1.
El obituario de Mario Muchnick, «Mario Muchnik: Los instantes decisivos de un editor y fotógrafo«, escrito por Antón Castro para Letras Libres.
Un extracto:
«Mario Muchnik fue pura pasión. Un torbellino de curiosidad y un ser inclinado a la aventura. Cuando se contaba, parecía que había vivido muchas vidas o que era muchos hombres: el físico, el estudiante noctámbulo de Nueva York y de los clubs de jazz, el que descubría autores –ya fuesen el siempre joven poeta Jorge Guillén, al que le publicaría en Argentina Y otros poemas, que completaba su tetralogía lírica con Cántico, Clamor y Homenaje, Kenizé Mourad o Elias Cannetti–, el que se enamoraba literalmente de voces nuevas e inéditas, como les sucedió a autores como José Giménez Corbatón (a quien le publicó sus dos primeros libros: El fragor del agua y Tampoco esta vez dirían nada), Julio Frisón (le publicó El altísimo secreto, No deis patadas a las piedras y La autopsia de Vanity Lo, y no solo eso, lo acogió en su círculo familiar y fue el médico de su padre) o Félix Teira Cubel.»
2.
El último tema de Miren, «uno x ciento».
3.
La serie de Godai García para Youtube «Les coses que creixen».
4.
La obra de Leonora Carrington «And Then We Saw the Daughter of the Minotaur» (1953).
5.
El poema de Jana Prikryl, «Delivery Ward».
Dice así:
«We trusted no one so he came
along that first dinner and felt
or inferred the pile under footfalls
ordering things there.
Their legacies of taking notes,
who’d blame us for having
a flattering evening clocking
the imprints of our friends.
Thoughtfulness drew with a huge
compass a circle on the hardwood
so the hole for falling through
would be clean.
Oh city of one mind,
the flash which alone
shows everything
so much so that after you close your eyes
the valley lives
whereas those slow good
questions, the visitor leaves going
They know very well what’s coming.
Even things you
set in motion may grab you
from behind in a corridor as though you
were part of some larger scheme.
At that time I’d already dreamed
of doing the impossible—
I was a woman at that time—
but the place was a heritage forest.
My hospital gown was elegant,
airy and boxy around my thighs
like a press release and the women in the ward
weren’t saying what they knew.
My bed was the invitation
to balance on a log
near a stalker’s altar and let nothing
of my thighs be exposed.
The damp was material,
greens and browns 3-D as pleats
on mitochondria, each particular
could swallow you.
It’s not that the forest takes your baby
just you might want to avoid
having a baby in the middle of a forest.
The whole world’s full of newborns now
more so than usual, yes,
and mothers saying are you kidding me
including those without children.
Who joins me in asking pardon of this boy
for the year that fetched him in?
Not so fast. If the fault was always here
but hidden, isn’t it best
to have it out?
A figure for this that’s just
does not exist and a hero would make
a figure so I continue pacing.
Heroism’s safety, I thought and thought.
He’s soft, he glows
when I smile, he plants his whole face
in my neck, the locks
of abstraction on visible things collect around him.
From a distance as though it were walking here
the thought grew taller till I saw it
while I held him one morning,
What’ll he do with a bit of strength?
Dirt and dust and stuff I can’t describe
push his foundation deeper as he grows.
My memories all feel like news
as if I’ve been good at getting them wrong.»
