La Carta y el Recuerdo
Esperanza Lopez Mateos - 1943
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La Carta y el Recuerdo Esperanza Lopez Mateos - 1943 |
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from <adam priest> Wed, Jun 30, 2010 at 1:08 PM Went to the library in Hamburg today. The library that it is in is a special collection that is only open for 3 hours a day. Some German guy had all these books in Mexico, then he donated them back to Hamburg, so it was like a Spanish/German library. I dont know, I kind of tuned out when the guy was telling me the history of the library. I asked the guy working there for the book. He went back to check and said it the cover of it was being repaired. He spoke pretty good English (most educated Europeans do), and he said he would check with his colleague to see if a copy could be emailed to me or something some other time since it is only 23 pages. While I was waiting, there was a guy and a girl talking in front of me in German. I heard them say Esperanza Lopez Mateos so it caught my attention. After the conversation, the lady in the conversation came up to me and asked if I was looking for that book. She told me something about it being a coincidence that I was looking for that book, because that man she was talking to was preparing to speak at a conference about Esperanza and B. Traven. I told her yes, I know she is the translator, and her friend, Henry Schnautz, was my neighbor when I was younger and that was why I was there. So when I told her that, her eyes just kept getting bigger and bigger and she introduced me to the guy, and I told him that Henry used to be my neighbor. He started telling me about how he was doing research on Esperanza and had found on the internet about Henry. Told him that was my fathers website. Then he started talking to me about all kinds of stuff pertaining to the website and things that he has read on there, I cant remember all of the vivid details, but he knew more than I did about it, so hes definitely spent some time on your website. He said he was studying B. Travens translations into Spanish, and since they were done by Esperanza, that is how he came across the website and he read lots of it because he thought it was very interesting. He said he knows a professor from Germany that teaches at Harvard, and he also said he knows some people at a Traven museum or collection somewhere in California, Riverside maybe. Anyways he says they all know about a relationship between Esperanza and Schnautz, but they all say it is a mystery. Anyways we talked for a while and he was talking about how nobody knows how Esperanza and Traven met, and Esperanzas relationship with Figuero. It was like the guy memorized your website or something. Anyways he asked when it is going to be updated with more things. Should work on that. I dont know how to make apostrophes with this keyboard. After our conversation, the woman came back with the book. I guess she went and put a cover on it or something. But three people at this tiny tiny section of the library all knew the story. They were telling me it is like a jigsaw puzzle and all that. The book is attached. The camera doesnt save photos in the exact right order. Ill send another email with the rest of the photos cause there is a limit. If theres a problem with a photo, I took two photos of every page so just tell me. Adam |
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| The letter and the memory
Esperanza López Mateos For the teacher Orozco Muñoz, respectfully Ediciones Tempestad This printing finished August 15, 1943, in the shop "FABULA". Illuminated letters and little pictures by Esperanza López Mateos. |
La carta y el recuerdo
Esperanza Lopez Mateos Para el maestro Orozco Muñoz, respetuosamente Ediciones Tempestad SE TERMINO DE IMPRIMIR ESTA PLAQUETA EL 15 DE AGOSTO DE 1943, EN LOS TALLERES "FABULA". MARQUETA Y VIÑETAS DE ESPERANZA LÓPEZ MATEOS. |
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The Letter We have the words of Sun-Yat-Sen and the memory of dry eyes, without hope, without tears, without recrimination. Children's eyes, open in the deafening darkness of the hellish port (beginning of the hellish undertaking). Hands spread in the sandy desert where it is not even possible to eat mud, because the rain, now accomplice of the pain, has fled. We have in mind the image of starving bodies, covered with sores, stinking, still shaken by lust, strongly oppressed by the reproduction instinct. But this brings some relief, the father of the small ones will be able to gnaw, next to the mother's body, the jellied arm of the dead fetus; this way they will have the strength to walk some more kilometers until