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MEMOIRS is as full of Neruda's passionate, volatile and profoundly generous personality as lovers of his poetry would expect. Lorca, Vallejo, Picasso, Gandhi, Mao Tse-tung, Castro and Allende all appear here too, making Neruda's a life story of truly universal reach and significance, as well as the richest account we have of Latin American history, politics, art and literature.
464 pages, Paperback
First published March 23, 1974
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About the author
Pablo Neruda
1,082 books9,631 followersPablo Neruda, born Ricardo Eliécer Neftalí Reyes Basoalto in 1904 in Parral, Chile, was a poet, diplomat, and politician, widely considered one of the most influential literary figures of the 20th century. From an early age, he showed a deep passion for poetry, publishing his first works as a teenager. He adopted the pen name Pablo Neruda to avoid disapproval from his father, who discouraged his literary ambitions. His breakthrough came with Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada (Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, 1924), a collection of deeply emotional and sensual poetry that gained international recognition and remains one of his most celebrated works.
Neruda’s career took him beyond literature into diplomacy, a path that allowed him to travel extensively and engage with political movements around the world. Beginning in 1927, he served in various consular posts in Asia and later in Spain, where he witnessed the Spanish Civil War and became an outspoken advocate for the Republican cause. His experiences led him to embrace communism, a commitment that would shape much of his later poetry and political activism. His collection España en el corazón (Spain in Our Hearts, 1937) reflected his deep sorrow over the war and marked a shift toward politically engaged writing.
Returning to Chile, he was elected to the Senate in 1945 as a member of the Communist Party. However, his vocal opposition to the repressive policies of President Gabriel Gonzalez Videla led to his exile. During this period, he traveled through various countries, including Argentina, Mexico, and the Soviet Union, further cementing his status as a global literary and political figure. It was during these years that he wrote Canto General (1950), an epic work chronicling Latin American history and the struggles of its people.
Neruda’s return to Chile in 1952 marked a new phase in his life, balancing political activity with a prolific literary output. He remained a staunch supporter of socialist ideals and later developed a close relationship with Salvador Allende, who appointed him as Chile’s ambassador to France in 1970. The following year, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, recognized for the scope and impact of his poetry. His later years were marked by illness, and he died in 1973, just days after the military coup that overthrew Allende. His legacy endures, not only in his vast body of work but also in his influence on literature, political thought, and the cultural identity of Latin America.
Neruda’s career took him beyond literature into diplomacy, a path that allowed him to travel extensively and engage with political movements around the world. Beginning in 1927, he served in various consular posts in Asia and later in Spain, where he witnessed the Spanish Civil War and became an outspoken advocate for the Republican cause. His experiences led him to embrace communism, a commitment that would shape much of his later poetry and political activism. His collection España en el corazón (Spain in Our Hearts, 1937) reflected his deep sorrow over the war and marked a shift toward politically engaged writing.
Returning to Chile, he was elected to the Senate in 1945 as a member of the Communist Party. However, his vocal opposition to the repressive policies of President Gabriel Gonzalez Videla led to his exile. During this period, he traveled through various countries, including Argentina, Mexico, and the Soviet Union, further cementing his status as a global literary and political figure. It was during these years that he wrote Canto General (1950), an epic work chronicling Latin American history and the struggles of its people.
Neruda’s return to Chile in 1952 marked a new phase in his life, balancing political activity with a prolific literary output. He remained a staunch supporter of socialist ideals and later developed a close relationship with Salvador Allende, who appointed him as Chile’s ambassador to France in 1970. The following year, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, recognized for the scope and impact of his poetry. His later years were marked by illness, and he died in 1973, just days after the military coup that overthrew Allende. His legacy endures, not only in his vast body of work but also in his influence on literature, political thought, and the cultural identity of Latin America.
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October 24, 2019
Autobiography, yes, but big history, too, for Neruda was a sincere communist who met Mao, Ghandi and was fêted in the U.S.S.R. This poet was consequential; his poems frightened rightest despots. He was jailed by these hysterical non-communists, who at times worked with the U.S. and Chilean fascists. Early on there are amusing youthful exploits among his Chilean college friends. The tale of his mongoose’s encounter with a viper during a diplomatic mission to Sri Lanka (Ceylon) is hilarious. The book is compressed and very fast-paced. His life was enormously eventful. In Bueno Aries he meets Federico García Lorca, in Madrid the goatherd and poetic genius Miguel Hernández and Ramón Gómez de la Serna among others. The sections on the Spanish Civil War (1936-39) mesh nicely with my readings, particularly Hugh Thomas’s exhaustive history of the conflict, George Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia and Robert Capa’s Heart of Spain. I have the selected poems here, The Poetry of Pablo Neruda, which is 1,000 pages long. A true “collected” might easily run to 2,500 pages, which strikes me as astonishing given the output of most poets. My favorite chapter here, among many excellent chapters, is “Poetry Is an Occupation,” for in it Neruda reveals much about his processes, intentions, influences, critics and literary friends, among them Paul Eluard, Pierre Reverdy, György Somlyó, Salvatore Quasimodo, César Vallejo, and fellow Chilean and Nobelist, Gabriela Mistral. The final pages here were written three days after the CIA-funded assassination of Chilean President Salvador Allende, and eleven days before PN’s own death, at this writing still under investigation by an international team of forensic experts. (Please Google it.)
“I got used to riding on horseback. My world expanded upward and outward along the towering mud trails, over roads with sudden curves. I encountered the tangled vegetation, the silence or the sounds of wild birds, the sudden outburst of a flowering tree dressed in scarlet robes like a gigantic archbishop of the mountains.... Or from time to time, when least expected, the copihue bell-flower, wild, untamable, indestructible, dangling from the thickets like a drop of fresh blood. Slowly I got used to the horse, the saddle, the stiff, complicated riding gear, the cruel spurs jangling at my heels. Along endless beaches or thicketed hills, a communion was started between my spirit— that is, my poetry— and the loneliest land in the world. That was many years ago, but that communion, that revelation, that pact with the wilderness, is still a part of my life.” (p. 18)
“Shyness is a kink in the soul, a special category, a dimension that opens out into solitude. Moreover, it is an inherent suffering, as if we had two epidermises and the one underneath rebelled and shrank back from life. Of the things that make up a man, this quality, this damaging thing, is a part of the alloy that lays the foundation, in the long run, for the perpetuity of the self.” (p. 34)
“What a great language I have, it’s a fine language we inherited from the fierce conquistadors . . . They strode over the giant cordilleras, over the rugged Americas, hunting for potatoes, sausages, beans, black tobacco, gold, corn, fried eggs, with a voracious appetite not found in the world since then . . . They swallowed up everything, religions, pyramids, tribes, idolotries just like the ones they brought along in their huge sacks . . . Wherever they went, they razed our land . . . But words fell like pebbles out of the boots of the barbarians, out of their beards, their helmets, their horseshoes, luminous words that were left glittering here . . . our language. We came up losers . . . We came up winners . . . The carried off the gold and left us the gold . . . They left us the words.” (p. 54)
“Federico García Lorca had a premonition of his death. Once, shortly after returning from a theatrical tour, he called me up and told me about the strange incident. He had arrived with the La Barraca troupe at some out-of-the-way village in Castile and camped on the edge of town. Overtired because of the pressures on the trip, Federico could not sleep. He got up at dawn and went out to wander around alone. . . . He had stopped at the gate of an old estate, the entrance to the immense park of a feudal manor. Its state of abandonment, the hour, and the cold made the solitude even more penetrating. Suddenly Federico felt oppressed as if by something about to happen. . . . A tiny lamb came out to browse in the weeds among the ruins, appearing like an angel out of the mist, out of nowhere, to turn solitude into something human . . . . The poet no longer felt alone. Suddenly a heard of swine also came into the area. . . . Then Federico witnessed a bloodcurdling scene: the swine fell on the lamb and, to the great horror of poet, tore it to pieces and devoured it. . . . Three months before the Civil War, when he told me this chilling story, Federico was still haunted by the horror of it. Later on I saw, more and more clearly, that the incident had been a vision of his own death, the premonition of his incredible tragedy.” (p. 123)
“Curzio Malaparte. . . stated it well in his article, ‘I am not a Communist, but if I were a Chilean poet, I would be one, like Pablo Neruda. You have to take sides here, with the Cadillacs or with the people who have no schooling or shoes.’ These people without schooling or shoes elected me senator on March 4, 1945. I shall always cherish with pride the fact that thousands of people in Chile’s most inhospitable region, the great mining region of copper and nitrate, gave me their vote. Walking over the pampa was laborious and rough. It hasn’t rained for half a century there, and the desert has done its work on the faces of the miners. They are men with scorched features; their solitude and the neglect they are consigned to has been fixed in the dark intensity of their eyes. Going from the desert up to the mountains, entering any needy home, getting to know the inhuman labor these people do, and feeling that the hopes of isolated and sunken men have been entrusted to you, is not a light responsibility.” (p. 166)
“Ilya Ehrenburg, who was reading and translating my poems [into Russian], scolded me: too much root, too many roots in your poems. Why so many? It’s true. The frontier regions sank their roots into my poetry and these roots have never been able to wrench themselves out. My life is a long pilgrimage that is always turning on itself, always returning to the woods in the south, to the forest lost in me. There the huge trees were sometimes felled by their seven-hundred years of powerful life, uprooted by storms, blighted by the snow, or destroyed by fire. I have heard titanic trees crashing deep in the forest: the oak tree plunging down with the sound of a muffled cataclysm, as if pounding with a giant hand on the earth’s doors, asking for burial. But the roots are left out in the open, exposed to their enemy, time, to the dampness, to the lichens, to one destruction after another. Nothing more beautiful than those huge, open hands, wounded or burned, that tell us, when we come across them on a forest path, the secret of the buried tree, the mystery that nourished the leaves, the deep reaching muscles of the vegetable kingdom. Tragic and shaggy, they show us a new beauty: they are sculptures molded by the depths of the earth: nature’s secret masterpieces.” (p. 191)
“What first impressed me in the U.S.S.R. was the feeling of immensity it gives, of unity within that vast country’s population, the movements of the birches on the plains, the huge forest so miraculously unspoiled, the great rivers, the horses running like waves across the wheat fields. I loved the Soviet land at first sight, and realized that not only does it offer a moral lesson for every corner of the globe, a way of comparing possibilities, an ever increasing progress in working together and sharing, but I sense, too, that an extraordinary flight would begin from this land of steppes, which preserved so much natural purity. The entire human race knows that a colossal truth is being worked out there, and the whole world waits eagerly to see what will happen. Some wait in terror, others simply wait, still others believe they can see what is coming.” (p. 194)
“All this persecution came to a head one morning in Naples . . . The police came to my hotel. Using an alleged error in my passport as a pretext, they asked me to accompany them to the prefecture. There they offered me an espresso and informed me that I must leave Italian soil that same day . . . At the station in Rome . . . I was able to make out an enormous crowd from my window. I heard shouting. I saw great commotion and confusion. Armfuls of flowers advanced toward the train, raised over a river of heads. ‘Pablo! Pablo!’ . . . When I went down the car’s steps, elegantly guarded, I became the center of a swirling melee. In a matter of seconds, men and women writers, newsmen, deputies, perhaps close to a thousand persons, snatched me away from the hands of the police. During these dramatic moments I made out a few famous faces. Alberto Moravia and his wife, Elsa Morante, like him a novelist. The eminent painter Renato Guttuso. Other poets. Other painters. Carlo Levi, the celebrated author of Christ Stopped at Eboli, was holding out a bouquet of roses. In the midst of all this, flowers were spilling to the ground, hats and umbrellas flew, fist blows sounded like explosions. The police were getting the worst of it, and I was once more recovered by my friends. During the scuffle I had a glimpse of gentle Elsa Morante striking a policeman on the head with a silk parasol. Suddenly the luggage hand trucks were going by and I saw one of the porters, a corpulent facchino, bring a club down on a policeman‘s back. These were the Roman people backing me up . . . The crowd was shouting: ‘Neruda stays in Rome. Neruda is not leaving Italy! Let the poet stay! Let the Chilean stay! . . .’” (p. 213)
“In Stalin’s case, I have contributed my share to the personality cult. But in those days Stalin had seemed to us the conqueror who had crushed Hitler‘s armies, the savior of all humanity. The deterioration of his character was a mysterious process, still an enigma for many of us. And now, here in plain sight, in the vast expanse of the new China’s land and skies [Neruda was on the Yangtze], once more a man was turning into a myth right before my eyes. A myth destined to lord it over the revolutionary conscience, to put in one man’s grip the creation of a world that must belong to all. I could not swallow that bitter pill a second time.” (p. 237)
“I got used to riding on horseback. My world expanded upward and outward along the towering mud trails, over roads with sudden curves. I encountered the tangled vegetation, the silence or the sounds of wild birds, the sudden outburst of a flowering tree dressed in scarlet robes like a gigantic archbishop of the mountains.... Or from time to time, when least expected, the copihue bell-flower, wild, untamable, indestructible, dangling from the thickets like a drop of fresh blood. Slowly I got used to the horse, the saddle, the stiff, complicated riding gear, the cruel spurs jangling at my heels. Along endless beaches or thicketed hills, a communion was started between my spirit— that is, my poetry— and the loneliest land in the world. That was many years ago, but that communion, that revelation, that pact with the wilderness, is still a part of my life.” (p. 18)
“Shyness is a kink in the soul, a special category, a dimension that opens out into solitude. Moreover, it is an inherent suffering, as if we had two epidermises and the one underneath rebelled and shrank back from life. Of the things that make up a man, this quality, this damaging thing, is a part of the alloy that lays the foundation, in the long run, for the perpetuity of the self.” (p. 34)
“What a great language I have, it’s a fine language we inherited from the fierce conquistadors . . . They strode over the giant cordilleras, over the rugged Americas, hunting for potatoes, sausages, beans, black tobacco, gold, corn, fried eggs, with a voracious appetite not found in the world since then . . . They swallowed up everything, religions, pyramids, tribes, idolotries just like the ones they brought along in their huge sacks . . . Wherever they went, they razed our land . . . But words fell like pebbles out of the boots of the barbarians, out of their beards, their helmets, their horseshoes, luminous words that were left glittering here . . . our language. We came up losers . . . We came up winners . . . The carried off the gold and left us the gold . . . They left us the words.” (p. 54)
