends in the club called them.  “And a Polish girl gives you more than five French girls and they all had a good time with the Jewish girls who, in the end were the same ones. He, his buddies from the college, in the year of the Centenary and the White Guards in the January week of 1919. But the difference was that he had done it to pass the time, they weren’t more that cloths on billiard tables, that’s all. Moreover, a few days later, he went over to pay for them. To pass the time, that’s what it was about. Because he didn’t have anything against the Jews, who were hard working people and don’t bother anyone. Although a little… a little. How would you say it?, Vicente  reckoned. Not elegant. That was it. The Jews weren’t attractive and what are you going to do. You are born fierce or you were born with a macho look. He had once heard commented at the Engineer’s table. “You are precursor of the White Guards. You’ll see.” And Vicente didn’t know whether if it was said to him seriously or in jest. He didn’t have prejudices. And he wasn’t thinking that to give himself an explanation that would calm him down.

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[i] Tragic Week is the name by which the repression and massacre suffered by the Argentine labor movement is known, in which hundreds of people were murdered in Buenos Aires, in the second week of January 1919, it included the only pogrom (massacre of Jews) that is recorded in America. Within the Tragic Week there was the only pogrom (massacre of Jews) of which there is record in the American continent. The pogrom had its epicenter in the Jewish quarter of Once. The pogrom was unleashed when Tragic Week was averaging and the upper-class civilians joined the repression. It was carried out by the Argentine Patriotic League, “the white guard”; synagogues burned. There were hundreds of deaths.

[ii] While prostitution in Argentina was dominated by Jews for many years., it was terminated by vehement protest from the Jewish community and government legislation.

Translation by Stephen A. Sadow

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Bibliografía de David Viñas/David Viñas’ Bibliography

NOVELA/NOVEL

Cayó sobre su rostro (1955)

Los años despiadados (1956)

Un Dios cotidiano (1957)

Los dueños de la tierra (1958)

Dar la cara (1962)

En la semana trágica (1966)

Hombres de a caballo (1967)

Cosas concretas (1969)

Jauría (1971)

Cuerpo a cuerpo (1979)

Prontuario (1993)

Tartabul (2006)

La hermosa yegua

TEATRO/THEATER

Sarah Goldmann

Maniobras

Dorrego

Lisandro (1971)

Tupac-Amaru

Walsh y Gardel

ENSAYO/ESSAYS:

Literatura argentina y realidad política: de Sarmiento a Cortázar (1970)

De los montoneros a los anarquistas (1971)

Momentos de la novela en América Latina (1973)

Indios, ejército y fronteras (1982)

Los anarquistas en América Latina (1983)

Literatura argentina y política – De los jacobinos porteños a la bohemia anarquista (1995)

PREMIOS

Premio Guillermo Kraft (1957)

Premio Gerchunoff (1957)

Premio Nacional de Literatura (1962) y (1971)

Premio Casa de las Américas (1967)

Premio Nacional de Teatro (1972)

Premio Nacional de la Crítica

Elisa Lerner (1932-2024)– Escritora de ficción, dramaturga y cronista judío-venezolana/ Elisa Lerner– Venezuelan Jewish Fiction Writer, Playwright and Columnist — “La mujer venezolana”/”The Women of Venezuela”

 

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                                                              Elisa Lerner

