Con gran justicia este año le otorgan el Premio Nobel de Literatura al gran dramaturgo inglés, Harold Pinter, luego les postearé por qué me gusta tanto su teatro, entre otras cosas, por su habilidad de subir a los espectadores al escenario... pero aprovecho la fiebre del Nobel, para contarles que, o debió ser mi mood emotivo, o no sé qué, pero mientras esperaba al ganador del Premio Nobel de Literatura 2005, por una buena sugerencia, leí el discurso de John M. Coetzee al recibir el mismo reconocmiento hace dos años, se los dejo, porque a mí, me dejó sin palabras, me conmovió de sobremanera, hasta le llamé en el momento a mi madre (o.k. le dije Mami...) para ponerme cursi con ella.
Your Majesties, Your Royal Highnesses, Ladies and Gentlemen; Distinguished Guests, Friends
The other day, suddenly, out of the blue, while we were talking about something completely different, my partner Dorothy burst out as follows: "On the other hand," she said, "on the other hand, how proud your mother would have been! What a pity she isn't still alive! And your father too! How proud they would have been of you!"
"Even prouder than of my son the doctor?" I said. "Even prouder than of my son the professor?"
"Even prouder."
"If my mother were still alive," I said, "she would be ninety-nine and a half. She would probably have senile dementia. She would not know what was going on around her."
But of course I missed the point. Dorothy was right. My mother would have been bursting with pride. My son the Nobel Prize winner. And for whom, anyway, do we do the things that lead to Nobel Prizes if not for our mothers?
"Mommy, Mommy, I won a prize!"
"That's wonderful, my dear. Now eat your carrots before they get cold."
Why must our mothers be ninety-nine and long in the grave before we can come running home with the prize that will make up for all the trouble we have been to them?
To Alfred Nobel, 107 years in the grave, and to the Foundation that so faithfully administers his will and that has created this magnificent evening for us, my heartfelt gratitude. To my parents, how sorry I am that you cannot be here.
Thank you.
"Even prouder than of my son the doctor?" I said. "Even prouder than of my son the professor?"
"Even prouder."
"If my mother were still alive," I said, "she would be ninety-nine and a half. She would probably have senile dementia. She would not know what was going on around her."
But of course I missed the point. Dorothy was right. My mother would have been bursting with pride. My son the Nobel Prize winner. And for whom, anyway, do we do the things that lead to Nobel Prizes if not for our mothers?
"Mommy, Mommy, I won a prize!"
"That's wonderful, my dear. Now eat your carrots before they get cold."
Why must our mothers be ninety-nine and long in the grave before we can come running home with the prize that will make up for all the trouble we have been to them?
To Alfred Nobel, 107 years in the grave, and to the Foundation that so faithfully administers his will and that has created this magnificent evening for us, my heartfelt gratitude. To my parents, how sorry I am that you cannot be here.
Thank you.
3 comments:
ya estoy chillando!!!!
quiero a mi mami!!!
Es un discurso maravilloso, en definitiva, hay que leer al tal Coetzee. Saludos
Coetzee R U L E S!
Post a Comment