Amor y odio

Love is fed by the imagination, by which we become wiser than we know, better than we feel, nobler than we are: by which we can see life as a whole, by which and by which alone we can understand others in their real and ideal relation. Only what is fine and finely conceived, can feed love. But anything will feed hate. There was not a a glass of champagne that you drank, not a rich dish that you ate of in all those years, that did not feed your hate and make it fat.

.....

Hate is, intellectually considered, the eternal negation. Considered from the point of view of the emotions it is a form of atrophy, and kills everything but itself.

Oscar Wilde, De Profundis.

Descubro ahora esta obra en su idioma original.

Luz o sombra

My mistake was that I confined myself so exclusively to the trees of what seemed to me the sun-lit side of the garden, and shunned the other side for its shadow and its gloom....

The other half of the garden had its secrets for me also.

Oscar Wilde. De Profundis

Lluvia

Muchas veces se compara la lluvia con las lágrimas. La manera de llover de este día me hace pensar en sollozos profundos. Parece que la nostalgia flota en el ambiente con la humedad. Y sin embargo, en el clima nublado se puede sonreir. La lluvia y las lágrimas limpian.

Esta oscuridad me aplasta, pero pronto, espero ver el sol.

Identidad

Suffering is the means by which we exist, because it is the only means by which we become conscious of existing; and the remembrance of suffering in the past is necessary to us as the warrant, the evidence, of our continued identity.

Oscar Wilde, De Profundis.

Mirrors

And the pool answered, "But I love Narcissus because, as he lay on my banks and looked down at me, in the mirror of his eyes I saw ever my own beauty mirrored"

Oscar Wilde, The Disciple.

La luna

Para dar un alivio a estas penas,

que me parten la frente y el alma,

me he quedado mirando a la luna,

a través de las finas acacias.

En la luna hay algo que sufre,

entre un nimbo divino de plata:

hay algo que besa los ojos

y que seca, llorando, las lágrimas.

Yo no sé lo que tiene la luna,

que acaricia, que duerme y que calma

y que mira en silencio al rendido,

con inmensas piedades de santa.

Y esta noche, que sufro y que pienso

libertar de esta carne a mi alma,

me he quedado mirando a la luna,

a través de las finas acacias.

Juan Ramón Jiménez

Agua

Tal vez la inundación, con el paso inclemente del agua, se lleve los espejos rotos.