“Federico García Lorca had a premonition of his death. Once, shortly after returning from a theatrical tour, he called me up and told me about the strange incident. He had arrived with the La Barraca troupe at some out-of-the-way village in Castile and camped on the edge of town. Overtired because of the pressures on the trip, Federico could not sleep. He got up at dawn and went out to wander around alone. . . . He had stopped at the gate of an old estate, the entrance to the immense park of a feudal manor. Its state of abandonment, the hour, and the cold made the solitude even more penetrating. Suddenly Federico felt oppressed as if by something about to happen. . . . A tiny lamb came out to browse in the weeds among the ruins, appearing like an angel out of the mist, out of nowhere, to turn solitude into something human . . . . The poet no longer felt alone. Suddenly a heard of swine also came into the area. . . . Then Federico witnessed a bloodcurdling scene: the swine fell on the lamb and, to the great horror of poet, tore it to pieces and devoured it. . . . Three months before the Civil War, when he told me this chilling story, Federico was still haunted by the horror of it. Later on I saw, more and more clearly, that the incident had been a vision of his own death, the premonition of his incredible tragedy.” (p. 123)
“Curzio Malaparte. . . stated it well in his article, ‘I am not a Communist, but if I were a Chilean poet, I would be one, like Pablo Neruda. You have to take sides here, with the Cadillacs or with the people who have no schooling or shoes.’ These people without schooling or shoes elected me senator on March 4, 1945. I shall always cherish with pride the fact that thousands of people in Chile’s most inhospitable region, the great mining region of copper and nitrate, gave me their vote. Walking over the pampa was laborious and rough. It hasn’t rained for half a century there, and the desert has done its work on the faces of the miners. They are men with scorched features; their solitude and the neglect they are consigned to has been fixed in the dark intensity of their eyes. Going from the desert up to the mountains, entering any needy home, getting to know the inhuman labor these people do, and feeling that the hopes of isolated and sunken men have been entrusted to you, is not a light responsibility.” (p. 166)
“Ilya Ehrenburg, who was reading and translating my poems [into Russian], scolded me: too much root, too many roots in your poems. Why so many? It’s true. The frontier regions sank their roots into my poetry and these roots have never been able to wrench themselves out. My life is a long pilgrimage that is always turning on itself, always returning to the woods in the south, to the forest lost in me. There the huge trees were sometimes felled by their seven-hundred years of powerful life, uprooted by storms, blighted by the snow, or destroyed by fire. I have heard titanic trees crashing deep in the forest: the oak tree plunging down with the sound of a muffled cataclysm, as if pounding with a giant hand on the earth’s doors, asking for burial. But the roots are left out in the open, exposed to their enemy, time, to the dampness, to the lichens, to one destruction after another. Nothing more beautiful than those huge, open hands, wounded or burned, that tell us, when we come across them on a forest path, the secret of the buried tree, the mystery that nourished the leaves, the deep reaching muscles of the vegetable kingdom. Tragic and shaggy, they show us a new beauty: they are sculptures molded by the depths of the earth: nature’s secret masterpieces.” (p. 191)
“What first impressed me in the U.S.S.R. was the feeling of immensity it gives, of unity within that vast country’s population, the movements of the birches on the plains, the huge forest so miraculously unspoiled, the great rivers, the horses running like waves across the wheat fields. I loved the Soviet land at first sight, and realized that not only does it offer a moral lesson for every corner of the globe, a way of comparing possibilities, an ever increasing progress in working together and sharing, but I sense, too, that an extraordinary flight would begin from this land of steppes, which preserved so much natural purity. The entire human race knows that a colossal truth is being worked out there, and the whole world waits eagerly to see what will happen. Some wait in terror, others simply wait, still others believe they can see what is coming.” (p. 194)
“All this persecution came to a head one morning in Naples . . . The police came to my hotel. Using an alleged error in my passport as a pretext, they asked me to accompany them to the prefecture. There they offered me an espresso and informed me that I must leave Italian soil that same day . . . At the station in Rome . . . I was able to make out an enormous crowd from my window. I heard shouting. I saw great commotion and confusion. Armfuls of flowers advanced toward the train, raised over a river of heads. ‘Pablo! Pablo!’ . . . When I went down the car’s steps, elegantly guarded, I became the center of a swirling melee. In a matter of seconds, men and women writers, newsmen, deputies, perhaps close to a thousand persons, snatched me away from the hands of the police. During these dramatic moments I made out a few famous faces. Alberto Moravia and his wife, Elsa Morante, like him a novelist. The eminent painter Renato Guttuso. Other poets. Other painters. Carlo Levi, the celebrated author of Christ Stopped at Eboli, was holding out a bouquet of roses. In the midst of all this, flowers were spilling to the ground, hats and umbrellas flew, fist blows sounded like explosions. The police were getting the worst of it, and I was once more recovered by my friends. During the scuffle I had a glimpse of gentle Elsa Morante striking a policeman on the head with a silk parasol. Suddenly the luggage hand trucks were going by and I saw one of the porters, a corpulent facchino, bring a club down on a policeman‘s back. These were the Roman people backing me up . . . The crowd was shouting: ‘Neruda stays in Rome. Neruda is not leaving Italy! Let the poet stay! Let the Chilean stay! . . .’” (p. 213)
“In Stalin’s case, I have contributed my share to the personality cult. But in those days Stalin had seemed to us the conqueror who had crushed Hitler‘s armies, the savior of all humanity. The deterioration of his character was a mysterious process, still an enigma for many of us. And now, here in plain sight, in the vast expanse of the new China’s land and skies [Neruda was on the Yangtze], once more a man was turning into a myth right before my eyes. A myth destined to lord it over the revolutionary conscience, to put in one man’s grip the creation of a world that must belong to all. I could not swallow that bitter pill a second time.” (p. 237)
July 29, 2019
Ser uno de los pocos premios Nobel de todo un subcontinente no es un hecho fortuito, ni, en muchos casos, el producto de un amañamiento político, sino el merecido espaldarazo a la obra de toda una vida. Siendo la Biografía uno de los subgéneros literarios más ricos, nada mejor que una sobre este grande de las letras que vivió tan intensamente. Pero aún mejor tratándose de una autobiografía, en la que, de su puño y letra, Pablo Neruda empieza con el día de su nacimiento y termina –inopinado oráculo– con la dramática muerte del presidente Salvador Allende, acaecida pocas semanas antes de la suya propia. Con su larga historia como intelectual activo y diplomático de su país y sus principios, nos lleva de la mano por los más importantes escenarios de medio mundo, y nos hace codearnos con las más relevantes figuras, artísticas y políticas, de aquel convulsionante mundo. Hace la crónica de su vida y su tiempo, poniendo en el relato de su vida el mismo corazón e intelecto conque forjara sus poemarios, para hacer de estas memorias la auténtica joya prosística que él convierte en la novela de su vida, la única que escribiría.
CONFIESO QUE HE VIVIDO no tiene una sola página aburrida: tal fue el bagaje de sus vivencias y su agudeza a la hora de rememorarlas. Lo mismo en sus consideraciones filosóficas, históricas o estéticas, que en los abundantísimos pasajes anecdóticos, asume un lenguaje directo, enriquecido por su magistral síntesis poética y su gran magnetismo vital. Mal relatada, esta autobiografía habría tenido el doble de páginas: relatada por Neruda, tiene las que tenía que tener. Así de simple.
Contada desde la sinceridad, aunque sin poder evitar la subjetividad, Neruda ensalza o repudia a éste o aquél personaje sin cortarse un pelo, y sin mediación de compromisos, salvo consigo mismo. El gran ego que lo poseyó, propio de los grandes creadores, no fue óbice para, poniendo en un segundo plano su producción poética, considerar la mayor obra de su vida su labor de rescate de miles de refugiados españoles, perdedores y víctimas de la Guerra Civil Española.
Hombre de mundo y humanista comprometido con su tiempo, fue capaz de ver en éste, pero tan sólo a medias, la era de las utopías. El verdadero genio visionario, en perenne búsqueda de la justicia social, habría terminado devolviendo el Premio Stalin de la Paz, que una vez se le otorgara: algo más que considerar su tiempo como “una época diabólicamente confusa, en donde todas las conclusiones se hacen posibles” (sus palabras). Así de simple.
CONFIESO QUE HE VIVIDO es la vida de Neruda, un grande con más aciertos que yerros, una suerte de testamento literario, un segundo CANTO GENERAL que el poeta nos legó, muy pocos días antes de dejar para siempre su Residencia en la Tierra.
CONFIESO QUE HE VIVIDO no tiene una sola página aburrida: tal fue el bagaje de sus vivencias y su agudeza a la hora de rememorarlas. Lo mismo en sus consideraciones filosóficas, históricas o estéticas, que en los abundantísimos pasajes anecdóticos, asume un lenguaje directo, enriquecido por su magistral síntesis poética y su gran magnetismo vital. Mal relatada, esta autobiografía habría tenido el doble de páginas: relatada por Neruda, tiene las que tenía que tener. Así de simple.
Contada desde la sinceridad, aunque sin poder evitar la subjetividad, Neruda ensalza o repudia a éste o aquél personaje sin cortarse un pelo, y sin mediación de compromisos, salvo consigo mismo. El gran ego que lo poseyó, propio de los grandes creadores, no fue óbice para, poniendo en un segundo plano su producción poética, considerar la mayor obra de su vida su labor de rescate de miles de refugiados españoles, perdedores y víctimas de la Guerra Civil Española.
Hombre de mundo y humanista comprometido con su tiempo, fue capaz de ver en éste, pero tan sólo a medias, la era de las utopías. El verdadero genio visionario, en perenne búsqueda de la justicia social, habría terminado devolviendo el Premio Stalin de la Paz, que una vez se le otorgara: algo más que considerar su tiempo como “una época diabólicamente confusa, en donde todas las conclusiones se hacen posibles” (sus palabras). Así de simple.
CONFIESO QUE HE VIVIDO es la vida de Neruda, un grande con más aciertos que yerros, una suerte de testamento literario, un segundo CANTO GENERAL que el poeta nos legó, muy pocos días antes de dejar para siempre su Residencia en la Tierra.
July 5, 2014
"Perhaps I didn't live just in myself, perhaps I lived the lives of others…My life is a life put together from all those lives: the lives of the poet." (1)
Pablo Neruda
Pablo Neruda, born Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto, was a Nobel Prize for Literature laureate (1971), a poet whose verses breathe life themselves, whose life, was poetry itself. Gabriel Garcia Marquez fearlessly called him the "the greatest poet of the 20th century in any language." Che Guevara ,in his diaries revered Neruda as his favorite writer, and carried only two books with him till his death, one of which was Neruda’s Cantos General (the reason of which will be readily apparent later on). He was not just a poet; he was THE poet of the people, of the oppressed, the unheard, and the forgotten.
Primera Vida: A Child of the Forest "Perhaps love and nature were, very early on, the source of my poems." (19)
Temuco Chile, who wouldn't fall in love with that?
Neruda aptly starts his Memoirs by writing where it all began, in the then frontier lands of Temuco, Chile, emblazoned by nature’s ardor. Nature made me euphoric (7), Neruda writes and indeed, nature did become an indispensable aspect throughout his poems as the reader would conspicuously experience throughout his works. He characterized his childhood with modesty and austerity when referring to their economic and fiscal means, and yet one cannot help but feel that he was nothing but rich beyond measure as he reminisced his childhood with picturesque landscapes, forest adventures, and long walks defined by an indescribable affinity with nature. I have come out of that landscape, that mud, that silence, to roam, to go singing through the world (7). And sing he did.
Segunda Vida: A Barred Poet, Militant Student, and Gabriela Mistral’s Touch.
A later photo showing Neruda with Mistral, they also both ended up as diplomats
As expected, Neruda’s father did not welcome the fact that his son wanted to become a poet amidst their challenging living conditions. The encouragement he failed to find in his father, Neruda found abounding with Gabriela Mistral(later to be a fellow Nobel Laureate (1945)), who introduced him to Russian classics. Neruda was undaunted, he continued to take poetry as a profession and went to a university at Santiago, Chile. While in the university he got acquainted with hunger and intermittent homelessness, his poems were all that kept him defiantly warm and firm.
Tercera Vida: A Diplomatic Affair"I learned what true loneliness was, in those days and years” (49).
Neruda visits the USSR
Neruda opted to accept an appointment as a consul after leaving the university and was first assigned in Rangoon, that further lead him to Colombo, Batavia, Singapore, Paris, and Mexico to name a few, the memoirs would suggest that Neruda welcomed the appointment, but other accounts tells that it was dire financial need that compelled him to accept the said appointment. Whichever the case was, his consulship had a very profound effect on him, meeting a vast number of notable personas, chief of this was Loneliness. Solitude, in this case, was not a formula for building up a writing mood but something as hard as a prison wall; you could smash your head against the wall and nobody came, no matter how you screamed or wept. (92) Unlike most poets, loneliness was a revolting concept in literary endeavors to someone like Neruda who celebrated love and life. And to combat this loneliness he wrote, “I went so deep into the soul and the life of the people" (90). He sought to immerse himself with the land and the people wherever he was based, this aside from meeting personalities like Nehru, Miguel Asturias (awarded the Nobel in 1967), Picasso, Joliot-Curie, Federico Lorca, Fidel Castro and Che Guevara (later on). "The poet cannot be afraid of the people. Life seemed to be handing me a warning and teaching me a lesson I would never forget: the lesson of hidden honor, of fraternity we know nothing about, of beauty that blossoms in the dark."(89) Indeed this philosophy modeled by this consulship will lead him to directly take part in defending the Spanish Republic through propagandas and more essentially, his poems (an aspect which will be fully utilized in Chile’s very own struggles).
Cuarta Vida: The People’s Poet, A Senator, and a Communist on the Run "…politics became part of my poetry and my life. In my poems I could not shut the door to the street, just as I could not shut the door to love, life, joy, or sadness in my young poet's heart."(55)
Neruda embracing Allende, also from the Left Wing, whom he supported for the Presidency
With his direct participation in the Spanish Civil war, he was removed from his post and returned to Chile. He entered the political scene and was elected a Senator in 1945, and later officially joined the Chilean Communist Party. The President elect of the same term hailed from the same Communist party but turned on against the Party and he banned the PArty altogether in 1948, with Neruda being removed in office, he surreptitiously escaped Chile and lived in exile for the next three years. Throughout those unwelcoming times, Neruda’s greatest weapon was his poems. “At hundreds of rallies, in places remote from one another, I heard the same request: to read my poems. They were often asked for by title.” (170)
His ardent feeling towards the people and his poetry at this point cannot be denied, and it was riveting.
Neruda returned to Chile in the next presidential elections, at the same time abandoning his nomination to run for the Presidency and instead supported Allende’s run, who will later win.
Quinta Vida: A Lover’s Life "Perhaps love and nature were, very early on, the source of my poems." (19)
Neruda with Mathilde
Love completes the vital elements that comprise Neruda’s impeccably conceived poems. And of course, to write poetry as good as he did, inspiration must have come by the lot. Neruda had the penchant for overlapping love affairs characterized by sudden departures and intermittent unconventional sexual encounters. Neruda had three wives and each have been the subject of a set or collection of poems. Matilde Urrutia, however was the inspiration for the 100 Love Sonnets.
