Y si a ratos la burbuja, por demasiado hinchada,
parece a punto de estallar; si casi se ve
el mundo real a través del falso, ¿qué es lo que se ve?
¿Está lo viejo tan ruinoso? Te encuentras en un rebaño
de juventud, de empeño, de pasión; genio, belleza,
rango, riquezas también, si te interesan:
y todos deponen sus derechos naturales y te aclaman
[es decir, me aclaman a mí] como colega y compañero,
ingresan en la cofradía de Sludge, y se hacen míos,
verdaderamente los poseo.
Y todo esto podría ser, puede ser, y con ayuda
de alguna mentirilla será: ¡conque Sludge miente!
¡En el peor de los casos, como el poeta que canta como los griegos
que nunca existieron, en una Troya que nunca existió,
hicieron tal o cual proeza imposible!
Pero ¿por qué me elevo a los poetas? Tomad la prosa llana:
los que manejan el sentido común, puestos a trabajar,
¿qué pueden hacer sin sus útiles mentiras?
Cada cual declara la ley, el hecho y la apariencia
como querría que fuesen, encuentra lo que le conviene,
no ve lo que le estorba, se limita a registrar
lo que abona su su caso, omite el resto.
Y es una Historia del Mundo, la Era del Dinosaurio,
los Indios Primitivos, la Guerra Colonial,
Jerónimo Napoleón, lo que se quiera.
Todo como al autor le plazca. Y a ese escriba
le pagáis y alabáis por dar vida a las piedras,
poner fuego en la bruma, hacer del pasado vuestro mundo.
Y mucho: «¿Cómo fue usted capaz de asir
el hilo que le guió por ese laberinto?
¿Cómo alzó del aire un edificio tan sólido?
¿Cómo en tan leve fundamento pudo fundar este relato,
esta biografía, esta narración?» O, dicho en otras palabras,
«¿Cuántas mentiras le costó hacer
la majestuosa verdad con que aquí nos obsequia?»
And if at whiles the bubble, blown too thin,
Seem nigh on bursting, — if you nearly see
The real world through the false, — what do you see?
Is the oíd so ruined? You find you're in a flock
O' the youthful, earnest, passionate — genius, beauty,
Rank and wealth also, if you care for these:
And all depose their natural rights, hail you,
(That's me, sir) as their mate and yoke-fellow,
Participate in Sludgehood — nay, grow mine,
I veritably possess them— ...
And all this might be, may be, and with good help
Of a little lying shall be: so Sludge lies!
Why, he's at worst your poet who sings how Greeks
That never were, in Troy which never was,
Did this or the other imponible great thing!...
But why do I mount to poets? Take plain prose —
Dealers in common sense, set these at work,
What can they do without their helpful lies?
Each states the law and fact and face o' the thing
Just as he'd have them, finds what he thinks fit,
Is blind to what missuits him, just records
What makes his case out, quite ignores the rest.
It's a History of the World, the Lizard Age,
The Early Indians, the Oíd Country War,
Jerome Napoleón, whatsoever you please.
All as the author wants it. Such a scribe.
You pay and praise for putting Ufe in stones,
Fire into fog, making the past your world.
There's plenty of 'How did you contrive to grasp
The thread which led you through this labyrinth?
How build such solid fabric out of air?
How on so slight foundation found this tale,
Biography, narrative?' or, in other words,
'How many lies did it require to make
The portly truth you here present us with?
Seem nigh on bursting, — if you nearly see
The real world through the false, — what do you see?
Is the oíd so ruined? You find you're in a flock
O' the youthful, earnest, passionate — genius, beauty,
Rank and wealth also, if you care for these:
And all depose their natural rights, hail you,
(That's me, sir) as their mate and yoke-fellow,
Participate in Sludgehood — nay, grow mine,
I veritably possess them— ...
And all this might be, may be, and with good help
Of a little lying shall be: so Sludge lies!
Why, he's at worst your poet who sings how Greeks
That never were, in Troy which never was,
Did this or the other imponible great thing!...
But why do I mount to poets? Take plain prose —
Dealers in common sense, set these at work,
What can they do without their helpful lies?
Each states the law and fact and face o' the thing
Just as he'd have them, finds what he thinks fit,
Is blind to what missuits him, just records
What makes his case out, quite ignores the rest.
It's a History of the World, the Lizard Age,
The Early Indians, the Oíd Country War,
Jerome Napoleón, whatsoever you please.
All as the author wants it. Such a scribe.
You pay and praise for putting Ufe in stones,
Fire into fog, making the past your world.
There's plenty of 'How did you contrive to grasp
The thread which led you through this labyrinth?
How build such solid fabric out of air?
How on so slight foundation found this tale,
Biography, narrative?' or, in other words,
'How many lies did it require to make
The portly truth you here present us with?
Versión María Luisa Balseiro
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario