Restauración
Pensar
que cualquier tonto puede por azar
desgarrar
la red del cuándo y dónde.
¡Oh
ventana en la oscuridad! Pensar
que
cada cerebro está en el umbral
de
una dicha innombrable que nadie puede soportar,
a
menos que no mediara gran sorpresa –
como
cuando se aprende a levitar
y,
casi sin esfuerzo, comprendemos –
solos,
en la habitación luminosa –que el peso
no
es sino tu sombra, y te levantas.
Mi
pequeña hija se despierta llorando.
Ella
imagina que su cama es llevada
a
una penumbra que parece
ser
lo más profundo de todos sus temores
pero
que, en realidad, es el amanecer.
Conozco
a un poeta que puede desnudar
a
un William Tell o pelar La semilla mágica
de
una sola vez
para
que se revele por milagro,
dando
vueltas una bola de nieve,
en
la punta de sus dedos. Entonces me
desvestiría,
de
adentro hacia afuera, tironeando, investigando
la
materia íntegra, todo lo que ves,
la
línea del horizonte y su árbol más triste,
todo
el mundo inexplicable,
para
encontrar la verdad, el núcleo ardiente
como
hacían los doctores de las fotos antiguas
cuando,
limpiando una puerta lejana
o
una cortina ennegrecida, ellos restauraban
la
joya de una visión azulada.
1952
Vladimir
Nabokov, San Petersburgo, 1899- Montreux, 1977
Versión
©Silvia Camerotto
imagen de Wassily Kandinski, 1911 en Web Museum Paris
Restoration
To think that any fool may tear
by chance the web of when and where.
O window in the dark! To think
that every brain is on the brink
of nameless bliss no brain can bear,
unless there be no great surprise –
as when you learn to levitate
and, hardly trying, realize –
alone, in bright room – that weight
is but your shadow, and you rise.
My little daughter wakes in tears.
She fancies that her bed is drawn
into a dimness which appears
to be the deep of all her fears
but which, in point of fact, is dawn.
I know a poet who can strip
a William Tell or Golden Pip
in one uninterrupted peel
miraculously to reveal,
revolving on his fingertip,
a snowball. So I would unrobe,
turn inside out, pry open, probe
all matter, everything you see,
the skyline and its saddest tree,
the whole inexplicable globe,
to find the true, the ardent core
as doctors of old pictures do
when, rubbing out a distant door
or sooty curtain, they restore
the jewel of a bluish view.
1952
To think that any fool may tear
by chance the web of when and where.
O window in the dark! To think
that every brain is on the brink
of nameless bliss no brain can bear,
unless there be no great surprise –
as when you learn to levitate
and, hardly trying, realize –
alone, in bright room – that weight
is but your shadow, and you rise.
My little daughter wakes in tears.
She fancies that her bed is drawn
into a dimness which appears
to be the deep of all her fears
but which, in point of fact, is dawn.
I know a poet who can strip
a William Tell or Golden Pip
in one uninterrupted peel
miraculously to reveal,
revolving on his fingertip,
a snowball. So I would unrobe,
turn inside out, pry open, probe
all matter, everything you see,
the skyline and its saddest tree,
the whole inexplicable globe,
to find the true, the ardent core
as doctors of old pictures do
when, rubbing out a distant door
or sooty curtain, they restore
the jewel of a bluish view.
1952
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