--
Neruda died twelve days after Allende was killed (1973) by Pinochet’s attack of the presidential palace. As it stands, Neruda’s cause of death was by prostate cancer, although later claims emerged that he was poisoned for his Pro-Allende stances enough to call for an exhumation of the body, the same act is claimed to have been ordered by the Pinochet Regime. The body was exhumed in 2013 (the Neruda Foundation fought against exhuming the body) and test results revealed in November 2013 negated any existence of chemical compounds. The great poet succumbed to cancer.
____________________________________
Originally entitled I Confess I Have Lived, Memoirs was first published in 1974, under the editorial ambit of Mathilde Urrutia. Memoirs, is essentially a poem in prose by the manner Neruda wrote this. His lyrical style was unrelenting. Take for example this excerpt on one instance when an earthquake hit,
Or his reaction upon seeing the sea the first time,
This is the general tone by which Memoirs was written so those who relish and live by Neruda’s verses are never truly alienated in this prosaic work.
The entries intermittently jump through pivotal years, but not one chapter failed to contain people and individuals that helped, changed and loved Neruda however monumental or minuscule that was, and so as it goes, he mentions unpublished poets, forgotten names and acquaintances to people who rocked the very foundations of life. Humorous instances are also contained in this work, how he reacted to the alleged awarding of the Nobel, to his pet mongoose, to a hysterically paranoid woman, and the reason why he choose the pen name Neruda. Along with this, Neruda nonchalantly tells of his sexual encounters, of which, of course, there were numerous. If you opened the spoiler above, you will understand my reservation to this seminal Author exist, perhaps, in that instance only.
After reading his Memoirs, what came across is that Neruda is a poet through and through. It’s interesting to read that whatever he was subjected to, in whatever kind of instance or predicament he found himself in, the poet never left. He tells us of the various literary stimuli that lead to a specific work. To Neruda, his poems were not only both his sword and shield, it too was his soul.
_______________________
*Neruda is said to have written only in green ink, probably a color closest to the forest, other yet say that this was his personal symbol for desire and hope.
I have reviewed other works by Pablo Neruda
The Book of Questions (4 Stars)
Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair (3 Stars)
This book forms part of my remarkably extensive reading list on Nobel Prize for Literature Laureates
This review, along with my other reviews, has been cross-posted at imbookedindefinitely
Pablo Neruda
Pablo Neruda, born Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto, was a Nobel Prize for Literature laureate (1971), a poet whose verses breathe life themselves, whose life, was poetry itself. Gabriel Garcia Marquez fearlessly called him the "the greatest poet of the 20th century in any language." Che Guevara ,in his diaries revered Neruda as his favorite writer, and carried only two books with him till his death, one of which was Neruda’s Cantos General (the reason of which will be readily apparent later on). He was not just a poet; he was THE poet of the people, of the oppressed, the unheard, and the forgotten.
Primera Vida: A Child of the Forest "Perhaps love and nature were, very early on, the source of my poems." (19)
Temuco Chile, who wouldn't fall in love with that?
Neruda aptly starts his Memoirs by writing where it all began, in the then frontier lands of Temuco, Chile, emblazoned by nature’s ardor. Nature made me euphoric (7), Neruda writes and indeed, nature did become an indispensable aspect throughout his poems as the reader would conspicuously experience throughout his works. He characterized his childhood with modesty and austerity when referring to their economic and fiscal means, and yet one cannot help but feel that he was nothing but rich beyond measure as he reminisced his childhood with picturesque landscapes, forest adventures, and long walks defined by an indescribable affinity with nature. I have come out of that landscape, that mud, that silence, to roam, to go singing through the world (7). And sing he did.
Segunda Vida: A Barred Poet, Militant Student, and Gabriela Mistral’s Touch.
A later photo showing Neruda with Mistral, they also both ended up as diplomats
As expected, Neruda’s father did not welcome the fact that his son wanted to become a poet amidst their challenging living conditions. The encouragement he failed to find in his father, Neruda found abounding with Gabriela Mistral(later to be a fellow Nobel Laureate (1945)), who introduced him to Russian classics. Neruda was undaunted, he continued to take poetry as a profession and went to a university at Santiago, Chile. While in the university he got acquainted with hunger and intermittent homelessness, his poems were all that kept him defiantly warm and firm.
Tercera Vida: A Diplomatic Affair"I learned what true loneliness was, in those days and years” (49).
Neruda visits the USSR
Neruda opted to accept an appointment as a consul after leaving the university and was first assigned in Rangoon, that further lead him to Colombo, Batavia, Singapore, Paris, and Mexico to name a few, the memoirs would suggest that Neruda welcomed the appointment, but other accounts tells that it was dire financial need that compelled him to accept the said appointment. Whichever the case was, his consulship had a very profound effect on him, meeting a vast number of notable personas, chief of this was Loneliness. Solitude, in this case, was not a formula for building up a writing mood but something as hard as a prison wall; you could smash your head against the wall and nobody came, no matter how you screamed or wept. (92) Unlike most poets, loneliness was a revolting concept in literary endeavors to someone like Neruda who celebrated love and life. And to combat this loneliness he wrote, “I went so deep into the soul and the life of the people" (90). He sought to immerse himself with the land and the people wherever he was based, this aside from meeting personalities like Nehru, Miguel Asturias (awarded the Nobel in 1967), Picasso, Joliot-Curie, Federico Lorca, Fidel Castro and Che Guevara (later on). "The poet cannot be afraid of the people. Life seemed to be handing me a warning and teaching me a lesson I would never forget: the lesson of hidden honor, of fraternity we know nothing about, of beauty that blossoms in the dark."(89) Indeed this philosophy modeled by this consulship will lead him to directly take part in defending the Spanish Republic through propagandas and more essentially, his poems (an aspect which will be fully utilized in Chile’s very own struggles).
Cuarta Vida: The People’s Poet, A Senator, and a Communist on the Run "…politics became part of my poetry and my life. In my poems I could not shut the door to the street, just as I could not shut the door to love, life, joy, or sadness in my young poet's heart."(55)
Neruda embracing Allende, also from the Left Wing, whom he supported for the Presidency
With his direct participation in the Spanish Civil war, he was removed from his post and returned to Chile. He entered the political scene and was elected a Senator in 1945, and later officially joined the Chilean Communist Party. The President elect of the same term hailed from the same Communist party but turned on against the Party and he banned the PArty altogether in 1948, with Neruda being removed in office, he surreptitiously escaped Chile and lived in exile for the next three years. Throughout those unwelcoming times, Neruda’s greatest weapon was his poems. “At hundreds of rallies, in places remote from one another, I heard the same request: to read my poems. They were often asked for by title.” (170)
His ardent feeling towards the people and his poetry at this point cannot be denied, and it was riveting.
Neruda returned to Chile in the next presidential elections, at the same time abandoning his nomination to run for the Presidency and instead supported Allende’s run, who will later win.
Quinta Vida: A Lover’s Life "Perhaps love and nature were, very early on, the source of my poems." (19)
Neruda with Mathilde
Love completes the vital elements that comprise Neruda’s impeccably conceived poems. And of course, to write poetry as good as he did, inspiration must have come by the lot. Neruda had the penchant for overlapping love affairs characterized by sudden departures and intermittent unconventional sexual encounters. Neruda had three wives and each have been the subject of a set or collection of poems. Matilde Urrutia, however was the inspiration for the 100 Love Sonnets.
--
Neruda died twelve days after Allende was killed (1973) by Pinochet’s attack of the presidential palace. As it stands, Neruda’s cause of death was by prostate cancer, although later claims emerged that he was poisoned for his Pro-Allende stances enough to call for an exhumation of the body, the same act is claimed to have been ordered by the Pinochet Regime. The body was exhumed in 2013 (the Neruda Foundation fought against exhuming the body) and test results revealed in November 2013 negated any existence of chemical compounds. The great poet succumbed to cancer.
____________________________________
Originally entitled I Confess I Have Lived, Memoirs was first published in 1974, under the editorial ambit of Mathilde Urrutia. Memoirs, is essentially a poem in prose by the manner Neruda wrote this. His lyrical style was unrelenting. Take for example this excerpt on one instance when an earthquake hit,
“…Sometimes it all begins with a vague stirring, and those who are sleeping wake up. Sleeping fitfully, the soul reaches down to pro¬found roots, to their very depth under the earth. It has always wanted to know it. And knows it now. And then, during the great tremor, there is nowhere to run, because the gods have gone away, the vainglorious churches have been ground up into heaps of rubble.(59)”
Or his reaction upon seeing the sea the first time,
“The first time I stood before the sea, I was overwhelmed. The great ocean unleashed its fury there between two big hills, Huilque and Maule. It wasn't just the immense snow-crested swells, rising many meters above our heads, but the loud pound¬ing of a gigantic heart, the heartbeat of the universe.(25)”
This is the general tone by which Memoirs was written so those who relish and live by Neruda’s verses are never truly alienated in this prosaic work.
The entries intermittently jump through pivotal years, but not one chapter failed to contain people and individuals that helped, changed and loved Neruda however monumental or minuscule that was, and so as it goes, he mentions unpublished poets, forgotten names and acquaintances to people who rocked the very foundations of life. Humorous instances are also contained in this work, how he reacted to the alleged awarding of the Nobel, to his pet mongoose, to a hysterically paranoid woman, and the reason why he choose the pen name Neruda. Along with this, Neruda nonchalantly tells of his sexual encounters, of which, of course, there were numerous. If you opened the spoiler above, you will understand my reservation to this seminal Author exist, perhaps, in that instance only.
After reading his Memoirs, what came across is that Neruda is a poet through and through. It’s interesting to read that whatever he was subjected to, in whatever kind of instance or predicament he found himself in, the poet never left. He tells us of the various literary stimuli that lead to a specific work. To Neruda, his poems were not only both his sword and shield, it too was his soul.
“The poet who is not a realist is dead. And the poet who is only a realist is also dead. The poet who is only irrational will only be understood by himself and his beloved, and this is very sad. The poet who is all reason will even be understood by jackasses, and this is also terribly sad. There are no hard and fast rules, there are no ingredients prescribed by God or the Devil, but these two very important gentlemen wage a steady battle in the realm of poetry, and in this battle first one wins and then the other, but poetry itself cannot be defeated.(265)”
_______________________
*Neruda is said to have written only in green ink, probably a color closest to the forest, other yet say that this was his personal symbol for desire and hope.
I have reviewed other works by Pablo Neruda
The Book of Questions (4 Stars)
Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair (3 Stars)
This book forms part of my remarkably extensive reading list on Nobel Prize for Literature Laureates
This review, along with my other reviews, has been cross-posted at imbookedindefinitely
November 21, 2025
دو فیلم خوب مرتبط با نرودا هم پیشنهاد میدهم اگر دوست داشتید ببینید:
1. The postman 1994
2. Neruda 2016
************************************************************************
شاید من تنها زندگی خود را نزیستم، شاید بسیاری از زندگی دیگران را هم زندگی کردهام. … زندگی من هزار تکهای است از تمامی زندگیهای یک شاعر. صفحه ۱۷ کتاب
آپولینر میگوید «خداوند به ما که مرزهای غیر واقعی را کشف میکنیم رحم کند.» این را داستانهایی که تعریف کردم به خاطرم انداخت. داستانهایی از کسانی که ذرهای هم به خاطر غریبی رفتارشان از علاقهام به آنها کاسته نشد و از شجاعتشان هم چیزی کم نشد زیرا این من بودم که از آن سر درنمیآوردم. صفحه ۷۴ کتاب
از آن تاریخ به بعد با فاصلههای کوتاهی، سیاست وارد زندگی و شعر من شد. دیگر نمیتوانستم در شعرم را به روی خیابان ببندم. به همان اندازه که نمیتوانستم در را به روی عشق، زندگی، شادی یا اندوهی که در قلب مردم بود ببندم. صفحه ۸۳ کتاب
تریاک، آن گونه که در ذهن داشتم، بهشت سرزمینهای غرایب نبود، بلکه قرارگاهی بود برای استثمار شدگان… همهی آنهایی که در بیغولههای تریاک خانه بودند، اهریمنهای بیچارهای بیش نبودند… ذرهای نور در آنجا، حتی در پلکهای نیمه بستهی تریاککشها نبود… بعد از آن دیگر به شیرهکش خانه نرفتم… صفحه ۱۳۲ کتاب
یک شاعر جوان بدون تکانههای تنهایی نمیتواند چنان شعرهایی بنویسد حتی اگر این تنهایی تا حدی ساختگی باشد، درست مانند یک شاعر مجرب و پخته که نمیتواند شعرهایی بنویسد که در آن اثری از حضور انسان و جامعه نباشد. صفحه ۱۳۵ کتاب
استعمارگران دستور دادند خانهی یک سریلانکایی را بسوزانند تا او مجبور به ترک آنجا شود و آنها بتوانند زمینش را تصاحب کنند. آن انگلیسی که قرار بود دستور سوزاندن بدهد، کارمند فروتنی بود به نام لئونارد وولف. او دستور را اجرا نکرد و از کارش اخراج شد. او به انگلیس برگردانده شد و یکی از بهترین کتابها را درباره شرق نوشت به نام دهکدهای در جنگل. شاهکاری ادبی از زندگی واقعی که زیر سایهی شهرت زنش که کسی نبود جز ویرجینیا وولف، نویسندهی ذهن گرا و معروف، قرار گرفت و شناخته نشد. صفحه ۱۳۷ کتاب
زمانی که چهارده سالم بود پدرم مدام از فعالیت ادبی من اظهار نارضایتی میکرد. او اصلاً دوست نداشت پسرش شاعر شود. دنبال اسم فامیلی بودم که تخلص شعرهایم باشد. سرانجام از مجلهای نام چکسلواکی نرودا را انتخاب کردم بیخبر از آنکه نرودا نویسندهای توانا در کشورش بود که از محبوبیت بالایی برخوردار است. هزاران شعر و غزل سروده بود و مجسمهی او در میدان مالا استرانای چکسلواکی برپا بود. سالها بعد وقتی به چکسلواکی رفتم نخستین کاری که کردم گذاشتن گلی در پای مجسمهی این مرد ریشو بود. صفحات ۲۳۲-۲۳۳ کتاب
باید رنج میبردم، مبارزه میکردم، عشق میورزیدم و نغمه سر میدادم. من سهم زمینی خودم از پیروزی و شکست را دارا بودم، نان و خون مزمزه کردم. یک شاعر بیش از این چه میتواند بخواهد؟ و تمامی انتخابها، اشکها و بوسهها، تنهاییها و همبستگیها با دیگر انسانها در شعر من حضور دارند و بخش ضروری آن هستند زیرا من برای شعرم زیستهام و شعرم همهی آنچه را که در آرزویش بودهام در خود دارد. و اگر جوایز بسیاری نصیبم شد، جوایزی در پرواز، چون پروانهها و گذرا چون گردهی گلها، خاطرهای را هم صاحب شدهام که شاید از نظر بسیاری کم اهمیت و خندهدار باشد، اما کمتر کسی توانسته آن را به دست بیاورد. من جستجوی بسیار طولانی کردهام و کارآموزی سختی را در میان واژههای مکتوب گذراندهام تا شاعر خلقم شوم. جایزهی من این است نه کتابها و اشعاری که از آثار من ترجمه شده و نوشتههایی که دربارهی واژههای من منتشر شدهاند. جایزهی من آن لحظهی باشکوهی است که از اعماق معدن زغالسنگ لوتا، مردی از تونل پا به آفتاب پر لهیب و گستردهی دشت نیترات مینهد، با چهرهای فرسوده از کار سخت و چشمانی شعلهور از خاکستر زغال دستش را به سوی من دراز میکند، دستی که خطوط روی آن چون خطوط کویر در نقشه است و با برقی در چشمانش میگوید «خیلی وقت است تو را میشناسم برادر.» این تاج پر جواهر شعر من است که کارگری که از شکافی در دل زمین بیرون میآید باد و شب و ستارگان شیلی مدام در گوشش نجوا کردهاند «تو تنها نیستی، شاعری هست که اندیشههایش با تو و رنجهای توست.» صفحه ۲۵۴ کتاب
زندگیام از آغاز همین بوده، با یک دست خنجر در میان دندههایم فرو میکنند و با دستی دیگر دسته گلی تقدیمم میکنند. صفحه ۲۹۳ کتاب
دلم میخواهد در دنیایی زندگی کنم که کسی در آن تکفیر نشود. من خودم هرگز کسی را تکفیر نمیکنم. من هرگز به آن کشیش نخواهم گفت تو نمیتوانی غسل تعمید دهی چون ضدکمونیستی. به آن دیگری نمیگویم من شعر تو را چاپ نمیکنم چون تو ضدکمونیست هستی. میخواهم در دنیایی زندگی کنم که مردم فقط انسان باشند بدون هیچ برچسبی دیگر، بدون نگرانی از یک واژه، برچسب، یا قانون. … من هنوز ایمان کامل به سرنوشت بشری دارم و اعتقادی روز به روز روشنتر به اینکه همگی داریم به مهر و نیکی نزدیک میشویم. … در این لحظه بحرانی، در این دل و دست لرزیدنها، میدانیم نور حقیقت بر دیدگان آنان که نگران بشریت هستند خواهد تابید. این امیدی است که از میان نخواهد رفت. صفحه ۳۲۴ کتاب
من در خانهام مجموعهای از اسباببازیهای ریز و درشت دارم که بدون آنها نمیتوانم زندگی کنم. کودکی که بازی نکند، کودک نیست و بزرگسالی که بازی نکند، کودک درون خود را از دست داده و دلش برای او تنگ خواهد شد. من حتی خانهام را هم مثل خانه عروسکی ساختهام و صبح تا شب در آن به بازی مشغولم. صفحه ۳۷۹ کتاب
شکی نیست که دنیا نمیتواند خود را از جنگ عاری کند، نمیتواند لکههای خون را بشوید، و نمیتواند بر نفرت غلبه کند. همهی اینها درست است.