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Elisa Lerner es hija de inmigrantes judíos de Europa del Este que se establecieron en Valencia, Venezuela, a principios de la década de 1930. Después de la muerte de Juan Vicente Gómez, la familia se mudó a Caracas. A pesar de estudiar leyes, la verdadera pasión de Lerner era la literatura, y luego escribió obras de teatro, ensayos, ficción corta y, una novela (De muerte lenta, 2006). En 2000, Lerner ganó el Premio Nacional de Literatura en Venezuela. Elisa Lerner es conocida por sus comentarios mordaces sobre Venezuela post-Pérez-Jiménez de maneras implacables. Sus comienzos se dieron en el grupo literario “Sardio” junto a conocidos escritores nuestros como Adriano González, Salvador Garmendia o Guillermo Sucre. Además de escribir obras de teatro, Lerner ha trabajado como columnista de un periódico, como personalidad de la televisión. En España,  su cargo fue el de consejero cultural.. Los personajes de Lerner son casi todas mujeres. A menudo, su drama explora cómo las mujeres no se cumplen sexualmente, emocionalmente e intelectualmente porque están limitadas por los roles y comportamientos que la sociedad patriarcal les impone. Temáticamente, a Lerner también le preocupa comentar sobre la Venezuela posterior a la dictadura y las formas en que la cultura pop y la creación de imágenes, así como el consumismo, actúan sobre la conciencia venezolana. La cuestión de la memoria y la identidad impregna el trabajo de Lerner. El estilo de Elisa Lerner es altamente satírico y sus diálogos se basan en observaciones sobre la vida cotidiana en períodos históricos particulares, con múltiples referencias a la cultura popular.

Adaptado de: http://www.outofthewings.org/db/author/elisa-lerner.html

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Elisa Lerner is the daughter of Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe who settled in Valencia, Venezuela, in the early 1930s.  After the death of Juan Vicente Gómez, the family moved to Caracas. Despite studying law, Lerner’s true passion was literature and she went on to write plays, essays, short fiction and, more recently, a novel (De muerte lenta, 2006). In 2000 Lerner won the Premio Nacional de Literatura in Venezuela. Elisa Lerner is known for her biting commentary on post-Pérez-Jiménez Venezuela in unforgiving ways.  As well as writing plays, Lerner has worked as a newspaper columnist, as a television personality.  In Spain, her position was as cultural advisor,  Her literary beginnings were in a group called “Sardio” with well-known Venezuelan writers such as Adriano González, Salvador Garmendia o Guillermo Sucre. Lerner’s characters are almost all women.  Often her drama explores how women are unfulfilled sexually, emotionally and intellectually because they are constrained by the roles and behaviours which patriarchal society imposes on them.  Thematically, Lerner is also concerned to comment on post-dictatorship Venezuela and the ways in which pop culture and image-making, as well as consumerism, act on the Venezuelan consciousness.  The question of memory and identity pervades Lerner’s work. Elisa Lerner’s style is highly satirical and her dialogues draw on observations about everyday life in particular historical periods, with multiple references to popular culture.

Adapted from: http://www.outofthewings.org/db/author/elisa-lerner.html

Obra/Works de Elisa Lerner

Teatro

  • En el vasto silencio de Manhattan (1961, teatro)
  • Vida con mamá (1976, teatro)
  • Teatro (2004, teatro reunido)

Ensayo

  • Una sonrisa detrás de la metáfora (1969, ensayo)
  • Yo amo a Columbo (1979, ensayos)

Crónicas

  • Carriel número cinco. (Un homenaje al costumbrismo) (1983, crónicas)
  • Crónicas ginecológicas (1984, crónicas)
  • Carriel para la fiesta (1997, crónicas)
  • Así que pasen cien años (2016, crónicas reunidas)

Novelas y relatos

  • En el entretanto (2000, relatos)
  • Homenaje a la estrella (2002, relatos)
  • De muerte lenta (2006, novela)
  • La señorita que amaba por teléfono (2016, novela)
  • Homenaje a la estrella (cuentos) Segunda edición (2019, El Taller Blanco Ediciones Bogotá)

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El país odontológico, The Dental Country (1966)

«Yo no me acerqué al teatro, yo estaba dentro del teatro. Mi familia fue un poco como la familia Barrymore. Aunque te parezca hiperbólica. Pero fíjate, mi padre cantaba en la sinagoga. El rito judío es un rito dramático, gravemente teatral por lo conmovedor y arcaico. Pienso, a veces, muy pícaramente, que en mi padre, el apego a la sinagoga, era una rutina teatral, un acercamiento al canto.”

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“I didn’t approach the theater, I was in the theater. My family was a bit like the Barrymore family, although, that may seem hyperbolic to you. But, note, my father sang in the synagogue, The Jewish rite is a dramatic rite, gravely theatrical for being moving and archaic. I think that, at times, very slyly, for in my father, the most important part of the synagogue was a theatrical rhythm, an approach to singing.”

