"Bem lá em cima, observavam-nos as casinhas decadentes dos subúrbios. O sol poente ardia nas janelas, tornando-as olhos radiantes a contemplar fixa e belamente a distância. Mais abaixo, estendia-se a cidade, que, ampla e lasciva, esparramava-se sobre a planície qual um tapete tremeluzente e brilhante; o som dos sinos do anoitecer, sempre diferente do som dos matutinos, ecoava lá em cima, o lago desenhava-se sutilmente em sua indizível delicadeza aos pés da cidade, do morro e dos muitos jardins. Muitas das luzes ainda não brilhavam, mas as que estavam acesas ardiam com magnífica e estranha nitidez. As pessoas lá embaixo caminhavam e corriam pelas ruas tortuosas e recônditas; não se podiam vê-las, mas sabia-se."
Da quando mi sono arreso al tempo
sento vivere qualcosa in me,
una calma calda, meravigliosa.
Da quando scherzo apertamente
coi giorni, con le ore,
sono finiti i miei lamenti.
E sono sgravato dal peso
delle mie colpe, che mi fanno male,
grazie ad una semplice parola:
il tempo è il tempo, può assopirsi,
sempre mi troverà, brav’uomo,
nello stesso posto.
El paseo, de Robert Walser. Club de lectura con Vicente Luis Mora. – @vendoenbcn in Booklr BCN on Tumblr
Los temas principales tratados en el video son los siguientes:
1. La vida y personalidad de Robert Walser
Una parte importante del video está dedicada a presentar la biografía del escritor suizo Robert Walser: su infancia difícil, la enfermedad mental de su madre, sus numerosos trabajos, su internamiento en sanatorios psiquiátricos y su peculiar forma de vivir y escribir. También se destaca su humildad y su escaso interés por el reconocimiento social.
2. El paseo como experiencia vital y creativa
El núcleo de la obra analizada es el acto de caminar. El paseo aparece como una actividad esencial para el protagonista y para el propio Walser: le permite observar el mundo, inspirarse y crear literatura. Se presenta casi como una profesión o una necesidad espiritual.
3. La observación de la realidad cotidiana
El libro muestra cómo elementos aparentemente insignificantes —calles, árboles, personas, comercios o paisajes— se transforman en materia literaria. La mirada del paseante convierte lo cotidiano en algo extraordinario y poético.
4. El proceso de creación artística
Se reflexiona ampliamente sobre cómo surge la creatividad. Según la interpretación expuesta en el video, la creación nace de:
la observación y la percepción;
la atención a los detalles;
el trabajo mental inconsciente;
la experiencia directa del mundo.
5. La relación entre literatura y experiencia interior
El paseo no es solo un recorrido físico, sino también un viaje interior. A medida que avanza la obra, el protagonista pasa de observar el exterior a explorar su propia conciencia, emociones y pensamientos.
6. La enfermedad mental y la percepción de la realidad
Varios participantes interpretan la obra como el reflejo de una mente inestable. Se analizan posibles episodios de exaltación, delirios, crisis psicológicas y estados depresivos que influyen en la manera en que el narrador percibe el mundo.
7. La crítica a la prisa y a la modernidad
Walser contrapone el ritmo pausado del paseo a la velocidad de la vida moderna. Critica la aceleración representada por los automóviles y reivindica una forma de vivir basada en la atención y la contemplación.
8. La literatura como placer estético
Hacia el final del debate se destaca el disfrute de la obra por su estilo literario: el lenguaje elaborado, el humor, las conversaciones extravagantes y la belleza de la prosa, más allá de cualquier interpretación psicológica.
9. La influencia literaria de Walser
Se comenta la importancia de Walser en la literatura del siglo XX y su influencia sobre autores como Franz Kafka, Walter Benjamin o Jorge Luis Borges, así como el papel de Carl Seelig en la conservación de su legado.
En síntesis, el video gira en torno a El paseo de Walser como una reflexión sobre el caminar, la observación, la creación artística, la experiencia interior y la capacidad de la literatura para transformar la realidad cotidiana en una experiencia poética.
Olga was telling her story: I came from a petit bourgeois family; that may be why I later shied away from everything petty. We don’t ever love our surroundings as much as what’s different and strange.
My parents love me, I love them too. In school I had the hardest time sitting still; but the teachers treated me kindly, I flirted with them.
One of my brothers was a store-clerk. Me, I wrote to a bookseller: “I want to be where there are lots of books. Will you accept me?”
He replied: “Come along, I’ll try you out.” So I learned the book trade, though only superficially. I leafed through all sorts of books, just as I pleased; gradually I became quite literary. What’s more, the owner was always satisfied with me.
Some people said I was uncouth. Certainly I behaved more according to my moods than to rules of reason, and I was always somewhat excited. If they saw something of a wild animal in me, perhaps they judged me rightly. A working woman really didn’t have to watch out for her deportment.
Sometimes I just couldn’t be bothered about anything. But I think it’s wrong to be alive and not set value on life. I was always searching for something.
Once a famous actress came to the city theater. I waited for her and gave her a bunch of roses. She took them, thanked me, gave me a deep look, asked me something, but then suddenly she hadn’t the time, said goodbye, and she’d vanished.
That evening I was happy, I looked in the mirror and wished I had a lover.
Isn’t there something magnetic about our thoughts? The next day I had him. Who was he? Well, my gallant. Was he very gallant? No, not in the least, and I was glad that he wasn’t. I don’t like to have people serve me. I’d rather do the leaping and serve myself.
So now I had a friend, I thought it heaven, my dear one was all I could ask for.
