The literature is part of the Fine Arts, the most beautiful forms of human expression. The has many functions in addition to the term as: It helps us understand the historical context of the time this approach of the work and understand how daily life was past. Helps us to reflect, to criticize, question, understand and analyze.
helps us learn more, to have better spelling and increasing vocabulary.
are just some qualities of literature. Not necessarily have to be boring as everyone thinks, there is literature for everyone. Unfortunately in our country is poor and cutura habit of reading. Is believed to be of "geeks" of boring people who for what?, Which they click ü g eva. etc ...
is assumed that the average Mexican is 2.9 books per year ( http://vivirmexico.com/2010/08/a-los-mexicanos-nos-falta-leer-mas )
You need a section dedicated to this art in this blog, here will share excerpts from plays, poems, data of some authors, recommend books and so on. In short, everything that has to do with verse and prose. And to start this section porfin I found the material that I found excellent starting point.
First I bring a Bocen Fermín phrase: "A country whose people do not read or read little, is more vulnerable to deception."
Well now, what follows ...
As many will know I am high school student about to go to university (of UNAM wuuu!) And I am in area 4: Humanities and Arts. I wish to study
2 races, Visual Arts and History. You can imagine what one is facing these days to say this: "You'll starve" or "How boring, why? Best studied law or medicine" or things like that until I met people who do what you serious to say "Seriously what going to study? "chale ...
Why study Humanities and Arts' First read these 2 short but interesting story of Ruben Dario:
" Bourgeois King "
Friend! The sky is opaque, the cold air, sad day. ... A lively story and to divert the melancholy gray and hazy, here he is:
There was a huge city and bright a very powerful king, who was wayward and rich costumes, naked slaves, white and black horses with long manes, flamantísimas weapons, fast dogs, huntsmen with horns and brass wind filled with fanfare. Was he a poet king? No, my friend was the King Bourgeois.
was very fond of art the sovereign, and advocated with great generosity to his musicians, his dithyrambs makers, painters, sculptors, apothecaries, barbers and fencing masters.
When I went to the forest, deer and wild boar along the wounded and bloody, had to improvise their teachers of rhetoric allusive lyrics, the servants filled the golden wine cups boiling, and women clapped and gallant rhythmic movements. It was a sun god in his Babylon full of music, of laughter and noise of feasting. When wearied of the bustling city, went hunting the woods with his thundering herds, and had to leave their nests for the birds scared, and the shouting had an impact on the most hidden in the caves. The elastic-legged dogs were breaking the weeds in the race, and hunters, bent over the neck horses, waving the purple robes and wore the faces on and their hair in the wind.
The king had a magnificent palace where he had accumulated wealth and wonderful works of art. Came to him through large groups of lilies and ponds, being greeted by the white-necked swans, rather than by the lackeys stretched. Good taste. Climbing a ladder full of pillars of marble and smaragdite, which had marble lions sides of the thrones as Solomonic. Refinement. In addition to the swans, had a large aviary, and mistress of the harmony of coo, the trill, and near it was to broaden his mind, reading novels M. Ohnet, or beautiful books on grammar, or criticism hermosillescas. But: strong advocate of academic adjustment letters and licking as in art-loving soul sublime sand and spelling.
Japonerías! Chinoiserie! For fashion and nothing else. Might well be the pleasure of living like a worthy of the Goncourt and the millions of Croesus: bronze chimeras with open jaws and kinked tails, great and wonderful group, Kyoto lacquer inlaid with leaves and branches of a monstrous flora , and animals of unknown fauna, rare butterflies fans along the walls, colorful fish and roosters, masks and eye gestures as hell if they were alive, partisans of ancient leaves and handles with dragon eating lotus flowers, and egg shells, yellow silk robes, as if woven with threads of spider, planted with red and green herons rice plants, and vases, porcelain for many centuries, those in which there Tartar warriors with skin that covers them to the kidneys, and arcs are drawn and bundles of arrows.
Moreover, Greek was the room full of marbles: goddesses, muses, nymphs and satyrs, the gallant time living, with paintings by Watteau and Chardin large, two, three, four, how many Banquet?
Maecenas And everyone was walking, his face awash with a certain majesty, the happy belly and a crown on his head, like a king playing card.
One day I took a rare breed of men before His throne, where he was surrounded by courtiers, rhetoricians and teachers of riding and dancing.
- What is that? - Asked.
"Sir, is a poet.
The king had swans in the pond, canaries, sparrows, senzontles in the aviary: a poet was something new and strange.