their thirst is calmed by the rain of fire thrown at them from the clouds. We are in the bowels of Asia, our numb members crawl through the depths of the earth; to our underground prison never comes a ray of light and we don't hear more than our own moans. Strange insects low in the zoological order cohabit with us and they feed with us. I believe that Billy has died, cannot be sure, the body of Cheng has saturated the stench into the heavy boiling atmosphere of our well. Perhaps only it is young Cheng, but the inhuman sound that Billy made, is no longer heard. The old one is still next to me, I believed that he would die, that he could not bear it and yet he lives, not sobbing and thinking. He is part of the heart of Asia. I wish it were possible to crawl to the end where Billy is, but the pain
in the knee keeps me from all movement. Work, sow, prepare. You have thoughts and words and all your words and your thoughts reflect the purity of your heart. Fight, you will find the way. Do not confuse courage with audacity, don't put your heart in front of their machine guns unless with him you have the security of rescuing another. Speak, give your words the force of your spirit. It prints in the brain of American youth the image of great Asia in agony, of hysterical Europe relying on the African celestinaje (procuring - allusion to Tragicomedia de Calixto y Melibea) of all these millions of broken beings, bloodstained, hungry. It screams in the ear that here, in the moraine and burning Saigón perfumed with cinnamon and transformed into the most vile of the harlots in the service of the old and rotten statesmen that become cancerous to the stomach of France, in this Saigón that goes to bed with all the scoundrels of the occident, there is young that run to the encounter of death to rescue the dignity of the life. It screams in the center of their hearts that they don't leave that there, to the American youth, arrive neither of inside of neither of it was, scoundrel that convert it in harlot. (very difficult word for word translation) Billy, Billy!... He screamed, and he does not respond even with a sigh. You and Billy, you live, you cannot die. The pure men and the weak children will always find your strong arms, your sweet smile, your hearts. Billy, Billy, millions of Billies that breathe the pure air of America, listen to me! Some day maybe they will arrive to you these letters written in the darkness, next to the panting heart of Asia, close to the body of this Billy that will not return to look with his pure eyes the blue skies, the prairies, the forests of America. They will arrive to you with my faith intact. Don't stop! Saigón, 1931 |
La Carta Tenemos las palabras de Sun-Yat-Sen y el recuerdo de los ojos resecos, sin esperanzas, sin llanto, sin reproches. Ojos de niños, abiertos en las tinieblas estruendosas del puerto infernal. Manos tendidas en el arenoso desierto donde no queda ni el recurso de alimentarse con barro, porque la lluvia, ahora cómplice del dolor, ha huido. Tenemos en la mente la imagen de los cuerpos hambrientos, llagados, fétidos, sacudidos aún por la lujuria, oprimidos reciamente por el instinto de reproducción. Pero esto trae algún alivio, el padre de los pequeños podrán roer, junto al cadáver de la madre, el brazo gelatinoso del feto muerto; así tendrán fuerzas para caminar algunos kilómetros más hasta que su sed sea calmada por la lluvia de fuego que les arrojarán desde las nubes. Estamos en las entrañas de Asia, nuestros miembros entumecidos se arrastran por las profundidades de la tierra; a nuestra prisión subterránea jamás llega un rayo de luz y no escuchamos mas que nuestros propios lamentos. Raros insectos inferiores en la escala zoológica conviven con nosotros y se alimentan de nosotros. Creo que Billy ha muerto, no podría asegurarlo, el cadáver de Cheng ha saturado de fetidez la pesada atmósfera hirviente de nuestro pozo. Tal vez sólo sea el joven Cheng, pero el sonido inhumano que Billy producía, ha dejado de escucharse. El viejo aún está junto a mí, creí que moriría, que no podría soportar esto y sin embargo vive, no solloza y piensa. El es parte del corazón de Asia. Quisiera poderme arrastrar hasta el extremo en el que Billy se encuentra,
