Porque, en efecto, los símbolos del Estado democrático, es decir, la bandera, el himno, los reyes, etcétera, no son una sustancia sentimental para la mayoría de nosotros. Vivimos por y para otras cosas, no obsesionados por proclamar congestiones patrioteras... como por cierto hacen un día sí y otro también los nacionalistas de cualquier cuño. Pero cuando hay algunos enemigos de nuestra convivencia democrática que se toman muy en serio esos símbolos para denostarlos y ultrajarlos, es preciso que los demás nos los tomemos también serenamente en serio para defenderlos. Resulta ridículo y entristecedor que haya cien merluzos en los medios de comunicación progresistas para condenar el gesto enrabietado de Aznar, la dichosa "peineta", pero en cambio para la pitada al himno y a los Reyes en un evento deportivo todos sean disculpas o trivializaciones. Son minoría, no tiene importancia... ejem, ejem. Ya sabemos que el separatismo irredento es minoritario, pero por desgracia lo convierten en importante quienes no lo refutan en la educación o quienes se apoyan en él para sus cambalaches políticos. No vendrá mal hablar de estas cosas con un poco más de fundamento, antes de que todos nos pasemos definitivamente a YouTube o a lo que luego se ponga de moda.
Fernando Savater, en su artículo Lo que sobra y lo que falta en El País de ayer.
28 de febrero de 2010
Un hombre soltero
Ayer fui a ver (solo, como la peli requería) Un hombre soltero, el debut en la dirección del modista Tom Ford.
Hasta el último momento dudé entre ésta, The Road y Shutter Island.
Al final, eligió por mí la tarde oscura y desapacible que tuvimos en Madrid.
Hasta el último momento dudé entre ésta, The Road y Shutter Island.
Al final, eligió por mí la tarde oscura y desapacible que tuvimos en Madrid.
24 de febrero de 2010
Living on the edge
Grandísimo artículo de Tony Judt en el blog de la New York Review of Books. Lo copiaría entero, pero me reprimo y pongo sólo la mitad :-P:
I prefer the edge: the place where countries, communities, allegiances, affinities, and roots bump uncomfortably up against one another—where cosmopolitanism is not so much an identity as the normal condition of life. Such places once abounded. Well into the twentieth century there were many cities comprising multiple communities and languages—often mutually antagonistic, occasionally clashing, but somehow coexisting. Sarajevo was one, Alexandria another. Tangiers, Salonica, Odessa, Beirut, and Istanbul all qualified—as did smaller towns like Chernovitz and Uzhhorod. By the standards of American conformism, New York resembles aspects of these lost cosmopolitan cities: that is why I live here.
To be sure, there is something self-indulgent in the assertion that one is always at the edge, on the margin. Such a claim is only open to a certain kind of person exercising very particular privileges. Most people, most of the time, would rather not stand out: it is not safe. If everyone else is a Shia, better to be a Shia. If everyone in Denmark is tall and white, then who—given a choice—would opt to be short and brown? And even in an open democracy, it takes a certain obstinacy of character to work willfully against the grain of one's community, especially if it is small.
But if you are born at intersecting margins and—thanks to the peculiar institution of academic tenure—are at liberty to remain there, it seems to me a decidedly advantageous perch: What should they know of England, who only England know? If identification with a community of origin was fundamental to my sense of self, I would perhaps hesitate before criticizing Israel—the "Jewish State," "my people"—so roundly. Intellectuals with a more developed sense of organic affiliation instinctively self-censor: they think twice before washing dirty linen in public.
Unlike the late Edward Said, I believe I can understand and even empathize with those who know what it means to love a country. I don't regard such sentiments as incomprehensible; I just don't share them. But over the years these fierce unconditional loyalties—to a country, a God, an idea, or a man—have come to terrify me. The thin veneer of civilization rests upon what may well be an illusory faith in our common humanity. But illusory or not, we would do well to cling to it. Certainly, it is that faith—and the constraints it places upon human misbehavior—that is the first to go in times of war or civil unrest.
Tony Judt
I prefer the edge: the place where countries, communities, allegiances, affinities, and roots bump uncomfortably up against one another—where cosmopolitanism is not so much an identity as the normal condition of life. Such places once abounded. Well into the twentieth century there were many cities comprising multiple communities and languages—often mutually antagonistic, occasionally clashing, but somehow coexisting. Sarajevo was one, Alexandria another. Tangiers, Salonica, Odessa, Beirut, and Istanbul all qualified—as did smaller towns like Chernovitz and Uzhhorod. By the standards of American conformism, New York resembles aspects of these lost cosmopolitan cities: that is why I live here.
