How do i come up with a good title for my essay

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It is not a kind, consoling, rhetorically hopeful proposal. Nor is it a proposal based on the progressive wild card that so often nests in the strategic vagaries of the politically correct. A good reading, it occurs to me, is propitiating a personal extension of what has been read. It is not a scholarly boast of the author: they are a tribute to her readings and the proof of a sincere recognition of the thought of those who accompanied her hammering on the language. There is a word, "tool", which seems fundamental to me. The poem does not subjectivize or reduce to an individual confrontation the unequal relationship between the wolf and the lamb. It is the wolf on the one hand, with its tool in front of the flock. The wolf, I said before, has options. One of them is not to be totally happy: "The fur of the wolf is made for the caress that will not know". Liliana Lukin goes deeper into this confrontation. There is no action of enjoyment that does not contain, in its continuity of thing, made encrypted, the virus of affliction. There is a larva, an "endless larva", unknown, where this defeat marked the beginning of the misfortune of the living. In this poetry there is no saturation of invisibles, nor lymphatic feelings of reluctance, nor silences paving the sublime path that leads to wisdom. Paraphrasing Ungaretti, we could say that, in the vision of Liliana, there is no innocent place in that basement where the matter of our actions is cooked with the slow embers of hatred. The split between the well where it was thrown and the essential peaks pretended by the metaphysics of current use is very rigorous. And so he writes it in a poem that is a model of lyrical and conceptual concentration. Poetry, there, consumes the sensation of what is missing, and what is lacking is the total constituted in the rungs of domination. Liliana Lukin knows that she too, her books, will be wrapped in the opaque plot of duration. Liliana writes poems that could be called conceptual lyric, but what would this be? Evidently it is a poetic style that has a sort of remission to some acquaintances of the great Philosophy. Take something that in itself is poetic in Spinoza, which is a way of reasoning. On the other hand, reasoning has been commissioned a long time ago, sometimes, to facilitate us and sometimes provoke desolation in the search for meaning, but in Spinoza it is not so. And the very expression "essay on power" could lead to the conclusion, if we did not know Liliana, that we bought in a bookstore a book that explains what happens in Argentina with the question of Tucumán and electoral fraud. The unsuspecting reader might think so for the title, but the edition is so careful, the edition has a beautiful cover; The layout itself is not usually that of books that really deal with essays on power. Well there is something of that, because indeed in the known fables of the wolf and the lamb, and in the way that it can appear in Hegel's philosophy as the logic of the tense relationship between the master and the slave where each one exchanges his functions. With all this Liliana what she does is ask herself. As the great text that Luis has just read, which makes me think more and more why we come to these places. Because it reveals that indeed, and with this I do not want to divert attention from the poems of Liliana, because the wolf and the lamb are present in any kind of relationship, in that little phrase. That is to say, how the lamb can think of the wolf and how its role can be disrupted, it seems to me that it is a theme of the force that Liliana's poems create. The blood is very protagonist of the poems, the blood is a great metaphor of the body. So Liliana's poems must be read with the friction of the flesh that reads, of the letter that is transformed into blood. This set of translations, translations is the poetry by which Liliana appears before us for many years. What is it the way in which poets are anguished when writing: who will read me, how the book will be presented, who will be able to understand them. I think understanding is a mystery because it says it right here with the relationship between the lamb and the wolf. Finally they are theory of knowledge, using theory in the deepest sense, a seeing, a feeling. The poetry from there to existed in a place where philosophers are, politicians with vital understanding. That the Poet or the Poet must understand. As finally the fable or attack of the wolf to the lamb is a theory of knowledge, both must be known. That is why the insistence with which Liliana calls love to this deadly and brutal relationship. It is a lethal relationship where each loves the blood of the other, therefore no one could reproach the wolf who did something without love and yet his behavior is criminal. Unless the search for someone of the same species considers him superior to the lamb, but here we do not know who is superior and every launch of love appears linked to the blood and the body. As Liliana understands it, we finally do not know where the superiority of the behavior of whoever she wants it to be is. This type of poetry of knowledge, I insist on its lyrical-conceptual is very original in Argentina as Liliana is doing for a long time.