pero el dolor de la rodilla me priva de todo movimiento. Trabajen, siembren, prevengan. Tú tienes pensamientos y palabras y todas tus palabras y tus pensamientos reflejan la pureza de tu corazón. Lucha, tú encontrarás la forma. No confundas el valor con la audacia, no pongas tu corazón frente a sus ametralladoras a menos que con él tengas la seguridad de rescatar otro. Habla, da a tus palabras la fuerza de tu espíritu. Imprime en el cerebro de la juventud americana la imagen de la gran Asia en agonía, de la Europa histérica apoyándose en el celestinaje africano, de todos estos millones de seres despedazados, ensangrentados, hambrientos. Grita en sus oídos que aquí, en la morena y ardiente Saigón perfumada con canela y convertida en la más ruin de las rameras al servicio de los viejos y podridos estadistas que canceran el vientre de Francia, en esta Saigón que se acuesta con todos los truhanes de occidente, hay jóvenes que corren al encuentro de la muerte para rescatar la dignidad de la vida. Grita en el centro de sus corazones que no dejen que allá, a la joven América, lleguen ni de dentro ni de fuera, truhanes que la conviertan en ramera. ¡Billy, Billy!... Gritó, y él no responde ni con un suspiro. Tú y Billy, ustedes viven, ustedes no pueden morir. Los hombres puros y los niños débiles hallarán siempre vuestros brazos fuertes, vuestra sonrisa dulce, vuestros corazones. ¡Billy, Billy, millones de Billies que respiran el aire puro de América, escuchadme! Algún día quizá llegarán a ti estas letras escritas en las tinieblas, junto al corazón palpitante de Asia, cerca del cadáver de este Billy que no volverá a mirar con sus ojos puros los cielos azules, las praderas, las selvas de América. Llegarán a ti con mi fe intacta. ¡No te detengas! Saigón, 1931 |
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The Memory Its been many hours of our time that he is not, that he ceased to be, but in solitude and in silence, when walking through the night with arms outstretched, he is in our heart. The images, the voices, the sounds, are how then. The friend who was his destiny and the women who were his hope and his soul, walk with us. Here he is, with his extreme paleness and his sharp hands. Now we hear the voices. - Oscar, how do I look, do you see me better? Now comes María, the serious one.
The doctor didn't go that afternoon, already Mildred took the sentence on the lips (this may be an idiom like, the writing on the wall). It was necessary an operation more. He said it with simplicity, but something very fragile broke in her interior. |
El Recuerdo Hace ya muchas horas de nuestro tiempo que él no es, que él dejó de ser, pero en la soledad y en el silencio, cuando se camina a través de la noche con los brazos tendidos, él es en nuestro corazón. Las imágenes, las voces, los sonidos, son cómo entonces. El amigo que era su destino y las mujeres que fueron su esperanza y su alma, caminan con nosotros. Aquí está él, con su extrema palidez y sus manos afiladas. Ahora oímos las voces. - Oscar, ¿qué semblante tengo, me ves mejor? Ahora llega María, la grave.
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Many hours passed in which only sounded the voices of the serious woman
and the friend that now go to our side moving the lips like when they
spoke to him. The sweet woman arrives, she sticks her face to the glass of the window,
she hits them with her fists and she shouts until they hear it and they
open the door. She comes to him, he reproaches her abandonment. She only
comes to kiss the white hands. She takes them between her own and feels
that they are not the strong same hands, hunter of stars (cazadoras de
estrellas). The illness has dried them and they hang yellowish from the
thin arms. In his lips he speaks the pain. |
Pasaron muchas horas en las que sólo sonaron las voces de la mujer
grave y del amigo que ahora marchan a nuestro lado moviendo los labios
como cuando hablaban para él. Llega la mujer dulce, pega su cara a los cristales de la ventana, los
golpea con sus puños y grita hasta que la escuchan y le abren la
puerta. Llega hasta él, le reprocha su abandono. Ella viene sólo
a besar sus manos blancas. Las toma entre las suyas y siente que no son
las mismas manos fuertes, cazadoras de estrellas. El mal las ha secado
y cuelgan amarillentas de los brazos delgados. En sus labios habla el
dolor. |
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- Mildred, why have you come, do you not understand? So, she answers trying taking her lips to his hands, but it is not possible for her to overcome the horror, she has to let them go, to ask for forgiveness with drowned voice and to escape. With the sweet woman left the light.
Puerto Angel, 1942 |
- Mildred, ¿porqué has venido, no comprendes? Con la mujer dulce salió la luz. La luz del amanecer nos sorprende en la cumbre. Sobre la nieve de la montaña no quedaron las huellas de los que ascendieron con nosotros a través de la noche; las voces se han perdido y el viento arrastra la sinfonía al infinito, porque él ya no es, porque hace ya muchas horas de nuestro tiempo, que él dejó de ser. Puerto Angel, 1942 |
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