Citada de Alicia Perdomo H./Quoted from Alicia Perdoma H.

“Aunque empecé a escribir muy joven, es ahora cuando estoy entendiendo mejor al venezolano y a la sociedad venezolana. Esto ha sido el resultado de un proceso muy lento, porque el hecho es que mi vía para comprender el país ha sido a través de sus mitos. Al final de mi infancia se produce la llamada Revolución de Octubre, la caída de Gallegos y luego la muerte de Delgado Chalbaud, todo eso repercutió muy profundamente en mi trabajo literario. No es que yo sea una escritora histórica pero sí he estado atenta a los ruidos que me rodean: primero percibí las palabras, después las voces y finalmente escuché a la sociedad venezolana. Claro que siempre de una manera oblicua, valiéndome de pretextos.”

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“Although I was very young when I began to write, it’s only now that I understand better the Venezuelan and the Venezuelan society. This has been the result of a very slow process, because the fact is that my way to understand the country has been through its myths. At the end of my childhood the so-called October Revolution took place, the fall of Gallegos and later the death of Delgado Chalbaud. All of that had deep repercussions in my literary work. It’s not that I am an historical writer, but I have been attentive to the noises that surround me: first, I perceived the words, then the voices and finally, I heard Venezuelan society. Of course, always in an oblique manner, making use of pretexts.”

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“Como releí mis piezas de teatro, puedo decirte lo siguiente: en ellas, hay mujeres solas. Pero creo yo, es una soledad de tercer mundo o de dolida lucidez.. . .Son mujeres interesadas en la política, la democracia, la cultura, incluso  los nombramientos de una burocracia no siempre leal. Son muy críticas, lectoras de periódicos. Honestas, pero impotentes para decidir. Hay alguna que es arribista. Otra que, por lo menos, tiene acceso a una entrevista de prensa pero el entrevistador no sabe abordar su torbellino mental, su torbellino emocional; es un testigo inocuo.

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“As I reread my theatrical works, I can tell you the following: in them, there are women who are alone. But I believe that, it is a Third World loneliness or of a painful lucidity. , , They are women who are interested in politics, democracy, culture, even the appointments to a bureaucracy not always loyal. They are critical, readers of newspapers. Honest, but impotent to decide, There is one who is a — climber. Another who, at least, has access to a press interview, but the interviewer doesn’t know how to deal with her mental whirlwind, her emotional whirlwind. He is an innocuous witness.

Adaptado de: http://www.andes.missouri.edu/andes/Especiales/AP_ElisaLerner.html

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“La mujer del periódico de la tarde/The Woman of the Afternoon Paper (1976)

“¿Hijos? No. No tengo. Mi negligencia, mi descuido, mi distracción no me ha permitido tenerlos. Pero, ahora, cuido de cada arruga de mi rostro como
de un hijo. ¡Y en que madre prolífica me he convertido! Por supuesto, el máximo
desaliño ha sido arribar a los cincuenta. (…)  Pero, últimamente, estoy
albergando la convicción de que los productos de primera, en el rostro de
una mujer de cincuenta,  se vuelven  de segunda. (…)
Untándole un poco de petróleo a mi crema Ponds  me siento mucho más nacionalista. (…)
Para una, la inflación comienza después de los cuarenta.Cómo se ponen, entonces, de caros los hombres.”

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“Children? No. I don’t have any. My negligence, my carelessness, my distraction have not permitted me to have them. But, now, I take care of every wrinkle on my face as a child. And what a prolific mother I have become! Of course, the ultimate carelessness has been to arrive at fifty years old. . .But, recently, I have begun harboring the conviction that the first-class products, on the face of a fifty-year-old woman, become second class,…Adding a bit of petroleum jelly to my Ponds cream, makes me feel a bit more nationalist. ..For one, the inflation begins after the forties.  How they become, the men, so expensive.”

