Muchas gracias por el texto! Y por las acotaciones
Supongo que con el tiempo James se acostumbraría a la mediación del chico, pero al fin y al cabo es una persona, que rompe ese momento de intimidad y soledad que todos asociamos a la escritura contemporánea.
Acabo de terminar
The beast in the jungle.
Quiero releerlo, pero sólo el hecho leer esas últimas páginas, de impresionante belleza, y ese último párrafo...
Justamente en la novela de Toibin que citaba antes hay un momento intensísimo, que toca la tecla de
la bestia. Henry James está enseñando su casa de Rye a un joven escultor, Andersen, que conoció en Roma y por el que experimentaba una crepuscular atracción, y entran en la habitación donde suele dictar:
'This is where the tales are told', Henry said.
To the left of the entrance there was a wall of books, and when Andersen had studied the view and marvelled at the light, he walked over to inspect the books, not appearing to realize at first that all of them bore his host's name. He took down one or two and then gradually it seemed to dawn on him that this large high bookcase contained the novels and stories of Henry James in all their editions from both sides of the Atlantic. He became agitated and excited as he took volumes down and looked at the spines and the title pages.
'You have written a whole library,' he said. 'I will have to read them all.'
He turned and look at Henry.
'Did you always know that you would write all these books?'
'I know the next sentence,' Henry said, 'and often the next story and I take notes for novels.'
'But did you once plan it all? Did you not say this is what I will do with my life?'
By the time he asked the second question, Henry had turned away from him and was facing towards the window with no idea why his ayes had filled with tears.
Por cierto, leyendo
The beast in the jungle me ha venido a la cabeza de pronto...