More than once in a while Skip to content. The content of this entry is not completely mine, but I liked it. I hope that some people do not feel offended, not by the text, but by the illustration. The text is from a known person, in fact he had already placed a text of it called the love mimes, and the illustration is of someone I do not know, a friend of hers. It seems to me an interesting visual representation of a text. Although I do not like 100% the illustration itself, I think it's a good creative work, so here I leave the text first and then the image. Let's not talk about the word always, better tell me if you remember our figures in the mirror, if you knew at what time you turned the sea between my legs. It would be interesting to know if you wrote the chord of the waves or simply exploded by guessing the beating of the rivers. You are commenting using your Twitter account. You are commenting using your Facebook account. You are commenting using your Google+ account. Cancel Connecting to% s Notify me of new comments by email. Receive new posts via email. Create a free blog or website with Post to Cancel A% d bloggers like this:

Since my PhD thesis, concluded in 2010, I did not write anything really new about him. As happens after doing such a long research on an author, I was tired and somewhat saturated. So I intentionally sought to get away from Bolaño and let the distance, as in the case of the lovers, allow a better later encounter. Three years later, I thought the time might have come. My first impulse regarding the essay was to recover an idea related to the artist's novel. In the first part of my diary of May 17, 2013 I wrote: "Idea for an essay: make a genealogy of the artist's novel. I was intrigued, long ago, by the figure of that hidden writer, fleeing fame and recognition. Perhaps, I was also intrigued by that figure and the emphasis in Bolaño's work by a certain ethic of failure and anonymity as opposed to what has happened to his figure and his work after his death. Juan Villoro posed the question well when he wrote, in an article for the cultural supplement of the Argentine newspaper Clarín, that the world tends to be dazzled by what resists it and posterity transformed it into a legend. In my notebook I wrote things like these: "Hans Reiter did not look like a child, but an algae. He walks with insecure steps, but not because of the height but because he moves as if he were at the bottom of the sea. " I had many ideas, points starting for a possible intelligent and perhaps innovative test. But after finishing the reading and taking notes, I could not write anything. Every beginning was quickly abandoned. Every way seemed impossible or vain or previously exhausted. However, later I thought: is the blockage caused by my disease or the disease by blockage? Neither the gastroenterologist nor I managed to unveil this mystery. What did appear with some clarity during those frustrated attempts was the tendency of my writing to slide constantly into the field of fiction. Thus, the first reflexive impulse on the possible historical transformations of the artist's novel led to the question about the possibilities of writing an essay or a critical text about an imaginary writer. In that case, contrary to what happens on many occasions, we have a lot of biographical information and lack of work. We have some arguments, some critical references, but no text. It would be, really, a detective job as Piglia wanted, to look for clues left here and there about a work that we will never read. An additional piece for the encyclopedia of works that never existed. But it is precisely the author's life that matters here, I thought. It is the personality traits that determine his importance as a writer. I thought then of writing about Archimboldi as if he were a real author, I would make a critical or critical-biographical study about Archimboldi. The idea seemed interesting to me, but I quickly perceived that Bolaño had done just that. In the end, I would end up making a selection of data, ideas, possible lines of interpretation of the work of Archimboldi that were already suggested in 2666. Frustrated, I decided to abandon that path and think of another alternative. Meanwhile, time passed and the date on which the essay was to be delivered was approaching. In the entry to my diary of October 8, I wrote: "I am losing my appetite and I am in a downhearted mood. Maybe that's why I can not write anything worthwhile for the book about Bolaño. I keep thinking, I write some ideas, but none seems to reach the strength necessary to really take off. Between the alternatives that considered, one began to gain force, although it seemed that again it slid towards the land of the fiction. I thought about making a critical-prophetic game following a path that Bolaño himself used to do in his texts. My idea was to imagine Bolaño's literary future if he had not died in 2003. If a donor had appeared and the operation had been successful. Most likely, I thought, in that remote world Bolaño would not become that pop figure who dominates the scene today. I would write more and good books, but I also imagined that I would have some failures and that, after the boom of those years, the tide would go down and even long periods would pass without their name being mentioned in the cultural press. It would end 2666 and the end would be different from the one we know. I would not be quoted by Oprah Winfrey. He would not be sold as a cursed writer and his books would not have as many readers in the United States. I would continue publishing with Anagrama. He would participate briefly as an actor in some Latin American cult films. There would be a group of young writers who would idolize him until the end of his days. There would be a group of not so young writers who would always consider their work