"Let him here.
And the poet: "Sir, I have not eaten.
And the king
-talk and eat.
started:
"Sir, while I sing is the verb of the future. I had my wings a hurricane, I was born at the time of the dawn, looking the chosen race to expect with the hymn in the mouth and the lyre in hand out of the great sun. I left the city unhealthy inspiration, the room full of perfumes, the muse of meat that fills the soul of smallness and the face of rice powder. I broke the string harp fawning weak against the tops of Bohemia and the jars where the wine that intoxicates foams without strength, I threw the cloak that made me seem histrionic or woman, and I dress so wild and wonderful, my rag is purple. I went to the jungle, where I stayed vigorous and fruitful glutted with milk and liquor of new life, and in the rough sea shore, shaking his head under the strong and black storm, as a proud angel, or as an Olympian demigod, I tried to forget the yamdo giving the madrigal .
"I have cherished the great outdoors, and I've searched the heat of the ideal, the verse is the star in the sky background, and that is the pearl in the deep ocean. I wanted to be strong: for it comes time for large revolutions, with a Messiah all light, all shaking and power, and must receive his spirit in the poem is a triumphal arch of steel stanzas of verse with gold and love verses.
"Lord, art is not in the cold marble wrappers, boxes or licking, or the excellent Mr. Ohnet. Lord Art not wearing pants, or talk in the bourgeois, or put points in all the i's . He is majestic, gold has sheets of flame, or go naked, and knead the clay with a fever, and paints light, and is opulent, and gives wing beats as eagles, or claws like lions. Lord, between an Apollo and a goose, a preferred Apollo, although one is of baked earth and one of ivory.
"Oh, poetry!
" Well! The rhythms are prostitutes, moles are sung by women, and syrups made poetic. Besides, sir, the shoemaker criticizes my heroic verse, and Mr. professor of pharmacy puts semicolons my inspiration. Lord Autorizáis "and you all! ... The ideal, the ideal ...
The king interrupted: "You've heard
. What to do?
and a philosopher to use:
"If you permit, sir, can make a meal with a music box, we can place you in the garden near the swans, so when you paseéis.
"Yes," said the king, and addressing the poet: "They will turn to a handle. You will close the mouth. You shall sound a music box that plays waltzes and gallops crews, as whichever you prefer not to starve. Piece of music piece of bread. None of mumbo jumbo, or ideals. ID
And from that day could be seen at the edge of the pond of swans, the starving poet who was turning the handle: tiririrín, tiririrín ... Shamed the sun looks great! "He spent the king in the neighborhood? Tiririrín, tiririrín! ... Had to fill your stomach? Tiririrín! Everything between the mockery of the free birds that came to drink dew on the lily flower, among the buzzing of bees, which stung the face and eyes filled with tears; tiririrín! ... Bitter tears rolling down his cheeks and falling to the black earth!
And winter came, and the poor felt cold in the body and soul. And his brain was as if petrified, and the great hymns were forgotten, and the poet of the mountains crowned with eagles, was only a poor devil was turning the handle, tiririrín.
And when the snow fell he forgot the king and his subjects, the birds are sheltered, and he was left to the frigid air that bit of meat and slapped his face, tiriririn!
And one night he fell from above white pen rain crystallized in the palace had been feasting, and the light of the spiders happy laughing on the marble, on gold and robes of the mandarins of the old porcelain. And they clapped to madness toasts Mr. professor of rhetoric, studded with dactyls of anapestic and piriquios, while in crystal cups boiling bubbling champagne with light and fleeting. Winter Night, night out! And the unfortunate snow-covered pond near, was turning the handle to warm tirirín, tirirín! Shaking and shivering, insulted by the north wind, under the ruthless, icy whiteness in the dark night, echoing through the trees crazy music leafless and crews of the gallop, and was dead, tiririrín ... thinking that the sun would be born of the coming day, and with it the ideal tiririrín ..., and that art would not wear pants but fire blanket, or gold ... Until the next day they found the king and his courtiers to the poor devil of a poet, as a sparrow that kills the ice, with a bitter smile on his lips, and still with his hand on the handlebars.
Oh, my friend! the sky is cloudy, the cold air, sad day. Float gray misty melancholy ...
But how much heat the soul a phrase, a handshake on time! Hasta la vista!Divide this into two, here the link of the second part:
http://chutemoc.blogspot.com/2011/01/literatura-el-pajaro-azul-y-el-rey_26.html
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