این هم درست است ما در حرکت به سوی درک و فهم هستیم. سیمای ستمگران در آینهها پیداست، دیدن آن نفرتآور است حتی برای خودشان.
من به نیروی عشق ایمان دارم. شکی ندارم علیرغم درد، خون، و شیشههای خرد شده، انسانها به تفاهم متقابل خواهند رسید. صفحه ۳۸۶ کتاب
همهچیز در تکاپوی تغییر است به جز نظامهای پوسیده… این نظامها در تارهای عنکبوتی عظیم قرون وسطا گیر کردهاند… تار عنکبوتها قویتر از فولادهای صنعتیاند… اما هستند کسانی که به تغییر ایمان دارند، تغییر به وجود آوردهاند، تغییرها را بدل به شکوفه کردهاند… دست مریزاد… هیچ کس نمیتواند آمدن بهار را عقب بیندازد! صفحات ۴۶۸-۴۶۹ کتاب
۱۴۰۴/۰۸/۳۰
1. The postman 1994
2. Neruda 2016
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شاید من تنها زندگی خود را نزیستم، شاید بسیاری از زندگی دیگران را هم زندگی کردهام. … زندگی من هزار تکهای است از تمامی زندگیهای یک شاعر. صفحه ۱۷ کتاب
آپولینر میگوید «خداوند به ما که مرزهای غیر واقعی را کشف میکنیم رحم کند.» این را داستانهایی که تعریف کردم به خاطرم انداخت. داستانهایی از کسانی که ذرهای هم به خاطر غریبی رفتارشان از علاقهام به آنها کاسته نشد و از شجاعتشان هم چیزی کم نشد زیرا این من بودم که از آن سر درنمیآوردم. صفحه ۷۴ کتاب
از آن تاریخ به بعد با فاصلههای کوتاهی، سیاست وارد زندگی و شعر من شد. دیگر نمیتوانستم در شعرم را به روی خیابان ببندم. به همان اندازه که نمیتوانستم در را به روی عشق، زندگی، شادی یا اندوهی که در قلب مردم بود ببندم. صفحه ۸۳ کتاب
تریاک، آن گونه که در ذهن داشتم، بهشت سرزمینهای غرایب نبود، بلکه قرارگاهی بود برای استثمار شدگان… همهی آنهایی که در بیغولههای تریاک خانه بودند، اهریمنهای بیچارهای بیش نبودند… ذرهای نور در آنجا، حتی در پلکهای نیمه بستهی تریاککشها نبود… بعد از آن دیگر به شیرهکش خانه نرفتم… صفحه ۱۳۲ کتاب
یک شاعر جوان بدون تکانههای تنهایی نمیتواند چنان شعرهایی بنویسد حتی اگر این تنهایی تا حدی ساختگی باشد، درست مانند یک شاعر مجرب و پخته که نمیتواند شعرهایی بنویسد که در آن اثری از حضور انسان و جامعه نباشد. صفحه ۱۳۵ کتاب
استعمارگران دستور دادند خانهی یک سریلانکایی را بسوزانند تا او مجبور به ترک آنجا شود و آنها بتوانند زمینش را تصاحب کنند. آن انگلیسی که قرار بود دستور سوزاندن بدهد، کارمند فروتنی بود به نام لئونارد وولف. او دستور را اجرا نکرد و از کارش اخراج شد. او به انگلیس برگردانده شد و یکی از بهترین کتابها را درباره شرق نوشت به نام دهکدهای در جنگل. شاهکاری ادبی از زندگی واقعی که زیر سایهی شهرت زنش که کسی نبود جز ویرجینیا وولف، نویسندهی ذهن گرا و معروف، قرار گرفت و شناخته نشد. صفحه ۱۳۷ کتاب
زمانی که چهارده سالم بود پدرم مدام از فعالیت ادبی من اظهار نارضایتی میکرد. او اصلاً دوست نداشت پسرش شاعر شود. دنبال اسم فامیلی بودم که تخلص شعرهایم باشد. سرانجام از مجلهای نام چکسلواکی نرودا را انتخاب کردم بیخبر از آنکه نرودا نویسندهای توانا در کشورش بود که از محبوبیت بالایی برخوردار است. هزاران شعر و غزل سروده بود و مجسمهی او در میدان مالا استرانای چکسلواکی برپا بود. سالها بعد وقتی به چکسلواکی رفتم نخستین کاری که کردم گذاشتن گلی در پای مجسمهی این مرد ریشو بود. صفحات ۲۳۲-۲۳۳ کتاب
باید رنج میبردم، مبارزه میکردم، عشق میورزیدم و نغمه سر میدادم. من سهم زمینی خودم از پیروزی و شکست را دارا بودم، نان و خون مزمزه کردم. یک شاعر بیش از این چه میتواند بخواهد؟ و تمامی انتخابها، اشکها و بوسهها، تنهاییها و همبستگیها با دیگر انسانها در شعر من حضور دارند و بخش ضروری آن هستند زیرا من برای شعرم زیستهام و شعرم همهی آنچه را که در آرزویش بودهام در خود دارد. و اگر جوایز بسیاری نصیبم شد، جوایزی در پرواز، چون پروانهها و گذرا چون گردهی گلها، خاطرهای را هم صاحب شدهام که شاید از نظر بسیاری کم اهمیت و خندهدار باشد، اما کمتر کسی توانسته آن را به دست بیاورد. من جستجوی بسیار طولانی کردهام و کارآموزی سختی را در میان واژههای مکتوب گذراندهام تا شاعر خلقم شوم. جایزهی من این است نه کتابها و اشعاری که از آثار من ترجمه شده و نوشتههایی که دربارهی واژههای من منتشر شدهاند. جایزهی من آن لحظهی باشکوهی است که از اعماق معدن زغالسنگ لوتا، مردی از تونل پا به آفتاب پر لهیب و گستردهی دشت نیترات مینهد، با چهرهای فرسوده از کار سخت و چشمانی شعلهور از خاکستر زغال دستش را به سوی من دراز میکند، دستی که خطوط روی آن چون خطوط کویر در نقشه است و با برقی در چشمانش میگوید «خیلی وقت است تو را میشناسم برادر.» این تاج پر جواهر شعر من است که کارگری که از شکافی در دل زمین بیرون میآید باد و شب و ستارگان شیلی مدام در گوشش نجوا کردهاند «تو تنها نیستی، شاعری هست که اندیشههایش با تو و رنجهای توست.» صفحه ۲۵۴ کتاب
زندگیام از آغاز همین بوده، با یک دست خنجر در میان دندههایم فرو میکنند و با دستی دیگر دسته گلی تقدیمم میکنند. صفحه ۲۹۳ کتاب
دلم میخواهد در دنیایی زندگی کنم که کسی در آن تکفیر نشود. من خودم هرگز کسی را تکفیر نمیکنم. من هرگز به آن کشیش نخواهم گفت تو نمیتوانی غسل تعمید دهی چون ضدکمونیستی. به آن دیگری نمیگویم من شعر تو را چاپ نمیکنم چون تو ضدکمونیست هستی. میخواهم در دنیایی زندگی کنم که مردم فقط انسان باشند بدون هیچ برچسبی دیگر، بدون نگرانی از یک واژه، برچسب، یا قانون. … من هنوز ایمان کامل به سرنوشت بشری دارم و اعتقادی روز به روز روشنتر به اینکه همگی داریم به مهر و نیکی نزدیک میشویم. … در این لحظه بحرانی، در این دل و دست لرزیدنها، میدانیم نور حقیقت بر دیدگان آنان که نگران بشریت هستند خواهد تابید. این امیدی است که از میان نخواهد رفت. صفحه ۳۲۴ کتاب
من در خانهام مجموعهای از اسباببازیهای ریز و درشت دارم که بدون آنها نمیتوانم زندگی کنم. کودکی که بازی نکند، کودک نیست و بزرگسالی که بازی نکند، کودک درون خود را از دست داده و دلش برای او تنگ خواهد شد. من حتی خانهام را هم مثل خانه عروسکی ساختهام و صبح تا شب در آن به بازی مشغولم. صفحه ۳۷۹ کتاب
شکی نیست که دنیا نمیتواند خود را از جنگ عاری کند، نمیتواند لکههای خون را بشوید، و نمیتواند بر نفرت غلبه کند. همهی اینها درست است.
این هم درست است ما در حرکت به سوی درک و فهم هستیم. سیمای ستمگران در آینهها پیداست، دیدن آن نفرتآور است حتی برای خودشان.
من به نیروی عشق ایمان دارم. شکی ندارم علیرغم درد، خون، و شیشههای خرد شده، انسانها به تفاهم متقابل خواهند رسید. صفحه ۳۸۶ کتاب
همهچیز در تکاپوی تغییر است به جز نظامهای پوسیده… این نظامها در تارهای عنکبوتی عظیم قرون وسطا گیر کردهاند… تار عنکبوتها قویتر از فولادهای صنعتیاند… اما هستند کسانی که به تغییر ایمان دارند، تغییر به وجود آوردهاند، تغییرها را بدل به شکوفه کردهاند… دست مریزاد… هیچ کس نمیتواند آمدن بهار را عقب بیندازد! صفحات ۴۶۸-۴۶۹ کتاب
۱۴۰۴/۰۸/۳۰
January 7, 2014
انتظرت هذه السيرة كثيرا و بفضل صديق بروليتاري رفيق فكر توفرت لي لا يسعني أن أوفيه حقه بالشكر..ماذا أستطيع أن أقول عن نيرودا سيرة ملهمة علمتني أمرا ماأو حكاية انسان احترف الشعر كحياة و صادف أن عاش بين الشعر و السياسة مسافرا توحد العالم بقاراته بين يديه و يسن أوراقه صادف من الناس البسطاء و السياسيين و الثوريين و الكتاب و الأدباء ما جعل من سيرته هذه موسوعة قائمةبذاتها,لا انكر أني لم أركز على شغفه بعالم الرخويات و البحر و شغفه بالنبات بقدر ما ركزت على تفاصيل ملهمات شعره و تفاصيل دواوينه و علاقاته بالفنانين و غيرهم من الأدباء و بالأخص تفاصيل حياته كرجل شيوعي ثوري مناضل مرتحل ملاحق..نيرودا كان يؤرخ بشكل ما أدب أمريكا اللاتينية و أوروبا في فترة ما بين الحربين و بعدها لغاية وفاته و بوثق أيضا لفترات حرجة من تاريخ التشيلي و باقي أمركيا اللاتينية و اسبانيا و الصين و الهند و الاتحاد السوفياتي..لا أدري لما حز في نفسي أنه لم يأتي بذكر للحركات الشيوعية العربية و لا الى مقاومتها ضد الاحتلال و الرأسمالية كما تفاجأت أنه لم يذكر شخصية أممية كالمهدي بنبركة ربما لم يسمع به من قبل من يعلم.
نيرودا كان انسانا قبل كونه سياسيا شيوعيا تظهر انسانيته في حبه لزوجته ماتيلدا التي خصها بديوان لحاله مئة سوناتة حب كما تظهر انسانيته في سعيه لانقاذ لاجئي أوروبا للتشيلي و في طريقة معاملته لخدمه لحيواناته لنباتاته..