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Crónicas Ginecológias (1983) ficción/fiction

Miss Venezuela: otra fracasada versión El Dorado

“Las futuras Miss Venezuela  no son, sólo muchachas de esplendor físico. Ellas son los otros compatriotas, pertenecen a un país implacable, vertiginoso, país de espejismos y azares financieros, donde todos podemos hacernos ricos, en la dominical locura de cinco y seis, o en el burocrático bonche de la corrupción administrativa.”

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Miss Venezuela: Another Failed Version of El Dorado

“The future Miss Venezuelas are not only girls of physical splendor. They are the other compatriots, they belong to an implacable, dizzying country, a country of mirages and financiacial changes, where all of us can get rich, in the Sunday craziness of five and six of the the bureaucratic bunch of administrative corruption.

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En el modo del comer venezolano: La Mujer, muy resguardada comensal/The Venezuelan Way of Eating: The Very Safe Dinner Guest

“Ese obediente y reiterado secreto de nuestros comedores, sirvió de algo. Comer para el venezolano terminó siendo un acto de estricta intimidad. Comer, fue un acto donde se coronaban los gozos del tranquilo efecto y de la larga intimidad. De modo que la figura del comensal, pudo tener más resaltada, que el menú en sí. No se invitaba para pregonar enfático gusto, por un convencional plato de arroz con caraotas. Si no, para recibir la fidedigna compañía del comensal.”

“That obedient and repeated secret of our dining rooms, served for a reason. For the Venezuelan, to eat ended up being an act of strict intimacy. So that the figure of the dinner guest, could maintain himself more prominent than the menu itself. One didn’t go out of one’s way to praise a conventional plate of rice with beans. If not even to receive the dependable company of the guest.

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La señorita que amaba por teléfono (2016)

“Desde mi pequeña terraza–esperanzada–miro caer las hojas de un árbol catradlico en el techo de zinc del edificio de enfrente como dulce llamarada de otoño tropical. Sólo me inquieta la harina ignota, desconocida, que se apodera de la montaña cercana cuando comienza a llover. temo que la montañ blanca oculte los recuerdos más íntimos del país”.

From my small terrace–hopeful– I watch the leaves of a    tree in the zinc roof of the building in front like a sweet call of tropical fall. I’m only concerned with the little-known flour, unknown, that takes over the nearby mountain when it begins to rain. I fear that the white mountain my hide intimate memories of the country [Venezuela}.

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El Youtube está en español.

This Youtube is in Spanish, though easy to follow and with many photographs.

 

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Moacyr Scliar (1937-2011) — Novelista y contista brasileiro judeu/Brazilian Jewish “A vaca” — un conto/ “The Cow” — A Short-story

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Moacyr Scliar

Moacyr Jaime Scliar nasceu em Porto Alegre, Rio Grande do Sul, no 1937. A partir de 1943, cursa a Escola de Educação e Cultura, conhecida como Colégio Iídiche. Em 1948, transfere-se para o Colégio Rosário. Começa a cursar medicina em 1955, na Universidade Federal do Rio Grande do Sul. Especializou-se na área de saúde pública, tornando-se médico sanitarista e ocupando os cargos de chefe da equipe de Educação em Saúde da Secretaria da Saúde do Rio Grande do Sul e diretor do Departamento de Saúde Pública.

Na década de 1970, cursou pós-graduação em medicina, em Israel, e também se tornou doutor em Ciências pela Escola Nacional de Saúde Pública. Ainda na área médica, atuou como professor do curso de medicina da Universidade Federal de Ciências da Saúde de Porto Alegre.

O dia a dia de estudante de medicina inspirou a Scliar o seu primeiro livro, “Histórias de um médico em formação”, publicado em 1962. Foi o começo de uma brilhante carreira como ficcionista, durante a qual publicou mais de setenta livros, divididos entre romances, coletâneas de contos e crônicas, literatura infantojuvenil e ensaios. Seu romance “O centauro no jardim”, publicado em 1980, faz parte da lista dos 100 melhores livros de temática judaica dos últimos 200 anos, organizada pelo National Yiddish Book Center (EUA).