overrated. Some years before dying, at 84, his name would be considered for the Nobel Prize, but he would never be chosen. It gave me some pleasure to imagine those possibilities, but would it be possible to write an essay from that point of view? Maybe not, what he wrote was more like one of the fictitious biographies of Nazi literature in America. That was not what I expected from an essay. That is not what Lukács and Adorno expected from me. It seemed that it was returning to the zero point. Instead of continuing to be animated with the idea, the question was becoming more and more in a nightmare. My stomach did not improve, my postdoctoral scholarship was over, my wife did not have time to have sex and I could not write a text about Bolaño. In the limit of my creative despair, I thought about definitively abandoning the idea of ​​writing something new and using one of the chapters of my thesis that had not yet been published in Portuguese. One of them on the critical interventions of Bolaño and the other on the characteristics of the kind of fictional criticism that appears in some of his works. I reviewed my notebook again looking for some inspiration and found this idea: "Arming the military-literary canon thought by Bolaño". Another of the games that Bolaño used to do was to imagine the writers as members of some military division. There, his fondness for war games and his vision of literature as a combat was mixed and writers as brave warriors confronted with superior and, most of the time, evil forces. Members of the counterintelligence division such as Copi or Wilcock. On the other hand, and thinking about that military-literary canon, the idea that Bolaño would have reorganized the canon of Spanish-American literature always seemed to me exaggerated. Looking carefully, with few exceptions, the authors that Bolaño rescues in his interventions are the same as literary criticism and other writers have been studying and commenting for decades. Rather than reorganizing the canon, their interventions perhaps contributed to increase the visibility of certain authors little mentioned by the great cultural press to the detriment of established figures such as the authors of the Latin American boom or bestsellers. But the idea of ​​the military canon did not go very far either. It could perhaps be matter for an artistic installation or a visual poem like Nicanor Parra's, but he did not seem to have the encouragement to write an essay on that idea. I was coming to a new dead end. I did not want to fight more against the fictional writing that dominated me and I began to write a story about the last hours of Bolaño. I began to write the story and the anguish gradually diminished, just as my health showed some signs of improvement. However, it is not intended to be a chronicle or a true account of the events. It is a product of my imagination and my inability to write an essay about Bolaño. Apparently he was persuaded to the end that he would overcome his illness in the same way that a persistent cold is overcome. Even in his last days he seemed to have the firm conviction that there was still a possibility of improvement. It had been more than three months without writing a single word of the novel and that day would not be different. He got up from his chair and went to the kitchen. He put water on the stove and chose a tea from a small wooden box. While drinking tea looking out the window he thought about his work, the weight and responsibility of a work. Then he laughed at himself and moved his left hand in the air as if wanting to ward off a bad thought. As if that thought was a solid matter that could simply be thrown out the window, thrown through the air to crash and disintegrate against the dry pavement. Better review the stories for the last time, he thought. I wanted to deliver the book the next morning in Barcelona. Before closing the window he felt a heat wave that hit him in the face and made him cough again. I had a persistent catarrh for a few days. After a few seconds he recovered and went to sit in front of the computer. He opened the file of the book he had been working on for the last few months. In the first story he corrected a passage without thinking too much about its meaning. The passage would finally look like this: "For a long time I was watching him. I was then eighteen or nineteen years old and I thought I was immortal. If I had known that I was not, I would have given half turn and I would have moved away from there ". When he wrote it, Bolaño did not think of any premonitory signal as he usually did. I just thought about leaving the book ready and delivering it to your editor. So he continued reviewing the stories, feeling the musicality of the phrases and the rhythm of the narrative without thinking too much about their possible hidden meanings. At the beginning of the second story, he changed the adjective "affectionate" to "careful" to refer to a family father who was the protagonist of the story, and later changed the order of two paragraphs that, despite everything, continued without fully satisfying him. When he reviewed the fifth story of the book he felt that something was missing and wrote almost a whole new page. Bolaño thought about that gesture and that it belonged to the less frequent group of writers who correct by addition and not by subtraction of matter. The night began to settle on Blanes when he finished reviewing the book. He saved the file on a floppy disk and it came out. The heat had subsided a little, but it still seemed to stick to his body as he walked. He picked up his son at Carolina's house, his ex-wife. They exchanged some phrases and returned home with their son. Bolaño prepared some macaroni for dinner. They ate talking and making jokes. They were both in a very good mood. The cough, however, returned at regular