حين تتم هذه السيرة ستجد لسان حالك يقول بثقة أنه فعلا قد عاش..و أكثر من حياة .
نيرودا كان انسانا قبل كونه سياسيا شيوعيا تظهر انسانيته في حبه لزوجته ماتيلدا التي خصها بديوان لحاله مئة سوناتة حب كما تظهر انسانيته في سعيه لانقاذ لاجئي أوروبا للتشيلي و في طريقة معاملته لخدمه لحيواناته لنباتاته..
حين تتم هذه السيرة ستجد لسان حالك يقول بثقة أنه فعلا قد عاش..و أكثر من حياة .
October 16, 2013
I can only give a warning; after reading this book you will be forced to think that you have not really lived until now, that you were sleepwalking while the treasure of world lay open in front of you. He travelled to nearly every corner of the world and amalgamated himself with it. He discovered beauty and wealth in the mountain of andes and the arms of a Tamil untouchable in Ceylon. He fought for his poor countrymen, for peace, for humanism. While sometimes five star hotels greeted him, sometimes he found himself penniless with torn clothes clinging to nothing but his poetry for comfort. Neruda plays with word as a child with pebbles. He can leave you spell bound paragraph by paragraph, wanting for more. He talks to nature, to revolutions, to his beloved countrymen and describes his lovely homeland Chile with an art I have never ever come across. Poet, Politician, Traveller, Revolutionary and finally a great human being, Neruda is a not only a person but a phenomenon which must be explored through this book.
March 18, 2020
سيرة ذاتية رائعة، يكفي ان من كتبها شاعر كبير. وليس أي شاعر انه بابلو نيرودا ،
حياة مليئة بالأحداث العظيمة ومليئة بالترحال والسفر والاختلاط مع جميع الشعوب والأجناس.
شاعر من الشعب ومتفاعل مع شعبه والالتزام بالمبدأ ورغم انه بشعره كان يستطيع التعايش مع أي حزب و حاكم كما يفعل من ينتسبون الى الأدب في عصرنا الحالي يتلونون كما تتلون الحرباء مع اَي تيار سياسي واي حاكم .
من دبلوماسي يمثل دولته كسفير الى شريد تطارده حكومته ، لم يتغير ولم يبدل ولاءه بقي ثابت على حزبه الشيوعي، وشاعر كنيرودا من الطبيعي ان ينتمي الى الحزب الشيوعي. حزب الكادحين والفقراء.
اُسلوب. السيرة رائع وتشبيهات اروع وقصص لا تكل ولا تمل منها في حياة اعترف المؤلف انه عاشها بالطول والعرض.
وا��ترجمة ايضا رائعة وبذل مجهود كبير لتقريب بعض الألفاظ الى اللغة العربية واختيار اللفظ المناسب حسب سياق الرواية.
جميييييلة
حياة مليئة بالأحداث العظيمة ومليئة بالترحال والسفر والاختلاط مع جميع الشعوب والأجناس.
شاعر من الشعب ومتفاعل مع شعبه والالتزام بالمبدأ ورغم انه بشعره كان يستطيع التعايش مع أي حزب و حاكم كما يفعل من ينتسبون الى الأدب في عصرنا الحالي يتلونون كما تتلون الحرباء مع اَي تيار سياسي واي حاكم .
من دبلوماسي يمثل دولته كسفير الى شريد تطارده حكومته ، لم يتغير ولم يبدل ولاءه بقي ثابت على حزبه الشيوعي، وشاعر كنيرودا من الطبيعي ان ينتمي الى الحزب الشيوعي. حزب الكادحين والفقراء.
اُسلوب. السيرة رائع وتشبيهات اروع وقصص لا تكل ولا تمل منها في حياة اعترف المؤلف انه عاشها بالطول والعرض.
وا��ترجمة ايضا رائعة وبذل مجهود كبير لتقريب بعض الألفاظ الى اللغة العربية واختيار اللفظ المناسب حسب سياق الرواية.
جميييييلة
May 7, 2023
স্মৃতি হাসির হয়, স্মৃতি কান্নার হয় ; স্মৃতি আনন্দ-বেদনার এক অবিমিশ্র অতীত। চিলির কবি পাবলো নেরুদার "অনুস্মৃতি" বাঙালি পাঠককে তার একে অচেনা রাজ্যে নিয়ে যাবে। সেখানে পুরোদস্তুর এক কবি শোনাবেন তাঁর কবি হয়ে উঠবার গল্পটা। যে গল্পে অমলিন হয়ে আছে কতশত কাব্যিক কথন, লাটিন আমেরিকার নামজাদা সব লেখকদের ঘিরে অম্ল-মধুর ঘটনা।
নেরুদা আমৃত্যু সংগ্রাম করেছেন প্রতিক্রিয়াশীলতার দীর্ঘ তমসাচ্ছন্ন ছায়ার বিরুদ্ধে। চিলি, স্পেন এবং লাটিন আমেরিকার অনেক দেশেই তিনি গিয়েছেন শুধু কবি হিসেবে নয়, কাব্যবীণায় বাজিয়েছেন বিপ্লবের সুর।ত্রিশের দশকে ফরেন সার্ভিসে কাজ করেছেন এই দক্ষিণ এশিয়াতে। মিয়ানমার, শ্রীলঙ্কা আর অবিভক্ত ভারতের দিনগুলির কথা লিখতে গিয়ে বড়ই স্মৃতিকাতর হয়েছেন।
ফরাসিদেশ তাঁর জীবনের একটি বড় জায়গা জুড়ে আছে। আছে অসংখ্য রূপবতীর সান্নিধ্য। নেরুদা নিজেকে শুভ্রতম চরিত্রের অধিকারী হিসেবে দেখাননি; বরং জীবনের সবসময়ই নারীদের আনুকুল্য পেয়েছেন মানসিক ও শারীরিকভাবে সে কথা অম্লান বদনে স্বীকার করেছেন। আর শীতের রাতে গমক্ষেতে প্রেমের ক্ল্যাসিক বর্ণনা এখানে তুলে দেওয়ার সৎসাহস আমার নেই। পাঠক সে বর্ণনা নিজ দায়িত্বে পড়ে নেবেন।
চিলির কমিউনিস্ট পার্টির পাশাপাশি বিশ্ব কমিউনিস্ট রাজনীতি, সালভাদর আয়েন্দের হত্যা প্রভৃতি বিষয়ে অনেক গুরুত্বপূর্ণ ঘটনার সাক্ষী কবি নিজে। রাজনীতির কালো অধ্যায় শুধু নয়, অনেক নামিদামি লেখকের ঈর্ষা,হিংসা চাক্ষুষও করেছেন নেরুদা।
ভবানীপ্রসাদ দত্তের অনুবাদকে অনুবাদ বলা ঠিক হবে না। তিনি বইটিকে মৌলিক লেখনীর পর্যায়ে নিয়ে গেছেন। কবি, কবিতা এবং আত্মস্মৃতির প্রতি ভালোবাসা না থাকলে এতো সুন্দর অনুবাদ করা সম্ভব নয়। তবে এই বই 'এক বসায় পড়া' টাইপ বই নয়। ধীরে ধীরে পড়বার মতো বই। অনুবাদক ভিনদেশি নামগুলোর ক্ষেত্রে নিজস্ব রীতি অনুসরণ করেছেন। যেমন: সালবাদর, চিলে, কুবা, গার্থিয়া ইত্যাদি।
নেরুদা আমৃত্যু সংগ্রাম করেছেন প্রতিক্রিয়াশীলতার দীর্ঘ তমসাচ্ছন্ন ছায়ার বিরুদ্ধে। চিলি, স্পেন এবং লাটিন আমেরিকার অনেক দেশেই তিনি গিয়েছেন শুধু কবি হিসেবে নয়, কাব্যবীণায় বাজিয়েছেন বিপ্লবের সুর।ত্রিশের দশকে ফরেন সার্ভিসে কাজ করেছেন এই দক্ষিণ এশিয়াতে। মিয়ানমার, শ্রীলঙ্কা আর অবিভক্ত ভারতের দিনগুলির কথা লিখতে গিয়ে বড়ই স্মৃতিকাতর হয়েছেন।
ফরাসিদেশ তাঁর জীবনের একটি বড় জায়গা জুড়ে আছে। আছে অসংখ্য রূপবতীর সান্নিধ্য। নেরুদা নিজেকে শুভ্রতম চরিত্রের অধিকারী হিসেবে দেখাননি; বরং জীবনের সবসময়ই নারীদের আনুকুল্য পেয়েছেন মানসিক ও শারীরিকভাবে সে কথা অম্লান বদনে স্বীকার করেছেন। আর শীতের রাতে গমক্ষেতে প্রেমের ক্ল্যাসিক বর্ণনা এখানে তুলে দেওয়ার সৎসাহস আমার নেই। পাঠক সে বর্ণনা নিজ দায়িত্বে পড়ে নেবেন।
চিলির কমিউনিস্ট পার্টির পাশাপাশি বিশ্ব কমিউনিস্ট রাজনীতি, সালভাদর আয়েন্দের হত্যা প্রভৃতি বিষয়ে অনেক গুরুত্বপূর্ণ ঘটনার সাক্ষী কবি নিজে। রাজনীতির কালো অধ্যায় শুধু নয়, অনেক নামিদামি লেখকের ঈর্ষা,হিংসা চাক্ষুষও করেছেন নেরুদা।
ভবানীপ্রসাদ দত্তের অনুবাদকে অনুবাদ বলা ঠিক হবে না। তিনি বইটিকে মৌলিক লেখনীর পর্যায়ে নিয়ে গেছেন। কবি, কবিতা এবং আত্মস্মৃতির প্রতি ভালোবাসা না থাকলে এতো সুন্দর অনুবাদ করা সম্ভব নয়। তবে এই বই 'এক বসায় পড়া' টাইপ বই নয়। ধীরে ধীরে পড়বার মতো বই। অনুবাদক ভিনদেশি নামগুলোর ক্ষেত্রে নিজস্ব রীতি অনুসরণ করেছেন। যেমন: সালবাদর, চিলে, কুবা, গার্থিয়া ইত্যাদি।
May 21, 2022
At the end of this era, I am alone once more in newly discovered lands, as if this whole long voyage had been a waste. I go into an agony, into a second solitude, just as in the throes of birth, in the alarming beginning, filled with the metaphysical terror from which the spring of my early poems flowed, in the new twilight my own creation has provoked. Where am I to go? Which way should I return, aim for, which way to silence or a breathing space? I turn the light and the darkness upside down and inside out, and I find nothing but the emptiness my hands built with such deadly care.
January 3, 2023
Me da ganas de leer el texto entero ese fragmento de la vida del poeta chileno.
Esos relatos sobre su juventud me parecieron instructivos y hasta apasionantes por lo detallados que son y por la personalidad del aútor que brota de ellos.
En esa edición se puede leer los capitulos:
I. El joven provinciano
II. Perdido en la ciudad
III. Los caminos del mundo
Esos relatos sobre su juventud me parecieron instructivos y hasta apasionantes por lo detallados que son y por la personalidad del aútor que brota de ellos.
En esa edición se puede leer los capitulos:
I. El joven provinciano
II. Perdido en la ciudad
III. Los caminos del mundo
July 31, 2016
وأنا أعترف أنك قد عشت يا بابلو، سيرة ذاتية مليئة بالدهشة والجمال والعطاء والحياة.
في البداية ترى تشيلي بعين بابلو نيرودا، ما أجمل طبيعتها حسب وصفه، صرت مشتاقًا لرؤيتها حقًا، وأراهن على أن أشعاره ستكون يوم أقرأها مليئة بالورود والأزهار وأسمائها بعد أوصافه الجميلة لها، يكتب حتى الآن بسلاسة، ويوصل للقارئ ما يريد دون الدخول في متاهات، قصة العجائز الثلاث، والفتاة التي زارته في الليل.
من الكتاب:
إن عمل الكتّاب في رأيي، له شبه كبير بعمل أولئك الصيادين في القطب الشمالي، على الكاتب أن يبحث عن النهر فإن وجده متجمدًا فإنه يضطر أن يثقب الجليد. عليه أن يجلد ويصبر، أن يتحمل الطقس المعادي والنقد المضاد. أن يتحدى التفاهة، أن يبحث عن التيار العميق، أن يرمي بالصنارة الصالحة الصائبة، ليخرج بعد جهد جهيد وصبر شديد سمكة صغيرة. بيد أنه لا بد له من أن يرجع الكرة ويعود للصيد من جديد، ضد البرد، ضد الصقيع، ضد الماء، ضد النقد، وهكذا دواليك حتى يخرج في كل مرة صيدًا أكبر وأعظم.
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جلس رئيس الشرطة في مكان بارز في أول صف جلسة تفتيش وتحرّ وإنذار. من بعد عرفت أن أربع بنادق سريعة الطلقات كانت قد ركزت هناك ووجهت نحوي ونحو الجمهور. كانت ستنطلق فيما إذا غادر رئيس الشرطة مقعده وقاطع قراءة الشعر. لكن ما جرى شيء يستدعي ذلك، فقد ظل رئيس الشرطة في مقعده يستمع إلى أشعاري حتى النهاية.
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يذكر بابلو نيرودا في كتابه أعترف أنني قد عشت، شاعرًا أرجنتينيًا اسمه عمر بيغنولة، وكان هذا الشاعر مهندسًا زراعيًا أيضًا، وفي يوم مؤتمر نادي القلم العالمي الأول، جاء عمر راكبًا بقرته وأدخلها معه إلى قاعة المؤتمر رغم محاولات منعه من الشرطة وقتها. يكمل نيرودا حديثه عنه بقصة أخرى أن عمر بيغنولة تحدى ذات مرة مصارعًا يابانيًا بطلًا، فتجمع الناس منتظرين هذا النزال، ليدخل بعدها إلى الحلبة مع بقرته، ربطها في إحدى الزوايا، لكنها لم تفده بشيء، إذ قام المصارع بضربه ورميه فكان كتلة هامدة لا حول بها ولا قوة مما أدى إلى استهزاء واستخفاف الجمهور المحتشد الذين كانوا يطالبون باستمرار القتال رغم سقوط عمر بغنولة على الأرض بلا حراك. بعدها بشهور نشر كتابًا جديدًا بعنوان: أحاديث مع البقرة، بإهداء كالتالي: "أهدي هذا الكتاب الفلسفي إلى الأربعين ألف **** الذين كانوا يصفّرون لي ويستهزئون بي ويطالبون بموتي في حلبة الصراع ليلة 24 شباط".
