What can’t be written | Culture | EUROtoday

Throughout my life as a journalist I’ve logically made many errors. In this case I imply the errors I used to make after I did an interview or a literary profile to any public character and had the behavior of describing it bodily in its much less sleek half to the purpose of insisting on the obvious defects. I now learn at a terrific distance from time these portraits and interviews, I ponder the way it was attainable that I didn’t notice that aggression that indicated a level of silly conceitedness of the journalist, that it’s believed that every part is price with the intention to discover a picture or a shocking metaphor.

Rereading at this level that I wrote with cheerful impunity in response to the air of that point is one thing that fills me with stupor. I do know very properly that literature is diluted with the environment of a sure time and neither Shakespeare, Faulkner nor Quevedo may write what they wrote in the event that they had been subjected to the rigor of the social and politically right immediately. The written and oral language is topic to a sanitary asepsis that has constrained it in a corset. I do not know if that is good or dangerous. When writing, for instance, that the person found the hearth started to doubt as a result of it may have been a girl who found it, as ladies would even be, maybe, these made by cave work. In that case I’m compelled to alter the phrase man As human. I ignore if this surveillance is used to push literature ahead or backward.

With newly established democracy, I keep in mind that in Congress the go to of Edgar Faure, a person of state, former president of the French Government Council, was obtained. I used to be sitting on the visitor field and the time of verifying his presence in my parliamentary chronicle I wrote: “Above the railing, Edgar Faure’s hebraic nose appeared.” A fantastic Dutch journalist, Eppo Janssen, very buddy, correspondent for Dutch public tv, and a progressive newspaper in his nation, advised me: “In my newspaper that chronicle would not have published it to you and they would probably have shown you the exit door so that you would not write there anymore.”

Luis Escobar was one of many literary, enjoyable and clever characters to which I made a profile. To head the interview I wrote: “Happy, dressed in white, with open arms, the Marqués de las Marismas del Guadalquivir and Grande of Spain descends through the Caracol staircase with three chuchos lined in the calves and already in the lobby it gets rid of the courtesy with the mouth full of tongue and the denture a little loose chestnut.” Sitting in white armchairs within the gallery of his backyard with a sound of water that fell from the cup sustained by a marble goddess, Luis Escobar started to inform hilarious issues of his life with extraordinary grace and intelligence. In spite of every part, I insisted on describing it bodily: “At that time the aristocrats had all a horse face and the crotch smelled them with lowered picadero with the woods of the East. Luis Escobar has since left the chin there down there, that blade of the blade that is shouting a Dutch lace gillage. There is something equine in his profile. In that it shows that it belongs to the aristocracy.

The Marquis refuted me: “Aristocracy is a phrase that aristocrats by no means use. We say society, buddies of a lifetime, identified households.” And if that were not enough I insisted on his physical description, that logically he did not forgave me: “Luis Escobar has a round tongue that occupies his whole mouth. The voice comes out of his nose with a hair of fleshy flutin. Once outside, already in the air, he picks it up with the lower lip in the tingling bear and absorbs it into the palate. Last syllables of each word, the last words of each sentence. Fun for whom, for the reader, for the journalist himself? I wonder. Of course to the protagonist he sat down to Horn burned and of course he withdrew my greeting.

On one other event, to seek advice from a toddler who was born with severe bodily and psychological malformations I wrote the subnormal phrase. Shortly after I obtained a letter from an nameless mom who apparently went via an analogous drawback warning me that till that second I had learn with pleasure, however that I might not do it. The letter ended up saying that her son was an angel full of affection and caring for that angel crammed her with happiness. That easy letter was adequate in order that since then I noticed the world in one other approach. When describing an individual, highlighting and insisting in a bodily defect is one thing that will not do, even when they’d bleach me alive.