Scliar conquistou diversos prêmios literários, como, por exemplo: três prêmios Jabuti (nas categorias “romance” e “contos, crônicas e novelas”); o Prêmio  da Associação Paulista dos Críticos de Arte, em 1989, na categoria “literatura”; e o Casa de las Americas, em 1989, na categoria “conto”. Seus livros foram traduzidos em inúmeros países.

Em 1993 e 1997, foi professor visitante na Brown University e na Universidade do Texas, ambas nos EUA.

Moacyr Scliar faleceu no 2011.

Adaptado de educação,uol,br

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Moacyr Jaime Scliar was born in Porto Alegre, Rio Grande do Sul, in 1937.  From 1943, he attended the School of Education and Culture, known as Yiddish School. In 1948, he transferred to the Rosario School. He began to study medicine in 1955, at the Federal University of Rio Grande do Sul. He specialized in public health. and was head of the Health Education team of the Rio Grande do Sul Health Secretariat South and director of the Department of Public Health.

In the 1970s, he did post-graduate studies in medicine in Israel, and also received a doctorate in science from the National School of Public Health. Also, in the medical area, he acted as professor of the medicine of the Federal University of Health Sciences of Porto Alegre.

His experience as a medical student inspired Scliar his first book, “Stories of a Physician in Training,” published in 1962. It was the beginning of a brilliant career as a fictionist, during which he published more than seventy books, divided between novels, compilations of short stories and chronicles, children’s literature and essays. His novel “The Centaur in the Garden,” published in 1980, is one of the 100 best Jewish-themed books of the last 200 years, organized by the National Yiddish Book Center.

Scliar won several literary awards, such as three Jabuti awards (in the categories “romance” and “short stories, chronicles and novels”); the Prize of the Paulista Association of Art Critics, in 1989, in the category “Literature”; and the Casa de las Americas Prize, in 1989, in the category “short story”. His books have been translated into countless countries.

In 1993 and 1997, he was a visiting professor at Brown University and the University of Texas, both in the United States.

Moacyr Scliar passed away in 2011,

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“A vaca”

 

Numa noite de temporal, um navio naufragou ao largo da costa africana. Partiu-se ao meio, e foi ao fundo em menos de um minuto. Passageiros e tripulantes pererecam instantaneamente. Salvou-se apenas um marinheiro, projetado à distância no momento do desastre. Meio afogado, pois não era bom nadador, o marinheiro orava e despedia-se da vida, quando viu a seu lado, nadando com presteza e vigor, a vaca Carola.

A vaca Carola tinha sido embarcada em Amsterdam.

Excelente ventre, fora destinada a uma fazenda na América do Sul.

Agarrado aos chifres da vaca, o marinheiro deixou-se conduzir; e assim, ao romper do dia, chegaram a uma ilhota arenosa, onde a vaca depositou o infeliz rapaz, lambendo-Ilhe o rosto até que ele acordasse.

Notando que estava numa ilha deserta, o marinheiro rompeu em prantos: “Ai de mim! Esta ilha está fora de todas as rotas! Nunca mais verei um ser humano!” Chorou muito, prostrado na areia, enquanto a vaca Carola fitava-o com os grandes olhos castanhos.

Finalmente, o jovem enxugou as lágrimas e pôs-se de pé.

Olhou ao redor: nada havia na ilha, a não ser rochas pontiagudas e umas poucas árvores raquíticas. Sentiu forme: chamou a vaca: “Vem Carola!”. Ordenou-a e bebeu leite bom e espumante. Sentiu-se melhor; sentiu-se e ficou a olhar o oceano. “Ai de mim” – gemia de vez em quando, mas já sem muita convicção; o leite fizera-lhe bem.

Naquela noite dormiu abraça o á vaca. Foi um sono bom, cheio de sonhos reconfortantes: e quando acordou – ali estava o ubre a ilhe oferecer o leite abundante.

Os dias foram passando e o rapaz cada vez mais se apegava a vaca. “Vem, Carola!” Ela vinha, obediente.