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طريقة كتابته تدل على أنه شاعر، وخاصة في نهاية الأقسام تراه يكتب بطريقة جنونية عذبة
July 31, 2008
I hate to say this but I think Neruda is a little heavy handed with words. He uses tons, he uses a whole freaking mountain worth of words and then some – homeboy can throw down some words. The man goes on and on, he makes every sentence obese with words, and more words. He’s a poet for Christ sake, isn’t he suppose to be all sparing with the words? What happened? Those guys usually just write a couple-a-fragmented-sentences and then call it a day, go drink some red wine, moan about the injustice of it all. And what’s the deal with the attention-deficit-disorder-jump-around-short-attention-span-can’t-keep-on-the-same-subject-for-more-that-six-pages thing? I’ve had more linear conversations with actively using crackheads.
“Ah, the poets, the poets. There’s Juan Carlos el Topo del Norte, one of the finest poets the world has ever known. Too bad his words were never written down and published. That woman is looking at me, she wants me, of course she wants me. I’ll make love to her now. I need to go to Paris. Ah, the mountains, the forest, the land of my youth. It’s winter in France, where are my pants? Don Chi Chi del Pinnochi comes into my room, says you must try this woman, please, yes, I will try this woman, serve her to me like a side of Argentinean beef on a silver platter. She is magnificent, like no other, we both take her, we both agree, like no other we say – then we lose her in a taxicab. Oh, I’m an ambassador to Guam. There is a woman there that wants me, I know this, her beauty is like the poem I published in my book Pedacitos Poéticos Squirmy. Franco, what pain he cause his country. Where’s my ambassador salary? Look it’s Gandhi! The Fascists are in Germany. Are we there yet? She wants me, yes, yes she does. I Think I married her, we lived together for years. I was not at the consulate in Buenos Aires long. Barcelona. Oh, the poets, the poets…”
Maybe it’s the translation. You can blame a lot on those insufferable translators. Yet what could anyone do with a couple of lines like this: “Girls of various colorings visited my campaign cot, leaving no record but the lightning spasm of the flesh. My body was a lonely bonfire burning night and day on that tropical coast.” (page 99)
Ouch! Ick! Smoking sex machine, eh? Pablo just never stops, he’s sort of full of himself, sort of. I admire his ego, his stamina, his gall - although I had to fight the urge to take a shower between chapters – but I got tired of it really, really quick. That and the incessant name-dropping, the obscure references to published work, his and others, and the words. Too many words, man. Too many words.
There is one scene/passage, it starts right after that horrid “lonely bonfire burning night and day on the tropical coast” line (middle of page 99 – 100). Where Pablo beds/forces a Tamil woman, who cleans out his shit pail every morning, to have sex with him. He goes on about her beauty, he compares her to a sculpture, and when they have sex he states: “It was the coming together of a man and a statue.” Ooooh, nice. Then he writes: “She kept her eyes wide open all the while, completely unresponsive. She was right to despise me. The experience was never repeated.”
Right when I was about to toss the book across the room, for the fifth time I might add, Neruda goes and lets me see that he knows he’s a womanizing self centered egomaniac. She’s stiff as a statue, unresponsive to his machismo, submissive, because she was born into the pariah caste. She let him have his way, but she isn’t into it or him. Even Pablo, or Pablo’s ego actually, can grasp that she’s not interested. I know, no big revelation here, except, for a second I’m thinking maybe old Pablo really didn’t hold himself in such high regard as it appears he did – that it’s all mainly bravado, and he knows it.
Then I threw the book across the room.
However:
“placid lakes, high up in the mountains, like eyes forgotten by wasteful gods.” (pg.155)
Is such a lethargically beautiful image.
“it was easier to pull a Mexican’s tooth then wrest his beloved gun from him.” (pg.157)
This guy kills me.
Yet I totally must admit the style, the language, and the pace, of the book is what really drove me insane. The truth is these days I want a little methamphetamine drive prose, just a little – too much and I’m shot to the curb, rubbing my eyes, wanting to go to sleep. David Sedaris, has just the right amount of ADD to keep the pace flowing and my interest engaged. Denis Johnson can get vague and wander a little bit. Ok, a lot. But when I’m reading one of his books I’m not looking at the map trying to figure out where he turned left and somehow we ended up in Winnemucca – he pointed me in that direction a long time ago, we’ve just made a few hundred stops along the way. Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s incredible memoir: Vivir Para Contarla (Living to Tell the Tale), while highly poetic and prose driven, managed to get me from point A to point B, in one smooth linear motion. And Marquez, sexist as he was/is, didn’t leave me with a queasy porno booth voyeur feeling – and besides, he’s freakin Gabriel Garcia Marquez, 100 years of Solitude man! Mary Karr composed the most beautiful dysfunctional memoir ever written and when I was done I wanted more, read Cherry, still wanted more – addictive she is.
I had no preconceived notion as to what to expect from Neruda, I was interested, I was intrigued, I’ve never knowingly read his poetry, but I certainly knew who he was and have nothing but respect for the man and his politics – and still I found him hard to read. Perhaps he was a tad unleashed with the prospect of just writing about himself? I mean, I know the feeling. I’m so self-absorbed that’s all I write about – me, me, bloody me! Have I gone off the subject yet? Is this Winnemucca?
Did I mention there were too many words?
“Ah, the poets, the poets. There’s Juan Carlos el Topo del Norte, one of the finest poets the world has ever known. Too bad his words were never written down and published. That woman is looking at me, she wants me, of course she wants me. I’ll make love to her now. I need to go to Paris. Ah, the mountains, the forest, the land of my youth. It’s winter in France, where are my pants? Don Chi Chi del Pinnochi comes into my room, says you must try this woman, please, yes, I will try this woman, serve her to me like a side of Argentinean beef on a silver platter. She is magnificent, like no other, we both take her, we both agree, like no other we say – then we lose her in a taxicab. Oh, I’m an ambassador to Guam. There is a woman there that wants me, I know this, her beauty is like the poem I published in my book Pedacitos Poéticos Squirmy. Franco, what pain he cause his country. Where’s my ambassador salary? Look it’s Gandhi! The Fascists are in Germany. Are we there yet? She wants me, yes, yes she does. I Think I married her, we lived together for years. I was not at the consulate in Buenos Aires long. Barcelona. Oh, the poets, the poets…”
Maybe it’s the translation. You can blame a lot on those insufferable translators. Yet what could anyone do with a couple of lines like this: “Girls of various colorings visited my campaign cot, leaving no record but the lightning spasm of the flesh. My body was a lonely bonfire burning night and day on that tropical coast.” (page 99)
Ouch! Ick! Smoking sex machine, eh? Pablo just never stops, he’s sort of full of himself, sort of. I admire his ego, his stamina, his gall - although I had to fight the urge to take a shower between chapters – but I got tired of it really, really quick. That and the incessant name-dropping, the obscure references to published work, his and others, and the words. Too many words, man. Too many words.
There is one scene/passage, it starts right after that horrid “lonely bonfire burning night and day on the tropical coast” line (middle of page 99 – 100). Where Pablo beds/forces a Tamil woman, who cleans out his shit pail every morning, to have sex with him. He goes on about her beauty, he compares her to a sculpture, and when they have sex he states: “It was the coming together of a man and a statue.” Ooooh, nice. Then he writes: “She kept her eyes wide open all the while, completely unresponsive. She was right to despise me. The experience was never repeated.”
Right when I was about to toss the book across the room, for the fifth time I might add, Neruda goes and lets me see that he knows he’s a womanizing self centered egomaniac. She’s stiff as a statue, unresponsive to his machismo, submissive, because she was born into the pariah caste. She let him have his way, but she isn’t into it or him. Even Pablo, or Pablo’s ego actually, can grasp that she’s not interested. I know, no big revelation here, except, for a second I’m thinking maybe old Pablo really didn’t hold himself in such high regard as it appears he did – that it’s all mainly bravado, and he knows it.
Then I threw the book across the room.
However:
“placid lakes, high up in the mountains, like eyes forgotten by wasteful gods.” (pg.155)
Is such a lethargically beautiful image.
“it was easier to pull a Mexican’s tooth then wrest his beloved gun from him.” (pg.157)
This guy kills me.
Yet I totally must admit the style, the language, and the pace, of the book is what really drove me insane. The truth is these days I want a little methamphetamine drive prose, just a little – too much and I’m shot to the curb, rubbing my eyes, wanting to go to sleep. David Sedaris, has just the right amount of ADD to keep the pace flowing and my interest engaged. Denis Johnson can get vague and wander a little bit. Ok, a lot. But when I’m reading one of his books I’m not looking at the map trying to figure out where he turned left and somehow we ended up in Winnemucca – he pointed me in that direction a long time ago, we’ve just made a few hundred stops along the way. Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s incredible memoir: Vivir Para Contarla (Living to Tell the Tale), while highly poetic and prose driven, managed to get me from point A to point B, in one smooth linear motion. And Marquez, sexist as he was/is, didn’t leave me with a queasy porno booth voyeur feeling – and besides, he’s freakin Gabriel Garcia Marquez, 100 years of Solitude man! Mary Karr composed the most beautiful dysfunctional memoir ever written and when I was done I wanted more, read Cherry, still wanted more – addictive she is.
I had no preconceived notion as to what to expect from Neruda, I was interested, I was intrigued, I’ve never knowingly read his poetry, but I certainly knew who he was and have nothing but respect for the man and his politics – and still I found him hard to read. Perhaps he was a tad unleashed with the prospect of just writing about himself? I mean, I know the feeling. I’m so self-absorbed that’s all I write about – me, me, bloody me! Have I gone off the subject yet? Is this Winnemucca?
Did I mention there were too many words?
February 13, 2024
Impresionanta calatorie prin lume si istorie, alaturi de o multitudine de personalitati. A fost interesant sa vad evenimentele prin ochii autorului.
,,Am strans acasa jucarii mari si mici, fara de care nu puteam trai. Copilul care nu se joaca nu e copil, dar adultul care nu se joaca si-a pierdut pe veci inocenta care-i va lipsi enorm."
,,Trec anii. Imbatranesti, infloresti, suferi si te bucuri. Anii iti daruiesc si iti risipesc viata.[...]
Cei care se duc cand te afli departe de ei parca mor mai putin, continuand sa traiasca in noi, vii."
,,Am strans acasa jucarii mari si mici, fara de care nu puteam trai. Copilul care nu se joaca nu e copil, dar adultul care nu se joaca si-a pierdut pe veci inocenta care-i va lipsi enorm."
,,Trec anii. Imbatranesti, infloresti, suferi si te bucuri. Anii iti daruiesc si iti risipesc viata.[...]
Cei care se duc cand te afli departe de ei parca mor mai putin, continuand sa traiasca in noi, vii."
May 25, 2020
Ovo nije vek pesnika, ni u kom pogledu, taman onoliko koliko prošli jeste bio. Surovost ratova, dinamiku promena, vetrove revolucuje, vulkane emocija, mnogo bolje je hvatala vrhunska poezija. I pesnici behu državnici koliko i buntovnici, revolucionari koliko i ambasadori. Sve se to vidi u memoarima čileanskog nobelovca.
Neverovatno je pak, kako je Neruda uspeo da fantastično bogat i dinamičan, neretko i dinamitan život kakav je vodio, upakuje u ovako nenametljiv prozni rukopis. On leti preko događaja, ne osvrćući se ni za jednim, iako bi o mnogima mogle stasati vrhunske knjige, on ih ostavlja iza sebe, galopirajući napred, i tek tu i tamo zastajkujući da na duže od nekoliko strana dozvoli retkima od njih da se bar na trenutak razmahnu. Tako tipična poetska duša, autentično razbarušena, nemarna, neuhvatljiva i zapravo lenja.
Putopisni spis, od Singapura, Cejlona, Buenos Ajresa, Pekinga, Jerevana, Pariza, i večnog povratka u domovinu bez koje se ne može. Latinoamerička strast za južnim kontinentom. Levičarski zanosi mladosti pretočeni u crvenu kolotečinu birokratije iza toga, Nobel u rukama, i obilje detalja od kojih zasuze oči, poput opisa gradova, preko recitovanja radnicima do ode Aljendeu.
Nesumnjivo važna knjiga, mada prozno zaključana i oivičena ispresecanim mislima pesnika.
Ovo dakle nije vek poezije, i zato će njega tačnije i preciznije opisati Knausgor čiji život je beskonačno dosadan u poređenju sa Nerudinim, ali ga ovaj nepogrešivo hvata, crta i daje mu dozu proznog savršenstva koju Neruda nije ni pokušao da dotakne, ma ni da omiriše. I zato ne čitajte ovu knjigu odmah nakon Moje borbe recimo, to je topao i prijateljski savet.
Neverovatno je pak, kako je Neruda uspeo da fantastično bogat i dinamičan, neretko i dinamitan život kakav je vodio, upakuje u ovako nenametljiv prozni rukopis. On leti preko događaja, ne osvrćući se ni za jednim, iako bi o mnogima mogle stasati vrhunske knjige, on ih ostavlja iza sebe, galopirajući napred, i tek tu i tamo zastajkujući da na duže od nekoliko strana dozvoli retkima od njih da se bar na trenutak razmahnu. Tako tipična poetska duša, autentično razbarušena, nemarna, neuhvatljiva i zapravo lenja.
Putopisni spis, od Singapura, Cejlona, Buenos Ajresa, Pekinga, Jerevana, Pariza, i večnog povratka u domovinu bez koje se ne može. Latinoamerička strast za južnim kontinentom. Levičarski zanosi mladosti pretočeni u crvenu kolotečinu birokratije iza toga, Nobel u rukama, i obilje detalja od kojih zasuze oči, poput opisa gradova, preko recitovanja radnicima do ode Aljendeu.
Nesumnjivo važna knjiga, mada prozno zaključana i oivičena ispresecanim mislima pesnika.
Ovo dakle nije vek poezije, i zato će njega tačnije i preciznije opisati Knausgor čiji život je beskonačno dosadan u poređenju sa Nerudinim, ali ga ovaj nepogrešivo hvata, crta i daje mu dozu proznog savršenstva koju Neruda nije ni pokušao da dotakne, ma ni da omiriše. I zato ne čitajte ovu knjigu odmah nakon Moje borbe recimo, to je topao i prijateljski savet.
April 30, 2020
Una "confesión" emotiva y magistral. Neruda evoca sus recuerdos más queridos, sus amores (por sus mujeres, por su Chile, por España) y amistades (Federico García Lorca, Miguel Hernández, Alberti, entre muchísmos otros) sus decepciones y frustraciones, la historia del nacimiento de sus obras mas conocidas (Crepusculario, Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada, entre ellos) con su excepcional talento narrativo y su estilo sencillo y placentero.
Un lujo.
Un lujo.
January 3, 2019
Appunto volato qui da non so dove
Postuma esce l’autobiografia Confesso che ho vissuto (1974), dalla quale emerge trombone quant’altri mai (giustamente Bolaño la definisce «deprecabile»).