He was poor, but like a genius; he studied at college and had lunch and dinner with well-off people. They invited him because he was clever, so frank, and his talk was a blazing fire.
Often as he was in society, he loved solitude, for he wrote poems, and everything he wrote, he gave it to me to read, and it was all about love, nothing else, and of course about love for me. Wasn’t it marvelous? Could flowers smell sweeter?
It hardly occurred to us to kiss. A glance, a pressure of the hand, that was enough. We had such a good opinion of ourselves that we didn’t know how we’d come to believe in one another. The sun shone only for us, for us the moon shed its beams.
Once he gave a lecture, and when he was applauded and publicly praised, I thought him the best man in the world and right there and then I fainted.
Certainly he was a good person, I have no more doubts about it now than I had then; but a woman snatched him away from under my very nose, sort of; I could only watch him walk away. She found him charming, and soon he became her husband.
One day they visited me, for he’d told her about me. He wanted her to meet me, so we’d be friends.
When they came to me I was aghast and shouted: “Do you want to torment me?”
She answered gently: “Not at all, dear child, I’ll do anything to make you happy. We’ve come to ask if you’ll come to live with us.”
“That’s impossible,” I said, but, right after, I had another idea, and I added: “Yes, all right.”
Then she kissed me, I kissed her, too. I came to love her, and because I felt superior to her, I was able to behave decently. By yielding I was lifted up.
What’s more, I thought her so kind that it wasn’t difficult for me to be nice to her. We suited one another, and consequently I believed I’d won my game to some extent. She asked me to be her companion; I declared I was her maid and said, besides, all sorts of thoughtless things.
Now I was living with them, and it was like a dream. I did everything in a sort of sleep, like someone who feels and understands nothing, yet does distinctly feel and understand. This made me more cheerful than the others.
Now and then I’d glance at him, press his hand, but I said nothing, and she got more and more serious.
One day she said I’d better leave them. She was not satisfied, she was unhappy; actually it was me who should have been so. Now things had changed.
So I went away, back to office-work, came into contact with people, had women friends, who really didn’t concern me closely.
Frequently life seemed to me like a cramped little house on the edge of everything, because it was so insignificant; yet I loved it and tried to be warm with everyone.
Among the people I’d come to know there was an earnest, quiet person, half shut, half open and cheerful, very intelligent, but at the same time childlike and inclined to believe there to be, somewhere, something beautiful, except that he was unable to see it, or was too inept to haul it aboard.
He read a lot, gave me books, too. When they were too difficult for me, I set them aside, since I didn’t want to strain my wits unnecessarily.
Yet that’s just what he did, very much so, and at times he had a suffering look. He squandered his knowledge on me and others, in conversation; it was a pity, I told myself, that he didn’t turn it to better account.
He had no thought of being famous; human beings were his concern. While he talked and I interposed remarks, it seemed to me that he was surprised at himself for having anything to do with me. But then of course he liked me, and that was something else.
I think he never knew what he was all about, regarding himself and others. Perhaps his own character disturbed him. Several times he confessed to me that he was in need of peace and quiet, but I thought what he needed was diversion, though I do realize that some people shun diversion, because it blurs the line they’ve drawn between day and night and tarnishes a tone that they can’t live without.
To some people he seemed timid, but he wasn’t so, he was just weary, weary because he hadn’t met with deeper people. Ordinary life seemed to him a puppet show.
Possibly he’d have found what he longed for if he’d just gone out and grabbed it; but for making a decision one way or the other he was, in a way, almost too wise.
Soon I found myself in circumstances so new that I saw no more of him, and this amazed me, though again I looked on it as being quite natural.
A distinguished gentleman took a liking to me; I went for it, played the lady, as if I’d been one all along.
Horses and automobiles were at my disposition; in salons I was at the forefront. I took no joy in it, only pride, my willfulness gratified.
I forgot everything. The things one forgets, when one no longer knows oneself! The more I was concerned with etiquette, the less steady I was inside myself. But it all fell apart; came the day when I had nothing.
As soon as I was working again, the joy came back. A plain person wanted to tie the knot, his existence with mine; he spoke honestly and calmly; I loved him, and a sickness took him off.
I went to his grave; the sun was reddening the roofs and towers of the town and the crests of the trees.
It was impossible not to love the world, not to look cheerfully forward into life. That’s how I am; what am I supposed to do about it?
books read recently: Stevenson’s Treasure Island, The Tanners by Walser, Farmer Giles of Ham by J.R.R. Tolkien, loved all three of them (5 stars, 4 stars, 5 stars). now am finally picking back up Vineland by Thomas Pynchon :3
" Io gettai al libro uno sguardo severo e chiesi: «Può lei giurarmi che questo è il libro di maggior successo dell’anno?».
«Senza dubbio».
«Può affermare che questo è il libro che bisogna assolutamente aver letto?».
«Assolutamente».
«È davvero un bel libro?».
«La sua domanda è del tutto superflua e inopportuna!».
«La ringrazio molto» dissi imperturbabile, lasciai dove si trovava il libro che aveva ottenuto il massimo successo di vendita perché bisognava assolutamente averlo letto, e uscii senz’altro aggiungere, ossia in perfetto silenzio.
«Uomo ignorante e incolto!» non mancò di gridarmi dietro il libraio, nel suo giustificato corruccio. Ma io lo lasciai dire e continuai per la mia strada, dirigendomi tosto, come in appresso spiegherò e chiarirò, verso l’attigua, imponente banca. "
Robert Walser, La passeggiata, traduzione di Emilio Castellani, Adelphi; 1ª ed. italiana: 1976.