Ele cortava um pedaço de carne tenra – gostava muito de língua – e devorava-o cru, ainda quente, o sangue escorrendo pelo queixo. A vaca nem mugia. Lambia as feridas, apernas. O marinheiro tinha sempre o cuidado de não ferir órgãos vitais; se tirava um pulmão; deixava o outro; comeu o baço, mas não o coração, etc.

Com os pedaços de couro, o marinheiro fez roupas e -sapatos e um toldo para abriga-lo do sol e da chuva. Amputou a cauda de Carola e usava-a para espantar as moscas.

Quando a carne começou a escassear, atrelou a vaca a um tosco arado, feito de galhos, e lavrou um pedaço de terra mais fértil, entre as árvores.

Usou o excremento do animal como adubo. Como fosse escasso, triturou alguns ossos, para usá-los como fertilizante.

Semeou alguns grãos de milho, que tinham ficado nas cáries da dentadura de Carola. Logo, as plantinhas começaram a brotar e o rapaz sentiu renascer a esperança.

Na festa de São João comeu canjica.

A primavera chegou. Durante a noite uma brisa suave soprava de lugares remotos, trazendo sus aromas.

Olhando as estrelas, o marinheiro suspirava. Uma noite, arrancou um dos olhos de Carola, misturou-o com água do mar e engoliu esta leve massa. Teve visões voluptuosas, como nenhum mortal jamais experimentou. . .  Transportado de desejo, aproximou-se da vaca. . .  E ainda desta vez, foi Carola quem ilhe valeu.

Muito tempo se passou, e um dia o marinheiro avistou um navio no horizonte. Doido de alegria, berrou com todas as forças, mais não Ihe respondiam; o navio estava muito longe. O marinheiro arrancou um de chifres de Carola e improvisou uma corneta. O som poderoso atroou os ares, mas ainda assim não obteve reposta.

O rapaz desesperava-se; a noite caia e o navio afastava-se de ilha. Finalmente, o rapaz deitou Carola no chão e jogou um fósforo aceso no ventre ulcerado de Carola, onde um pouco de gordura ainda aparecia.

Rapidamente, a vaca incendiou-se. Em meio á fumaça negra, fitava o marinheiro com seu único olho bom. O rapaz estremeceu, julgou ter visto uma lágrima. Mas foi só impressão.

O claro chamou atenção do comandante do navio; uma lancha veio recolher o marinheiro. Iam aí partir, aproveitando a mar, quando o rapaz gritou: “Um momento!”; voltou para a ilha, e apandou, do montículo de cinzas fumegantes, um punhado que guardou dentro do gibão de couro. “Adeus, Carola – murmurou. Os tripulantes da lancha se entreolharam. “É o sol” – disse um.

O marinheiro chegou a seu país natal. Abandonou a vida do mar e tornou-se um rico e respeitado granjeiro, dono de um tambo com centenas de vacas.

Mas a pesar disto, vivou infeliz e solitário, tendo pesadelos horríveis todas as noites, até os quarenta anos. Chegando a esta idade, viajou a Europa de navio.

Uma noite, insone, deixou o luxuoso camarote e subiu ao tombadilho iluminado pelo luar.  Acendeu um cigarro, apoiou-se na amura e ficou olhando o mar..

De repente estirou o pescoço, ansioso. Avistara uma ilhota no horizonte.

— Alô – disse alguém, pelo dele.

Voltou-se. Era uma bela loira, de olhos castanhos e busto opulento.

— Meu nome é Carola – disse ela.

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De:/From: Moacyr Scliar. Sus mejores cuentos. São Paulo, 1996.

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“The Cow”

 

On a stormy night, a ship went down off the African coast. It broke in half, and went to the bottom in less than a minute. Passengers and crewmen perished instantly. Only one sailor was saved, thrust out at a distance at the moment of the disaster. Half-drowned, since he wasn’t a good swimmer, the sailor prayed and said goodbye to his life, when he saw at his side, swimming quickly and vigorously, the cow Carola.

The cow, Carola had been put onboard in Amsterdam.