Postuma esce l’autobiografia Confesso che ho vissuto (1974), dalla quale emerge trombone quant’altri mai (giustamente Bolaño la definisce «deprecabile»).
March 25, 2020
Excelente libro. Qué manera más entretenida y poética de escribir sobre la vida.
April 28, 2020
كتب بابلو هذه المذكرات في سنته الأخيرة بعد انتهاء رحلة طويلة ممتلئة بالسياسة و التاريخ و الشِعر و الأصدقاء و شعبه الذي أحبه كثيرا شعب تشيلي العظيم الذي أحببته و أحببت شعوب أمريكا الجنوبية بصفة عامة وجدت فيهم قواسم مشتركة معنا نحن العرب نفس الظروف و الحالة السياسية و الاجتماعية و الطبائع الإنسانية من طريقة عيش و كرم و فوضوية جميلة و نخوة فمثلاً قبل أشهر لم أستطع أن أُخفي حماسي و اعجابي بمافيا تجارة المخدرات المكسيكية بعيداً عن نشاطهم عندما استنفروا لإنقاذ ابن ال تشابو من الاعتقال و لم يخيبوا أملي بهم فمع أحداث أزمة كورونا شهدنا ابنة ال تشابو وهي توزع المساعدات على الفقراء و أكثر من مافيا عالمية تبرعت من أجل شعبها بمبالغ هائلة في حين أن بعض تجار إحدى الدول العربية الذين استثماراتهم الداخلية و الخارجية تقدر بملايين الدولارات قد طالبوا حكوماتهم بتعويضات نتيجة للخسائر التي طالت
ثرواتهم متأثرة بالأزمة فمن المافيا الحقيقية !؟
نعود لبابلو تحدث عن طفولته الريفية ، قصيدته الأولى التي لم يلقي والده لها بالاً ، ديوانه الأول الذي طبعه بعد أن باع أغراضه الشخصية و خرج من المطبعة بحذاء مهترئ و فرحة مجنونة لم يعش بعدها فرحة مثلها .. حتى جائرة نوبل للآداب التي حصل عليها عام 1971
عمل كقنصل سنين طويلة في دول كثيرة منها دول شرق آسيا و الهند أبان الاستعمار البريطاني فيقول " إن الشرق أثّر في نفسي كونه أسرة إنسانية كبيرة تعيسه "
عاش كشيوعي مناضل من أجل بلاده و شعب تشيلي و شعوب الأرض كافة كما يقول ، يحمل حلم جميل و أمل في مستقبل أفضل التقى الكثير من السياسيين غاندي ، نهرو ، ستالين ، جيفارا و غيرهم
الكثير من الصداقات و الشعراء و الأدباء الذين أحبهم أشهرهم لوركا و ناظم و حكمت مستسهب في الحديث عن كل أديب و ذكرياته معهم مقدراً و مفتخر بصداقتهم
عانى من أجل مواقفه و آرائه السياسية من حكومة بلاده فظل مطارداً لأكثر من سنة و نصف من شرطة بلاده و كان خلالها ينتقل من قرية لقرية و من مدينة لمدينة بمساعدة شعب تشيلي الذين استضافوه في بيوتهم إلى أن استطاع الهرب أخيرا للأرجنتين كانت شعبيته كبيرة و تاريخه مشرف ..
كأي مناضل و انسان خدم وطنه و أهله يستحق لفته جميلة كأن يحمل شارع في بلاده اسمه مثلاً هذا ما كان سيحدث فقد قررت حكومة تشيلي عام2011 أن يحمل مطار العاصمة اسمه لكن لاقى هذا القرار رفضاً شعبياً من النسويات مبررات ذلك باغتصابه لفتاة سيرلانكية خدمته عندما كان قنصلاً شاب هناك " الفيمنست " التي بداخلي أبهجها هذا الرفض لكن الغريب أن بابلو ذكر هذه الحادثة بتفاصيلها في مذكراته فالفتاة المسكينة لم تقاوم أو ترفض إلا بنظراتها المزدرئه له ربما نتيجة للفقر ، للجهل ، للتربية و المجتمع فكيف تواجه رجل أمريكي و دبلوماسي أيضاً لكنه كان نادماً فيقول " لقد أحسنت صنعاً باحتقاري و ازدرائي " لا أستطيع إلا أن اسقط هذه الحادثة على عالمنا العربي فكم ممن سرقوا و خانوا على مرأى من الجميع يبرأون و ينالون التكريم و إن سقطوا و لم يجدوا ما يلمع صورتهم و ينقذهم أسكتوك بقول " ارحموا عزيز قوم ذل "
عاش نيرودا حقاً و أنا عشت أيام جميلة من خلال مذكراته و آمنت بقوة الشِعر و الكلمة الحرة
" إن الشعر لهو دوماً فعل سلم ، إن الشاعر يولد من السلام كما يولد الخبز من الدقيق "
" أنا أمضي أعمل بالمواد التي أملك و التي هي أنا ، إني ألتهم كل شيء المشاعر ، المخلوقات ، الكتب ، الأحداث ، المعارك لو استطعت لأكلت الأرض كلها و لشربت البحر جميعه "
" ما زلت اعتقد في إمكانية الحب ، لدي يقين بأن التفاهم بين البشر سيتم على الرغم من الآلام و من الدم و من الزجاج المهشم "
ثرواتهم متأثرة بالأزمة فمن المافيا الحقيقية !؟
نعود لبابلو تحدث عن طفولته الريفية ، قصيدته الأولى التي لم يلقي والده لها بالاً ، ديوانه الأول الذي طبعه بعد أن باع أغراضه الشخصية و خرج من المطبعة بحذاء مهترئ و فرحة مجنونة لم يعش بعدها فرحة مثلها .. حتى جائرة نوبل للآداب التي حصل عليها عام 1971
عمل كقنصل سنين طويلة في دول كثيرة منها دول شرق آسيا و الهند أبان الاستعمار البريطاني فيقول " إن الشرق أثّر في نفسي كونه أسرة إنسانية كبيرة تعيسه "
عاش كشيوعي مناضل من أجل بلاده و شعب تشيلي و شعوب الأرض كافة كما يقول ، يحمل حلم جميل و أمل في مستقبل أفضل التقى الكثير من السياسيين غاندي ، نهرو ، ستالين ، جيفارا و غيرهم
الكثير من الصداقات و الشعراء و الأدباء الذين أحبهم أشهرهم لوركا و ناظم و حكمت مستسهب في الحديث عن كل أديب و ذكرياته معهم مقدراً و مفتخر بصداقتهم
عانى من أجل مواقفه و آرائه السياسية من حكومة بلاده فظل مطارداً لأكثر من سنة و نصف من شرطة بلاده و كان خلالها ينتقل من قرية لقرية و من مدينة لمدينة بمساعدة شعب تشيلي الذين استضافوه في بيوتهم إلى أن استطاع الهرب أخيرا للأرجنتين كانت شعبيته كبيرة و تاريخه مشرف ..
كأي مناضل و انسان خدم وطنه و أهله يستحق لفته جميلة كأن يحمل شارع في بلاده اسمه مثلاً هذا ما كان سيحدث فقد قررت حكومة تشيلي عام2011 أن يحمل مطار العاصمة اسمه لكن لاقى هذا القرار رفضاً شعبياً من النسويات مبررات ذلك باغتصابه لفتاة سيرلانكية خدمته عندما كان قنصلاً شاب هناك " الفيمنست " التي بداخلي أبهجها هذا الرفض لكن الغريب أن بابلو ذكر هذه الحادثة بتفاصيلها في مذكراته فالفتاة المسكينة لم تقاوم أو ترفض إلا بنظراتها المزدرئه له ربما نتيجة للفقر ، للجهل ، للتربية و المجتمع فكيف تواجه رجل أمريكي و دبلوماسي أيضاً لكنه كان نادماً فيقول " لقد أحسنت صنعاً باحتقاري و ازدرائي " لا أستطيع إلا أن اسقط هذه الحادثة على عالمنا العربي فكم ممن سرقوا و خانوا على مرأى من الجميع يبرأون و ينالون التكريم و إن سقطوا و لم يجدوا ما يلمع صورتهم و ينقذهم أسكتوك بقول " ارحموا عزيز قوم ذل "
عاش نيرودا حقاً و أنا عشت أيام جميلة من خلال مذكراته و آمنت بقوة الشِعر و الكلمة الحرة
" إن الشعر لهو دوماً فعل سلم ، إن الشاعر يولد من السلام كما يولد الخبز من الدقيق "
" أنا أمضي أعمل بالمواد التي أملك و التي هي أنا ، إني ألتهم كل شيء المشاعر ، المخلوقات ، الكتب ، الأحداث ، المعارك لو استطعت لأكلت الأرض كلها و لشربت البحر جميعه "
" ما زلت اعتقد في إمكانية الحب ، لدي يقين بأن التفاهم بين البشر سيتم على الرغم من الآلام و من الدم و من الزجاج المهشم "
July 15, 2017
Pablo Neruda. Grande poeta chileno. Vencedor do Prémio Nobel de 1971. Cônsul do Chile e mais tarde embaixador. Grande amigo de Jorge Amado. Um homem cheio de cultura e experiência. Político comunista... Marido apaixonado.... Poeta excomungado.
Nesta obra, Pablo Neruda escreve as suas memórias. Um conjunto de cadernos em que dialoga todos os assuntos. Da sua poesia, das suas viagens, da sua ingressão da política, das suas relações internacionais... e da vida.
Era necessário uma vida inteira para escrever sobre o poeta chileno. Tanto já se falou e escreveu sobre ele. As palavras que faltam... Apenas posso afirmar que sou grande admiradora da sua poesia, que conheci nas minhas aulas de português no 3 ciclo.
Nesta obra, Pablo Neruda escreve as suas memórias. Um conjunto de cadernos em que dialoga todos os assuntos. Da sua poesia, das suas viagens, da sua ingressão da política, das suas relações internacionais... e da vida.
Era necessário uma vida inteira para escrever sobre o poeta chileno. Tanto já se falou e escreveu sobre ele. As palavras que faltam... Apenas posso afirmar que sou grande admiradora da sua poesia, que conheci nas minhas aulas de português no 3 ciclo.
January 6, 2022
Ugh, reading this in 2019: rape scene, racism, large sections of prose lauding great male writers and maybe one or two lines, maybe a single passage to his mentor Gabriela Mistral. Other women are sex objects, sex scenes, wives, or considered pathetic. For some strange reason, I did read through this book, perhaps fascinated by the politics of it all. But a large majority of it was abhorrent.
March 30, 2025
Je me suis rarement aussi investi dans une autobiographie/mémoires. La vie du poète est si riche est empreinte du siècle dernière qu'on a l'impression de lire un roman. On peine à croire tout ce qu'il a vécu.
La langue est magnifique, il y a des fulgurances, des chapitres entiers que l'on voudrait lire et relire. On voyage à travers toute la planète et 50 ns d'histoire. On est au plus près des bouleversements politiques, des grandes idées, du Parti Communiste (dans de nombreux pays).
C'est une leçon d'histoire, de poésie et de littérature.
Mais voilà, Neruda aime bien se mettre en scène, il se répète souvent, et il en oublie les femmes : quelques mentions de Mathilde, quasiment aucune de sa première femme et rien sur sa fille handicapée et abandonnée. Concernant les femmes, il expedie en quelques phrases un vi*l qu'il a commis dans sa vingtaine lors de ses missions diplomatiques en Asie. C'est un peu court jeune homme.
J'aurai adoré encore plus aimer mais c'était déjà très bien. Jamais j'aurai pensé lire 500 pages de mémoires sur un poète tout en prenant autant de plaisir.
La langue est magnifique, il y a des fulgurances, des chapitres entiers que l'on voudrait lire et relire. On voyage à travers toute la planète et 50 ns d'histoire. On est au plus près des bouleversements politiques, des grandes idées, du Parti Communiste (dans de nombreux pays).
C'est une leçon d'histoire, de poésie et de littérature.
Mais voilà, Neruda aime bien se mettre en scène, il se répète souvent, et il en oublie les femmes : quelques mentions de Mathilde, quasiment aucune de sa première femme et rien sur sa fille handicapée et abandonnée. Concernant les femmes, il expedie en quelques phrases un vi*l qu'il a commis dans sa vingtaine lors de ses missions diplomatiques en Asie. C'est un peu court jeune homme.
J'aurai adoré encore plus aimer mais c'était déjà très bien. Jamais j'aurai pensé lire 500 pages de mémoires sur un poète tout en prenant autant de plaisir.
September 12, 2014
سيرةٌ كنتُ أتهيبُ الولوجَ بعالمِها خوفًا من ضخامتِها، ولم أكنْ أعلمُ حينها أنَّ ضخامتَ��ا هو سرُّ جمالِها وروعتِها.
نيرودا في رحلةِ حياتِه، رحلةِ الزمانِ والمكانِ، رحلةِ تقلباتِ الشعرِ وتطورِه، وتقلباتِ توجهِه السياسي، من الهندِ وسيلان لإسبانيا وباريس، إلى المكسيكِ ورحلةِ النفي عبرَ جبال تشيلي والارجنتين هربا وفَرقًا من اضطهادِ النظامِ. حياةٌ مليئةٌ إلى حدِّ التُخمةِ، مليئةٌ بعذوبةِ الشعرِ، برفقاءِ الحياةِ، في كل بلدٍ يحلُّ بهِ يكسبُ شبكةً من الخلانِ، سيكونون عونًا له في أوقاتٍ، ومصدرَ شؤم في أخرى، في كل هذا تكمنُ حياةُ نيرودا
الأسماءُ تحتل مكانةً غيرَ طبيعيةٍ في فلسفةِ نيرودا، ينظرُ إلى ما ورائِها، يتمتعُ، يتلذذُ بذكرِها، لها طقوسُها الخاصةُ معهُ.
من أجملِ الكتب ِالتي قرأتُها؛ فهي موسيقى ترنُّ بكلِ جملةٍ فيها.
نيرودا في رحلةِ حياتِه، رحلةِ الزمانِ والمكانِ، رحلةِ تقلباتِ الشعرِ وتطورِه، وتقلباتِ توجهِه السياسي، من الهندِ وسيلان لإسبانيا وباريس، إلى المكسيكِ ورحلةِ النفي عبرَ جبال تشيلي والارجنتين هربا وفَرقًا من اضطهادِ النظامِ. حياةٌ مليئةٌ إلى حدِّ التُخمةِ، مليئةٌ بعذوبةِ الشعرِ، برفقاءِ الحياةِ، في كل بلدٍ يحلُّ بهِ يكسبُ شبكةً من الخلانِ، سيكونون عونًا له في أوقاتٍ، ومصدرَ شؤم في أخرى، في كل هذا تكمنُ حياةُ نيرودا
الأسماءُ تحتل مكانةً غيرَ طبيعيةٍ في فلسفةِ نيرودا، ينظرُ إلى ما ورائِها، يتمتعُ، يتلذذُ بذكرِها، لها طقوسُها الخاصةُ معهُ.
