Como si la premiada fuera mi vecina. Así de cercana sentí la noticia del Nobel de Alice Munro. Una vecina que tengo en la mesa de luz estos días gracias a la recomendación de Amaya. Alguien que me captura en cada historia por cómo aborda tensiones que siempre me interesaron: campo-ciudad, mujer del hogar-mujer de fuera, artista-sínico... y sabe traducirlas en cuentos imponentes, no siempre felices ni fáciles de digerir, pero sí, admirables. Una escritora que sabe explorar la naturaleza humana con un lenguaje marcado por la fuerza de la intuición femenina y el tambaleo de la duda.
Así, Munro gana el premio Premio Nobel de Literatura:
Escribiendo en breve, pero con peso, y con la misma sencillez con la que dice cosas como esta sobre sus motivos: "Anything that surprises me, that makes me see anything differently, that gives me a gift is entertaining".
Y describe así su itinerario en la espesa selva de la escritura: "I do stop -- for some strange notion of being 'more normal,' taking things easy. Then some poking idea comes; this time, I think it's for real".
Y recibe el máximo reconocimiento posible para un escritor confundiéndose en el colectivo nacional: "I am particularly glad that winning this award will please so many Canadians. I'm happy that this will bring more attention to Canadian writing".
Para terminar, dejo una cita textual de la colección que estoy por acabar, Dear life. Es del cuento "Haven", publicado por The New Yorker antes de llegar a esta antología. Es una histora que leí en esa revista en 2011 y que recordaba bien sin recordar el nombre de su autora:
"The neighbors have got themselves into the front hall and wrapped themselves in their outdoor clothes and stuck their heads in once to express their profuse thanks, in the middle of their desperation to be out of here.
And now the musicians are leaving, though not in such quite a hurry. Instruments have to be properly packed up, after all; you don´t just thrust them into their cases. The musicians manage things in what must be their usual way, methodically, and then they, too, disappear. I can´t remember anything that was said, or whether Aunt Dawn pulled herself together enough to thank them or follow them to the door. I can´t pay attention to them because Uncle Jasper has taken to talking, in a very loud voice, and the person he is talking is me. I think I remember the violinist taking one look at him, just as he begins to talk. A look that he completely ignores or maybe doesn´t even see. It´s not an angry look, as you might expect, or even an amazed one. She is just terribly tired, and her face wither perhaps than any you could imagine".
Así, Munro gana el premio Premio Nobel de Literatura:
Escribiendo en breve, pero con peso, y con la misma sencillez con la que dice cosas como esta sobre sus motivos: "Anything that surprises me, that makes me see anything differently, that gives me a gift is entertaining".
Y describe así su itinerario en la espesa selva de la escritura: "I do stop -- for some strange notion of being 'more normal,' taking things easy. Then some poking idea comes; this time, I think it's for real".
Y recibe el máximo reconocimiento posible para un escritor confundiéndose en el colectivo nacional: "I am particularly glad that winning this award will please so many Canadians. I'm happy that this will bring more attention to Canadian writing".
Para terminar, dejo una cita textual de la colección que estoy por acabar, Dear life. Es del cuento "Haven", publicado por The New Yorker antes de llegar a esta antología. Es una histora que leí en esa revista en 2011 y que recordaba bien sin recordar el nombre de su autora:
"The neighbors have got themselves into the front hall and wrapped themselves in their outdoor clothes and stuck their heads in once to express their profuse thanks, in the middle of their desperation to be out of here.
And now the musicians are leaving, though not in such quite a hurry. Instruments have to be properly packed up, after all; you don´t just thrust them into their cases. The musicians manage things in what must be their usual way, methodically, and then they, too, disappear. I can´t remember anything that was said, or whether Aunt Dawn pulled herself together enough to thank them or follow them to the door. I can´t pay attention to them because Uncle Jasper has taken to talking, in a very loud voice, and the person he is talking is me. I think I remember the violinist taking one look at him, just as he begins to talk. A look that he completely ignores or maybe doesn´t even see. It´s not an angry look, as you might expect, or even an amazed one. She is just terribly tired, and her face wither perhaps than any you could imagine".