To be sure, there is something self-indulgent in the assertion that one is always at the edge, on the margin. Such a claim is only open to a certain kind of person exercising very particular privileges. Most people, most of the time, would rather not stand out: it is not safe. If everyone else is a Shia, better to be a Shia. If everyone in Denmark is tall and white, then who—given a choice—would opt to be short and brown? And even in an open democracy, it takes a certain obstinacy of character to work willfully against the grain of one's community, especially if it is small.
But if you are born at intersecting margins and—thanks to the peculiar institution of academic tenure—are at liberty to remain there, it seems to me a decidedly advantageous perch: What should they know of England, who only England know? If identification with a community of origin was fundamental to my sense of self, I would perhaps hesitate before criticizing Israel—the "Jewish State," "my people"—so roundly. Intellectuals with a more developed sense of organic affiliation instinctively self-censor: they think twice before washing dirty linen in public.
Unlike the late Edward Said, I believe I can understand and even empathize with those who know what it means to love a country. I don't regard such sentiments as incomprehensible; I just don't share them. But over the years these fierce unconditional loyalties—to a country, a God, an idea, or a man—have come to terrify me. The thin veneer of civilization rests upon what may well be an illusory faith in our common humanity. But illusory or not, we would do well to cling to it. Certainly, it is that faith—and the constraints it places upon human misbehavior—that is the first to go in times of war or civil unrest.
Tony Judt
Acentuación de los monosílabos
De la Ortografía de la lengua española (aquí en pdf) de la Real Academia Española, pág. 35:
4.5. Acentuación gráfica de los monosílabos
Los monosílabos, es decir, las palabras que tienen una sílaba, por regla general no llevan tilde. Ejemplo: fe, pie, sol, can, gran, vil, gris, da, ves, fui, ruin, bien, mal, no, un.
A efectos ortográficos, son monosílabos las palabras en las que, por aplicación de las reglas expuestas en los párrafos anteriores, se considera que no existe hiato —aunque la pronunciación así parezca indicarlo—, sino diptongo o triptongo. Ejemplos: fie (pretérito perfecto simple del verbo fiar), hui (pretérito perfecto simple del verbo huir), riais (presente de subjuntivo del verbo reír), guion, Sion, etc. En este caso es admisible el acento gráfico, impuesto por las reglas de ortografía anteriores a estas, si quien escribe percibe nítidamente el hiato y, en consecuencia, considera bisílabas palabras como las mencionadas: fié, huí, riáis, guión, Sión, etc.
Constituyen una excepción a esta regla general los monosílabos que tienen tilde diacrítica.
Así que, igual que Juan no lleva tilde, Luis tampoco.
4.5. Acentuación gráfica de los monosílabos
Los monosílabos, es decir, las palabras que tienen una sílaba, por regla general no llevan tilde. Ejemplo: fe, pie, sol, can, gran, vil, gris, da, ves, fui, ruin, bien, mal, no, un.
A efectos ortográficos, son monosílabos las palabras en las que, por aplicación de las reglas expuestas en los párrafos anteriores, se considera que no existe hiato —aunque la pronunciación así parezca indicarlo—, sino diptongo o triptongo. Ejemplos: fie (pretérito perfecto simple del verbo fiar), hui (pretérito perfecto simple del verbo huir), riais (presente de subjuntivo del verbo reír), guion, Sion, etc. En este caso es admisible el acento gráfico, impuesto por las reglas de ortografía anteriores a estas, si quien escribe percibe nítidamente el hiato y, en consecuencia, considera bisílabas palabras como las mencionadas: fié, huí, riáis, guión, Sión, etc.
Constituyen una excepción a esta regla general los monosílabos que tienen tilde diacrítica.
Así que, igual que Juan no lleva tilde, Luis tampoco.
23 de febrero de 2010
The Krugman Blues
I read the New York Times
That's where I get my news
Paul Krugman's on the op-ed page
That's where I get the blues
'Cause Paul always tells it like it is
We get it blow by blow
Krugman's got the Nobel Prize
So Krugman oughta know
When Paul goes on the News Hour
To talk to old Jim Lehrer
He looks so sad and crestfallen
It's more than I can bear
All the other experts
All seem way off beat (?)
And I guess I identify
With that pissed off look on Paul's face
Identify!
When Paul gets really bumped out
That's when I get scared
But when Paul says there's a glint of hope
I fear we've all been spared
Sometimes when he's on the TV in the background
You can spot his school logo
Paul teaches at Princeton
So Paul oughta know
He's gotta (no sé qué dice aquí...)
Paul's one unhappy perv
Krugman looks on down
(ni aquí...)
I know he wants to clue us in
Concerning our impending doom
But I got the Krugman blues
From all Paul's gloom
Once I saw Krugman on a train
Amtrak into DC
I recognised his sad face
'Cause I've seen in on the TV
He looked up from his laptop
When I said "hello, Paul"
I said "keep up all the good work, Paul
you bring me down, but way to go, Paul".
Loudon Wainwright III
(Vía openculture.com.)
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