No, I don't ignore that I am getting more nervous every day, that my character, which has never been easy, is getting rougher, more intolerant; Those who know me — and who, perhaps, still appreciate me — point to me, alarmed by my abrupt mood swings. I admit it: I have never been so exasperated by elections. Maybe there lies the origin of the nightmare that I am about to tell you, and, precisely because I believe, with Freud, that dreams are the “real road” to the unconscious, I do it with anxiety, startled by the interpretation that the Monday my psychoanalyst. Do you remember the penultimate scene of with death on his heels?: Roger Thornhill, the character with the wrong personality who plays Cary Grant, he begins a fight to the death with his enemies, in the insufficient light of the moon, in the very summits of Mount Rushmore, under the stony noses of presidents Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt and Lincoln. A valuable microfilm and the life of Eve Kendall (Eva Marie Saint).
Well, in my nightmare I was both Roger and Eve (I have never been very sure of my identity), and Leonard (Martin Landau), the bad guy who was chasing me, interpreted it Javier Garcia Smith, impeccably dressed in his dark suit and a badge on the lapel with 13 red roses: this is how confusing is the matter in which dreams are molded. In mine the rounded summits of Mount Rushmore (North Dakota), with its four leaders, had been transmuted into the rugged massif of Montserrat (Catalonia), with its needles and twisted peaks in which someone — perhaps a god who forgot us long ago— he had sculpted the heads of the toparcas in colossal size Puigdemont Y Torra and, somewhat below, and in a smaller format, the blurry effigies of some of the pedophile priests referred to by Abbot Josep Maria Soler the day he asked (shy) for forgiveness of his victims.
I have to clarify that the microfilm that I wanted to take away JGS was, in my dream, my ballot. The fight was terrible and, unlike what happened in the movie, I lost it: I slipped from Torra's head (her effigy had little neck, no wrinkles to take refuge in) and I fell, fell, fell into the abyss, below the clouds colored by a fire, shouting like a possessed one, and accompanied by the raucous thunder that several women interpreted among whom I thought I recognized (I was descending very quickly) to the ladies Laura Borràs, Pilar Rahola and Rocío Monasterio, disguised as Erinias. It was in that rampant descensus ad inferos where I lost my ballot (my microfilm!), without even knowing who I had decided on.
My own howl woke me up. And I did not find calm until, hours later, I witnessed the final of the Rugby World Championship between the teams of England and South Africa, confirming that, of all sports, rugby is the toughest and at the same time the most chivalrous and scheduled . Too bad the novel has paid little attention. That is why I was glad about the recent publication of The naive wild (1960; Impedimenta)by David Storey, one of the most conspicuous representatives of social denunciation (and malaise) literature of the Angry Young Men, the movement in which some of the most interesting British playwrights and novelists of the sixties (among others, John Osborne, Harold Pinter, Kingsley Amis, Alan Sillitoe). In it, rugby works as a backdrop for a magnificent story of love and class struggle, as Constantino Bértolo would say.
“The life of every woman, in spite of how much she wants to simulate — or hide — is nothing more than an eternal desire to find someone to submit to. Voluntary dependence, the offering of all minutes, of all desires and illusions, is the most beautiful state, it is the absorption of all bad germs – vanity, selfishness, frivolities – for love. ” The appointment is the reflection of a female section counselor in a magazine controlled by the organization, around 1944. Or, attention to this other jewel, regarding violent or irascible men: “Men are tamed like cats: balls of paper or liar to run and spend strength playing. Then, a few passages on the back and a sweet voice ”. Let them talk about kittens, for example, at 49 (or are they more?) Women killed this year just because they are.
In any case, they are not "anecdotes" like those that give historiographic importance to Begoña Barrera's great book The Women's Section, 1934-1977 (Alliance), Subtitled Story of an emotional guardianship. The author applies to unravel the Women's Section as the main mechanism of social framing and ideological indoctrination of women during the Franco regime, conquering for its vanguard an essential role in the apparatus of the dictatorship State.
The SF changed over those three long decades, at the rate that the power play of the "families of the Regime" did: to a first phase in which the female elites of Pilar Primo de Rivera they controlled part of the rearguard tasks, followed that of their institutionalization, turned into a mass organization supported by a very strong propaganda (books, educational manuals, magazines, radios) through which a femininity paradigm that prevailed docility was established, and in which any respectable horizon went through marriage, motherhood, children's education and home care. Barrera chronologically follows the rise and decline of the organization, the changes in its structure and, above all, the variations in the image of femininity that it projected on several generations of Spanish women.
. (tagsToTranslate) mount (t) rushmore (t) dream (t) summit (t) monument (t) have (t) transmute (t) massif (t) montserrat (t) sculpt (t) head (t) puigdemont ( t) torra