ég tók skyndiákvörðun í gær og keypti mér nýútkomna bók. Hún heitir á ensku A Luminous Republic og er eftir spænska höfundinn Andrés Barba, þýdd af Lisa Dillman. Bókin er stutt, 192 bls., og lýsingin á henni var svo girnileg að ég stóðst ekki mátið. Ég keypti og las. Þetta er frábær bók.
Í kjölfarið kynnti ég mér þennan Barba aðeins nánar, en ég hafði aldrei heyrt um hann fyrr en síðdegis í gær. Hann skrifar stuttar bækur, nóvellur eða stuttar skáldsögur, af þeim fimm bókum hans sem hafa verið þýddar á ensku er engin lengri en 208 bls. í kilju. Það er skemmst frá því að segja að mig langar að lesa allar bækurnar hans, en er nú þegar búinn með eina af fjórum. Bæði er A Luminous Republic svo góð og lýsingar hinna sagna hans svo áhugaverðar. Kannski hef ég hér eignast nýjan höfund í uppáhaldi, sólarhring eftir að ég vissi ekki um tilvist kauða?
Allavega, A Luminous Republic gerist í þéttustu frumskógum Argentínu og fjallar um hóp óviðráðanlegra barna sem tala sitt eigið tungumál og koma reglulega úr skóginum til að hrella íbúa bæjarins San Cristóbal. Geggjuð saga. Hér að ofan er mynd úr frumskógum Patagóníu.
Að lokum langar mig að deila mögnuðu viðtali við Ray Bradbury sem ég sá vísun í á Twitter í morgun. Bradbury var náttúrulega algjör fjársjóður, skrifaði skáldsöguna frægu Fahrenheit 451 og einnig margar aðrar frábærar sögur. Hér er hann í viðtali við Paris Review árið 2010, tveimur árum fyrir andlát sitt, og viðtalið er allt frábært en svar hans við lokaspurningunni er í raun saga sem er bara með þeim betri sem ég hef heyrt lengi:
That’s the character who makes a brief appearance in Something Wicked This Way Comes, right? And you’ve often spoken of a real-life Mr. Electrico, though no scholar has ever been able to confirm his existence. The story has taken on a kind of mythic stature—the director of the Center for Ray Bradbury Studies calls the search for Mr. Electrico the “Holy Grail” of Bradbury scholarship.
Yes, but he was a real man. That was his real name. Circuses and carnivals were always passing through Illinois during my childhood and I was in love with their mystery. One autumn weekend in 1932, when I was twelve years old, the Dill Brothers Combined Shows came to town. One of the performers was Mr. Electrico. He sat in an electric chair. A stagehand pulled a switch and he was charged with fifty thousand volts of pure electricity. Lightning flashed in his eyes and his hair stood on end.
The next day, I had to go the funeral of one of my favorite uncles. Driving back from the graveyard with my family, I looked down the hill toward the shoreline of Lake Michigan and I saw the tents and the flags of the carnival and I said to my father, Stop the car. He said, What do you mean? And I said, I have to get out. My father was furious with me. He expected me to stay with the family to mourn, but I got out of the car anyway and I ran down the hill toward the carnival.
It didn’t occur to me at the time, but I was running away from death, wasn’t I? I was running toward life. And there was Mr. Electrico sitting on the platform out in front of the carnival and I didn’t know what to say. I was scared of making a fool of myself. I had a magic trick in my pocket, one of those little ball-and-vase tricks—a little container that had a ball in it that you make disappear and reappear—and I got that out and asked, Can you show me how to do this? It was the right thing to do. It made a contact. He knew he was talking to a young magician. He took it, showed me how to do it, gave it back to me, then he looked at my face and said, Would you like to meet those people in that tent over there? Those strange people? And I said, Yes sir, I would. So he led me over there and he hit the tent with his cane and said, Clean up your language! Clean up your language! He took me in, and the first person I met was the illustrated man. Isn’t that wonderful? The Illustrated Man! He called himself the tattooed man, but I changed his name later for my book. I also met the strong man, the fat lady, the trapeze people, the dwarf, and the skeleton. They all became characters.
Mr. Electrico was a beautiful man, see, because he knew that he had a little weird kid there who was twelve years old and wanted lots of things. We walked along the shore of Lake Michigan and he treated me like a grown-up. I talked my big philosophies and he talked his little ones. Then we went out and sat on the dunes near the lake and all of a sudden he leaned over and said, I’m glad you’re back in my life. I said, What do you mean? I don’t know you. He said, You were my best friend outside of Paris in 1918. You were wounded in the Ardennes and you died in my arms there. I’m glad you’re back in the world. You have a different face, a different name, but the soul shining out of your face is the same as my friend. Welcome back.
Now why did he say that? Explain that to me, why? Maybe he had a dead son, maybe he had no sons, maybe he was lonely, maybe he was an ironical jokester. Who knows? It could be that he saw the intensity with which I live. Every once in a while at a book signing I see young boys and girls who are so full of fire that it shines out of their face and you pay more attention to that. Maybe that’s what attracted him.
When I left the carnival that day I stood by the carousel and I watched the horses running around and around to the music of “Beautiful Ohio,” and I cried. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I knew something important had happened to me that day because of Mr. Electrico. I felt changed. He gave me importance, immortality, a mystical gift. My life was turned around completely. It makes me cold all over to think about it, but I went home and within days I started to write. I’ve never stopped.
Seventy-seven years ago, and I’ve remembered it perfectly. I went back and saw him that night. He sat in the chair with his sword, they pulled the switch, and his hair stood up. He reached out with his sword and touched everyone in the front row, boys and girls, men and women, with the electricity that sizzled from the sword. When he came to me, he touched me on the brow, and on the nose, and on the chin, and he said to me, in a whisper, “Live forever.” And I decided to.
Þar til næst.