من أجملِ الكتب ِالتي قرأتُها؛ فهي موسيقى ترنُّ بكلِ جملةٍ فيها.
September 5, 2024
'My poetry and my life have advanced like an American river, a torrent of Chilean water born in the hidden heart of the southern mountains, endlessly steering the flow of its currents towards the sea. My poetry rejected nothing it could carry along in its course; it accepted passion, unraveled mystery, and worked its way into the hearts of the people.
I had to suffer and struggle, to love and sing; I drew my worldly share of triumphs and defeats, I tasted bread and blood. What more can a poet want? All the choices, tears or kisses, loneliness or the fraternity of man, survive in my poetry and my poetry has nourished everything I have striven for. And if I have received many awards, awards fleeting as butterflies, fragile as pollen, I have attained a greater prize, one that some people may deride but many can attain. I have gone through a difficult apprenticeship and a long search, to become the poet of my people.'
November 24, 2024
فاز بنوبل وترشح لرئاسة بلاده ثم فر منها لاحقاً في رحلة جبلية وعرة.
مذكرات نجوب فيها العالم مع الشاعر التشيلي بابلو نيرودا وهو يتنقل من بلد إلى بلد ومن حال إلى حال.
أخلص نيردوا للشعر، وللشيوعية ولوطنه، وعاش حياة صاخبة زاخرة بالأحداث.
عاصر الكثير من الأحداث العالمية مثل الثورة الهندية والحرب الأهلية الإسبانية واحتلال النازية لفرنسا والانقلاب العسكري في تشيلي، كما التقى الكثير من رموز الفكر والأدب والسياسة في رحلاته.
مذكرات ممتعة تروي لنا الكثير عن الشاعر العالمي، عن نشأته وكهولته، عن أصدقاءه وأعداءه وعن الحقبة التي عاشها قبل أن يغادر عالمنا في ظروف غامضة.
مذكرات نجوب فيها العالم مع الشاعر التشيلي بابلو نيرودا وهو يتنقل من بلد إلى بلد ومن حال إلى حال.
أخلص نيردوا للشعر، وللشيوعية ولوطنه، وعاش حياة صاخبة زاخرة بالأحداث.
عاصر الكثير من الأحداث العالمية مثل الثورة الهندية والحرب الأهلية الإسبانية واحتلال النازية لفرنسا والانقلاب العسكري في تشيلي، كما التقى الكثير من رموز الفكر والأدب والسياسة في رحلاته.
مذكرات ممتعة تروي لنا الكثير عن الشاعر العالمي، عن نشأته وكهولته، عن أصدقاءه وأعداءه وعن الحقبة التي عاشها قبل أن يغادر عالمنا في ظروف غامضة.
July 24, 2020
L’édition Folio bilingue de « J’avoue que j’ai vécu » est la première partie des mémoires du poète chilien Pablo Neruda « Confieso que he vivido ». Cette partie présente sa jeunesse jusqu’à ce qu’il soit nommé comme consul à Rangoon au Myanmar. Le texte original et la traduction en français se présentent sur des doubles-pages ce qui rend la lecture facile et agréable. Cette édition bilingue est très réussie et j’ai hâte de découvrir leurs autres ouvrages bilingues traduits de l’espagnol.
La première partie des mémoires de Neruda est à la fois émouvante, poétique et espiègle. Les descriptions de la nature chilienne et de Valparaiso sont les plus poétiques mais aussi les plus difficiles à comprendre en espagnol. J’ai beaucoup aimé aussi la manière rêveuse dont il raconte certains de ces souvenirs les plus insolites comme sa rencontre avec trois soeurs françaises un peu énigmatiques dans une maison au milieu de nulle part ou ses rencontres singulières à Santiago ou Valparaiso.
Dommage qu’il n’existe pas à ce jour de suite à cette édition Folio bilingue pour découvrir le reste des mémoires de Neruda.
La première partie des mémoires de Neruda est à la fois émouvante, poétique et espiègle. Les descriptions de la nature chilienne et de Valparaiso sont les plus poétiques mais aussi les plus difficiles à comprendre en espagnol. J’ai beaucoup aimé aussi la manière rêveuse dont il raconte certains de ces souvenirs les plus insolites comme sa rencontre avec trois soeurs françaises un peu énigmatiques dans une maison au milieu de nulle part ou ses rencontres singulières à Santiago ou Valparaiso.
Dommage qu’il n’existe pas à ce jour de suite à cette édition Folio bilingue pour découvrir le reste des mémoires de Neruda.
January 22, 2021
„Poezia mea nu a respins nimic din tot ceea ce îi putea îmbogăți debitul. A inclus pasiunea și a cultivat misterul, și-a croit drum în inima poporului. Am fost sortit să sufăr și să lupt, să iubesc și să cânt. Pe lumea asta mi-au fost sortite victoria și înfrângerea, am încercat gustul pâinii și al sângelui. Ce altceva își mai putea dori un poet?"
Ce frumos sună: „Mărturisesc că am trăit", e o pledoarie închinată frumuseții vieții. Și când mă gândesc că Pablo Neruda este un scriitor aproape anonim, deși este un poet laureat al Premiului Nobel pentru Literatură, o figură marcantă a sec XX. Pentru cei care scriu 2 poezii și se cred poeți...citiți-l pe Pablo Neruda!
Ce frumos sună: „Mărturisesc că am trăit", e o pledoarie închinată frumuseții vieții. Și când mă gândesc că Pablo Neruda este un scriitor aproape anonim, deși este un poet laureat al Premiului Nobel pentru Literatură, o figură marcantă a sec XX. Pentru cei care scriu 2 poezii și se cred poeți...citiți-l pe Pablo Neruda!
January 23, 2020
Qué arrogante hay que ser para escribir semejante autobiografía. Dejé de leerlo cuando llegué al momento en el que admitió que es un violador.
July 28, 2024
confieso que he vi*lado
(el libro en líneas generales está genial. Pero el tío es un abus*dor y no pienso darle más puntuación)
(el libro en líneas generales está genial. Pero el tío es un abus*dor y no pienso darle más puntuación)
April 20, 2020
چلی کا پرسکون مہکتا ہوا گھنا جنگل آج بھی اپنی تمام تر شادابی سمیت میری یادوں میں لہلہاتا ہے
بارش میرے لئے ایک نا قابل فراموش حقیقت کا درجہ رکھتی ہے
میں نے پہلی بار اپنی آنکھیں زندگی، زمین، شاعری اور بارش کے لئے کھولیں
میرا گھر ان سرحدی مکانوں جیسا تھا جو سب آپس میں مربوط تھے
گھر میں ہمارے پاس ایک صندوق تھا جو دلچسپ چیزوں سے بھرا ہوا تھا
مجھے کتابوں سے رغبت ہو گئی
بچپن کی یادوں میں صحیح طور پر وقت کا تعین نہیں کیا جا سکتا
بچپن میں ایک شدید جذبہ مجھ میں پیدا ہوا اور میں نے کچھ الفاظ آدھے وزن میں ترتیب دیے
یہ ایک نظم تھی، اپنی سوتیلی ماں کے بارے میں
میرے استاد نے کچھ ٹالسٹای، دوستوفسکی اور چیخوف کے ناول دیے
بحر الکاہل آزاد ہو کر پہاڑوں کی چٹانوں پر موجود جھاڑیوں کے جھنڈ میں سے بار بار حملہ آور ہوتا
رات اور جنگل مجھے خوشی سے بے حال کر دیتی
شاید جنگل ان زندگیوں کو کھا گیا
اداس عورتیں نے دنیا کے تنہا پہاڑوں اور جنگل کی تنہائی میں ایک عمدہ ثقافت کو محفوظ رکھا
درخشاں سورج ایک نا تراشیدہ ہیرے کے مانند پہاڑوں کو جھلملاتا تھا
اس سنہری تہوار میں شورو غل اور حرکت و عمل تھا
اسکی مسکراہٹ میرے وجود کی گرہیں کھولتی اطراف و اکناف پر محیط ہو رہی تھی
اس کی سانسوں کی موسیقی میری سماعت میں رس گھولنے لگی
میرا دماغ کتابوں اور خوابوں سے معمور تھا
نظمیں شہد کی مکھیوں کی طرح میرے ارد گرد بھنبھناتی تھیں
میں اپنی آزادی اور تنہائی سمیت وہاں رہنے لگا
میری یادوں میں وہ ریل گاڑی ہمیشہ محفوظ رہے گی
ہم روشنی کے دوازوں کی طرف بڑھ رہے تھے
کثیر تعداد کے ہیجان خیز رنگوں کا اجتماع
درخشاں تنہائی
صوفیانہ طرز حیات کا اظہار ختم ہو گیا تھا
میں دنیا کی اس قدیم ترین روح اور اس بڑے بد نصیب انسانی خاندان کے ساتھ رہنے آیا تھا
تب وہ رات مجھے بہت طوفانی اور زمین بہت تنہا لگی
بارش میرے لئے ایک نا قابل فراموش حقیقت کا درجہ رکھتی ہے
میں نے پہلی بار اپنی آنکھیں زندگی، زمین، شاعری اور بارش کے لئے کھولیں
میرا گھر ان سرحدی مکانوں جیسا تھا جو سب آپس میں مربوط تھے
گھر میں ہمارے پاس ایک صندوق تھا جو دلچسپ چیزوں سے بھرا ہوا تھا
مجھے کتابوں سے رغبت ہو گئی
بچپن کی یادوں میں صحیح طور پر وقت کا تعین نہیں کیا جا سکتا
بچپن میں ایک شدید جذبہ مجھ میں پیدا ہوا اور میں نے کچھ الفاظ آدھے وزن میں ترتیب دیے
یہ ایک نظم تھی، اپنی سوتیلی ماں کے بارے میں
میرے استاد نے کچھ ٹالسٹای، دوستوفسکی اور چیخوف کے ناول دیے
بحر الکاہل آزاد ہو کر پہاڑوں کی چٹانوں پر موجود جھاڑیوں کے جھنڈ میں سے بار بار حملہ آور ہوتا
رات اور جنگل مجھے خوشی سے بے حال کر دیتی
شاید جنگل ان زندگیوں کو کھا گیا
اداس عورتیں نے دنیا کے تنہا پہاڑوں اور جنگل کی تنہائی میں ایک عمدہ ثقافت کو محفوظ رکھا
درخشاں سورج ایک نا تراشیدہ ہیرے کے مانند پہاڑوں کو جھلملاتا تھا
اس سنہری تہوار میں شورو غل اور حرکت و عمل تھا
اسکی مسکراہٹ میرے وجود کی گرہیں کھولتی اطراف و اکناف پر محیط ہو رہی تھی
اس کی سانسوں کی موسیقی میری سماعت میں رس گھولنے لگی
میرا دماغ کتابوں اور خوابوں سے معمور تھا
نظمیں شہد کی مکھیوں کی طرح میرے ارد گرد بھنبھناتی تھیں
میں اپنی آزادی اور تنہائی سمیت وہاں رہنے لگا
میری یادوں میں وہ ریل گاڑی ہمیشہ محفوظ رہے گی
ہم روشنی کے دوازوں کی طرف بڑھ رہے تھے
کثیر تعداد کے ہیجان خیز رنگوں کا اجتماع
درخشاں تنہائی
صوفیانہ طرز حیات کا اظہار ختم ہو گیا تھا
میں دنیا کی اس قدیم ترین روح اور اس بڑے بد نصیب انسانی خاندان کے ساتھ رہنے آیا تھا
تب وہ رات مجھے بہت طوفانی اور زمین بہت تنہا لگی
February 18, 2019
خاطرات پابلو نرودا، خاطرات شاعری است که در دورهای مبارز سیاسی بوده است، در دورهای دیگر سفیر و در دورهای نامزد ریاست جمهوری! انگار که به جای چندین تن زندگی کرده باشد، آنچنان که زندگیاش پرفراز و نشیب است.
خاطرات پابلو نرودا، به نوعی تلفیق زندگانی یک شاعر با تحولات تاریخی سطح کلان جهانی است. شاعری که جنگ اسپانیا را از نزدیک دیده است. با چهگوارا دیدار کرده، به ملاقات استالین رفته و به نفع سالوادور آلنده از نامزدی ریاست جمهوری کنار کشیده است. شاعری که کره زمین را در شب بعد از ترک معشوق سابقش، بسیار تنها مییابد.
خاطرات پابلو نرودا، تنها بیان زندگی روزمره نیست، بلکه تحول تاریخی دورهای از جهان، از نگاه یک شاعر متعهد وابسته به ایدهآلهای کمونیستی برابری و رهایی هم هست.
این کتاب، به صورت بخشهای کوتاه جدا از هم نوشته شده است. گویی که شاعر، خاطراتش را بصورتی پراکنده به یاد میآورد و آنها را با مخاطب به اشتراک میگذارد. برخی از بخشها از جذابیت بالایی برخوردار است، اما درک و جذابیت بعضی از بخشهای دیگر، مستلزم برخورداری از حداقل اطلاعاتی در مورد اشخاص و وقایعی است که نرودا درباره آنها سخن میگوید.
خاطرات پابلو نرودا، به نوعی تلفیق زندگانی یک شاعر با تحولات تاریخی سطح کلان جهانی است. شاعری که جنگ اسپانیا را از نزدیک دیده است. با چهگوارا دیدار کرده، به ملاقات استالین رفته و به نفع سالوادور آلنده از نامزدی ریاست جمهوری کنار کشیده است. شاعری که کره زمین را در شب بعد از ترک معشوق سابقش، بسیار تنها مییابد.
خاطرات پابلو نرودا، تنها بیان زندگی روزمره نیست، بلکه تحول تاریخی دورهای از جهان، از نگاه یک شاعر متعهد وابسته به ایدهآلهای کمونیستی برابری و رهایی هم هست.
این کتاب، به صورت بخشهای کوتاه جدا از هم نوشته شده است. گویی که شاعر، خاطراتش را بصورتی پراکنده به یاد میآورد و آنها را با مخاطب به اشتراک میگذارد. برخی از بخشها از جذابیت بالایی برخوردار است، اما درک و جذابیت بعضی از بخشهای دیگر، مستلزم برخورداری از حداقل اطلاعاتی در مورد اشخاص و وقایعی است که نرودا درباره آنها سخن میگوید.
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