intervals, but he did not want to pay too much attention to the matter. After lunch they watched television until their son fell asleep. Bolaño then stayed a long time watching him while he slept and in his thought he asked the gods of his library to take care of him always. The cough and the heat made him uncomfortable. He got up, walked around the house. He scanned the titles of the books on the shelves, but decided not to take any. He stayed for a few minutes observing the city in silence through the window. That thought returned, like a dark shadow that clouded the vision. Bolaño fought, but the thought seemed stronger or, in any case, he felt weaker to face it. Finally, almost at dawn, he lay back on the bed and fell asleep. He sat up and noticed some drops of blood on the sheet. A coughing fit dominated him again and he saw his right hand covered in blood. He got up and went to the bathroom. He began to feel a little better. Leaning against the sink, he saw his pale reflection in the mirror and instinctively shook his head from side to side. He left the bathroom, put on the clothes he had left on a chair in the room and woke up his son. After leaving him at Carolina's house he returned and called Carmen. I do not feel well and this morning I coughed up blood. " When Carmen arrived, Bolaño felt better, although his face was not so encouraging. At that moment Carmen thought it would not be easy to convince him. They left for Barcelona and as the day wore on, Bolaño seemed to recover his good spirits. They even stopped to buy some things before arriving at Carmen's house. Upon entering they placed the purchases on the kitchen shelves and then sat next to the computer to print the book. And for my friend Ignacio Echevarría. " It was not the first time that Bolaño dedicated his stories, but in this case, it is difficult not to see that final gesture as a farewell. When they finished printing the book, Carmen took the diskette from the computer and tried to give it to her, but Bolaño did not receive it. They got into the car and Carmen left it at the entrance of the publisher. Bolaño went up to deliver the book and remained chatting with his editor and some of the employees who, as usual, paused in their work to exchange comments, news and opinions about literature. They talked mostly about his latest novel. Bolaño seemed happy and recovered from the discomfort of that morning. So much so that when Carmen came to pick him up he did not want to go to the hospital anymore. He said he felt good and that it was not necessary. Carmen He did not agree and they argued. He was about to make him get out of the car and leave it there, but in the end he gave up on the idea. On the way they stopped at one of the service areas of the highway where they ate a potato omelette sandwich. While they ate, they talked about the latest Alex Cox movie they had seen. A movie that Bolaño had seen many times and that Carmen had not liked. They arrived in front of Bolaño's house and said goodbye. Carmen had to go back to Barcelona to pick up her daughter, although she was not totally sure to leave and leave him alone. While deciding what to do, Bolaño leaned out the window and shouted: "When you get home call me because I'm without balance." That was enough for Carmen to decide to stay. He called a friend to take care of his daughter and went up. It was eleven o'clock at night and they were both very tired, so they went directly to bed. That night Bolaño dreams of his children. He dreams that they are on a beach and that they find a huge turtle behind a rock. The turtle is scared to see them and tries to return to the sea, but it does so slowly that it seems not to move from its place. The three of them stare at the turtle and begin to shout words of encouragement: "Come on, turtle," "Give it, you can," "Turtle, sea." Finally, the turtle reaches the water and gets lost under the surface. Try to take some steps and feel that you walk on an irregular surface. When he looks down, he realizes that the whole ground is strewn with corpses and he wakes up with a start. The clock on the night table marks two thirty in the morning. Bolaño shakes Carmen's body slightly and tells her that she does not feel well and that she needs to eat something. Carmen wakes up and tells him that it is best to go to the hospital, but Bolaño refuses and decides to get up to prepare a rice. He gets up, goes to the kitchen and starts to prepare it. The wind hits the branches of the trees with force and it sneaks through the cracks of the windows making a sharp noise. When the rice is ready they sit down at the table. With the first bite, he vomits blood. Only then Bolaño accepts that they should go to the hospital. However, he has time to take a bath and listen to a song, as if with those banal gestures could take away the worst of possibilities. The song he listens to speaks about giants, about a wild duel, about entering a huge world, about fragility. When they arrive at the hospital it is four thirty in the morning. He takes Carmen's hand and asks her how she is. While waiting for the doctors, Bolaño sits in a hospital chair and Carmen next to him on a stretcher. Nuria responds: 'I thought you would never ask me.' " Pd: The original Portuguese version of the essay was published in the book "Toda a orfandade do mundo. Writings about Roberto Bolaño ". You are commenting using your Twitter account. You are commenting using your Facebook account. You are commenting using your Google+ account. Cancel Connecting to% s Notify me of new comments by email. Since my Ph.D. thesis, concluded in 2010, I was not writing anything really new about him. Smith seems to ask himself throughout the pages of his novel. Error checking email. Please try again Sorry, your blog can not share posts by email.

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