Excellent belly, she was destined for a farm in South America.

Grasping on the cow’s horns, the sailor let himself be guided, and so, at the break of day, they arrived at a little sandy island where the cow deposited the unhappy boy, licking him on his face until he woke up.

Noticing that he was on a desert island, the sailor broke out wailing: “Woe is me!” The island is outside al the shipping routes. I’ll never see a human being again.” He cried a great deal, prostrated on the sand, while the cow Carola stared at him with chestnut eyes.

Finally, the boy dried his tears and stood up. He looked around: there was nothing on the island, but sharp rocks and a few rickety trees. He felt hungry: he called the cow: “Come Carola!” He ordered her and he drank good and frothy milk. He felt better; he felt and he turned to look at the ocean. “Woe is me” – he sighed from time to time, but now without much conviction: the mild did him good.

The sailor arrived at his native land. He abandoned the sailor’s life and became a rich and respected farmer, owner of a dairy farm with hundreds of cows.

That night he slept hugging the cow. I was a good dream; full of comforting sounds; and when he awoke – there was the utter offering him abundant milk.

The days passed, and the boy more and more fond of the cow. “Come, Carola!” She came obediently.

He cut off a piece of tender meat—he liked the tongue a lot—and he devoured it raw, still hot, the blood flowing over his chin. The cow didn’t moo. She hardly licked her wounds. The sailor always took care to no injure the vital organs; he took out a lung; he left the other one; he ate the spleen, but not the heart, etc.

With the pieces of leather, the sailor made clothing and shoes and a canopy/awning to protect himself from the sun and the rea. He amputated Carola’s tail and used it to chase flies away.

When the meat began to become scarce, he harnessed the cow to a crude plow, made of pieces of wood and tilled a piece of the most fertile land among the trees.

He used the animal’s excrement for compost. As it was scarce, he ground up some bones, to use them as fertilizer.

He planted some grains of corn, which he had stuck in the cavities of Carola’s teeth. Then, the plants began to sprout and the boy felt a resurgence of hope.

On Saint John’s Day, he ate hominy.

Spring arrived. During the night, a gentle breeze blew in from remote places, bringing their fragrances.

Gazing at the stars, the sailor sighed. One night, he tore out one of Carola’s eyes, mixed it with seawater and swallowed this light paste. He had voluptuous visions, as no mortal had ever experienced. . . Carried away with desire, he came near the cow. . . And this time too, it was Carola whom he wanted.

A great deal of time passed, and one day, the sailor caught sight of a ship on the horizon. Crazy with happiness, he hollered with his strength, but nothing, but there was no answer; the ship was very far away. The sailor tore off one of Carola’s horns and improvised a bugle. The powerful sound thundered through the air, but even so, it wasn’t answered.

The boy was losing hope; it was nightfall and the ship remained at a distance from the island. Finally, the boy laid Carola down on the ground and threw down a match and lit Carola’s ulcerated belly on fire, at a spot where a little bit of fat still appeared.

Rapidly, the cow caught fire. Amidst the black smoke, she stared at the sailor with her only good eye. The boy trembled and was sure he had seen a tear. But it was only an impression.

The bright light caught the attention of the commander of the ship, a launch set out to rescue the sailor. Leaving there, taking advantage of the sea, when the boy shouted: One moment!”; he returned to the island, and gathered, from the little pile of smoking ashes, a handful that he saved inside of his leather doublet. “Goodbye, Carola” – he murmured. The crew of the launch looked at one another. “It’s the sun!” one said.

But, in spite of this, he lived unhappy and alone, having horrible nightmares every night for forty years. Reaching this age, he travelled to Europe by ship.

One night, suffering insomnia, he left the luxurious cabin and went up to the quarterdeck, lit up by the moonlight.

Suddenly, he stretched his neck anxiously. He caught sight of a small island on the horizon.

“Hello,” said someone nearby him.

He turned around. It was a beautiful blond, with chestnut eyes and an opulent bust.

“My name is Carola,” she said.

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Translation by Stephen A. Sadow

 

Livros/Books — Moacyr Scliar