Recounting an event distorts it, recounting facts distorts and twists and almost negates them, everything that one recounts, however true, becomes unreal and approximate, the truth doesn't depend on things actually existing or happening, but on their remaining hidden or unknown or untold, as soon as they're related or shown or made manifest, even in a medium that seems real, on television or inthe newspapers, in what is called reality or life or even real life, they become part of some analogy or symbolism, and are no longer facts, instead they become mere recognition. The truth never shines forth, as the saying goes, because the only truth is that which is known to no one and which remains un-transmitted, that which is not translated into words or images, that which remains concealed and unverified, which is perhaps why we do recount so much or even everything, to make sure that nothing has ever really happened, not once it's been told.
Ahora lo vi claro: no es que no supiera cómo, sino que era una superstición lo que lo paralizaba, no saber qué puede dar suerte o traerla mala, hablar o callar, no callar o no hablar, dejar que las cosas sigan su curso sin invocarlas ni conjurarlas o intervenir verbalmente para condicionar ese curso, verbalizarlas o no hacer advertencias, poner en guardia o bien no dar ideas, a veces nos dan ideas quienes nos previenen contra esas ideas, nos las dan porque nos previenen, y hacen que se nos ocurra lo que nunca habríamos concebido
They had to pretend because our high-ranking politician knew not a word of English (well, when he said goodbye he did risk a “Good luck”) and the high-ranking British politician knew not a word of Spanish (although she did say “Buen dίa” to me as she gave me an iron handshake). So while the former was mumbling gibberish in Spanish, inaudible to cameras and photographers, all the time keeping a broad smile trained on his guest, as if he were regaling her with interesting banter (what he said was not, however, inaudible to me: I seem to remember that he kept repeating “One, two, three, four, five, what a lovely time we’re going to have”). The latter was muttering nonsense in her own language, and smiling even more broadly than him (“Cheese,” she kept saying, which is what all English people being photographed are told to say, and then various untranslatable onomatopoeic words such as “Tweedle tweedle, biddle diddle, twit and fiddle, tweedle twang”).
È il petto di un'altra persona a spalleggiarci, ci sentiamo realmente spalleggiati solo quando abbiamo qualcuno dietro, lo dice la parola stessa, alle nostre spalle, come in inglese, to back, qualcuno che magari non vediamo e che ci copre le spalle col petto che è sul punto di sfiorarci e che alla fine sempre ci sfiora, e a volte, addirittura, questo qualcuno ci mette una mano sulla spalla con la quale ci tranquillizza e al tempo stesso ci sottomette. In questo modo dormono o credono di dormire gran parte delle coppie, dopo la buonanotte i due si girano dallo stesso lato, di modo che uno dà le spalle all'altro per tutto il tempo e si sente spalleggiato da lui o da lei, e quando nel pieno della notte si sveglia di soprassalto per un incubo o non riesce a prender sonno, soffre per la febbre o si crede solo e abbandonato al buio, non deve far altro che voltarsi e vedere, di fronte a sé, il volto di colui che lo protegge, che si lascerà baciare quel che si può baciare in un volto (naso, occhi e bocca; mento, fronte e guance, tutto il volto) o che magari, mezzo addormentato, gli metterà una mano sulla spalla per tranquillizzarlo, o per sottometterlo, o forse per aggrapparsi. (da Un cuore così bianco, pag. 72)
What happened between us both happened and didn't happen, it's the same with everything, why do or not do something, why say "yes" or "no," why worry yourself with a "perhaps" or a "maybe," why speak, why remain silent, why refuse, why know anything if nothing of what happens happens, because nothing happens without interruption, nothing lasts or endures or is ceaselessly remembered, what takes place is identical to what doesn't take place, what we dismiss or allow to slip by us is identical to what we accept and seize, what we experience identical to what we never try; we pour all our intelligence and out feelings and our enthusiasm into the task of discriminating between things that will all be made equal, if they haven't already been, and that's why we're so full of regrets and lost opportunities, of confirmations and reaffirmations and opportunities grasped, when the truth is that nothing is affirmed and everything is constantly in the process of being lost. Or perhaps there never was anything.
It's always the chest of the other person we lean back against for support, we only really feel supported or backed up when, as the latter verb itself indicates, there's someone behind us, someone we perhaps cannot even see and who covers our back with their chest, so close it almost brushes our back and in the end always does, and at times, that someone places a hand on our shoulder, a hand to calm us and also to hold us. That's how most married people and most couples sleep or think they sleep, the two turn to the same side when they say goodnight, so that one has his or her back to the other throughout the whole night, when he or she wakes up startled from a nightmare, or is unable to get to sleep, or is suffering from a fever or feels alone and abandoned in the darkness, they have only to turn round and see before them the face of the person protecting them, the person who will let themselves be kissed on any part of the face that is kissable (nose, eyes and mouth; chin, forehead and cheeks, the whole face) or perhaps, half-asleep, will place a hand on their shoulder to calm them, or to hold them, or even to cling to them.