stori kuhusu maisha ya shujaa huyu wa zamani che guavara ~ DARUBINI YA MBALI

Friday, 10 October 2014

stori kuhusu maisha ya shujaa huyu wa zamani che guavara

06:14

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Argentine writer Julio Cortázar expressed in this letter, addressed to Roberto Fernández Retamar and Adelaida de Juan, the uneasiness provoked in him the news that Che Guevara was dead. On the 47th anniversary of this tremendous loss, CubaDebate shares the letter and photographs of La Higuera taken by photojournalist Kaloian Santos .

A Adelaide and Roberto Fernández Retamar

Paris, October 29, 1967

Roberto, Adelaide, my dearest:

Last night I returned to Paris from Algiers. Only now, in my home, I am able to write coherently; there, tucked into a world where only had the job, I let her go on like a nightmare, buying newspaper after newspaper inadvertently convince me, looking at those pictures we've all watched, reading the same cables and entering up to date on the most hard of acceptances. Then I got your phone message, Roberto, and gave the text that you should receive and send back to here if no time you see it again before it is printed, because I know what are the mechanisms of the telex and what about words and phrases. I want to tell you this: I can not write when something hurts so much, I'm not, never will be ready to produce what is expected of him professional writer, what they ask or what he asks desperately. The truth is that writing, and facing today, it seems to me the most banal of the arts, a kind of refuge, almost surreptitiously, replacing the irreplaceable. Che is dead me I can only silence, until who knows when; if I sent that text was because it was you who asked me, and because I know how much you wanted to Che and what he meant to you. Here in Paris I found a cable asking Lisandro Otero hundred words to Cuba. Thus, one hundred fifty words, as if you could take off the words of pocket as coins. Do not think I can write, I'm empty and dry, and fall into the rhetoric. And why not, especially not that. Lisandro pardon my silence, or misunderstand, I do not care; in any case you will know what I feel. Look, up in Algiers, surrounded by assholes bureaucrats in an office where it was still business as usual, I locked myself again and again in the bathroom to mourn; you had to be in a bathroom, you understand, to be alone, to vent without violating the sacrosanct rules of good living in an international organization. All this that I tell you I'm ashamed because I also talk about me, the eternal first person singular, and instead I am unable to say anything about him. I'll shut up then. You got, hopefully, the cable I sent you before your message. It was my only way to hold you, you and Adelaide, all friends of the House. And for you is also this, all that I was able do in those first hours, that it began as a poem and want you to have and keep for us more together.

CHE
I had a brother. We never saw
But no matter. I had a brother
who was in the mountains
while I slept.
I wanted it my way
I took your voice
free as water,
at times I walked
near his shadow.

We never saw
but no matter,
my brother awake
while I slept,
my brother showed me
the night behind
their chosen star.

Now we write. Embrace much to Adelaide. Farewell,
July