ἀλήθεια

Terminé de leer Franny and Zooey en el metro, de camino a una entrevista de trabajo en la que a priori tenía muy poco interés. Se me saltaron las lágrimas, al ver cuánto me he desviado del camino que emprendí en Delfos, todo el trabajo que me queda por hacer. Por la Señora Gorda.

The voice at the other end came through again. “I remember about the fifth time I ever went on ‘Wise Child.’ I subbed for Walt a few times when he was in a cast -remember when he was in that cast? Anyway, I started bitching one night before the broadcast. Seymour’d told me to shine my shoes just as I was going out the door with Waker. I was furious. The studio audience were all morons, the announcer was a moron, the sponsors were morons, and I just damn well wasn’t going to shine my shoes for them, I told Seymour. I said they couldn’t see them anyway, where we sat. He said to shine them anyway. He said to shine them for the Fat Lady. I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, but he had a very Seymour look on his face, and so I did it. He never did tell me who the Fat Lady was, but I shined my shoes for the Fat Lady every time I ever went on the air again—all the years you and I were on the program together, if you remember. I don’t think I missed more than just a couple of times. This terribly clear, clear picture of the Fat Lady formed in my mind. I had her sitting on this porch all day, swatting flies, with her radio going full-blast from morning till night. I figured the heat was terrible, and she probably had cancer, and—I don’t know. Anyway, it seemed goddam clear why Seymour wanted me to shine my shoes when I went on the air. It made sense”
Franny was standing. She had taken her hand away from her face to hold the phone with two hands. “He told me, too,” she said into the phone. “He told me to be funny for the Fat Lady, once.” She released one hand from the phone and placed it, very briefly, on the crown of her head, then went back to holding the phone with both hands. “I didn’t ever picture her on a porch, but with very—you know—very thick legs, very veiny. I had her in an awful wicker chair. She had cancer, too, though, and she had the radio going full-blast all day! Mine did, too!”
“Yes. Yes. Yes. All right. Let me tell you something now, buddy. . . . Are you listening?”
Franny, looking extremely tense, nodded.
“I don’t care where an actor acts. It can be in summer stock, it can be over a radio, it can be over television, it can be in a goddam Broadway theatre, complete with the most fashionable, most well-fed, most sunburned-looking audience you can imagine. But I’ll tell you a terrible secret—Are you listening to me? There isn’t anyone out there who isn’t Seymour’s Fat Lady. That includes your Professor Tupper, buddy. And all his goddam cousins by the dozens. There isn’t anyone anywhere that isn’t Seymour’s Fat Lady. Don’t you know that? Don’t you know that goddam secret yet? And don’t you know—listen to me, now—don’t you know who that Fat Lady really is? . . . Ah, buddy. Ah, buddy. It’s Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy.”

For joy, apparently, it was all Franny could do to hold the phone, even with both hands.
For a fullish half minute or so, there were no other words, no further speech. Then: “I can’t talk any more, buddy.” The sound of a phone being replaced in its catch followed.

Franny took in her breath slightly but continued to hold the phone to her ear. A dial tone, of course, followed the formal break in the connection. She appeared to find it extraordinarily beautiful to listen to, rather as if it were the best possible substitute for the primordial silence itself. But she seemed to know, too, when to stop listening to it, as if all of what little or much wisdom there is in the world were suddenly hers. When she had replaced the phone, she seemed to know just what to do next, too. She cleared away the smoking things, then drew back the cotton bedspread from the bed she had been sitting on, took off her slippers, and got into the bed. For some minutes, before she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, she just lay quiet, smiling at the ceiling.

J.D Salinger, Franny and Zooey

Una tarde volvía andando a casa por la calle, cuando de pronto surgió en ella una sensación de júbilo, una inexplicable y desbordante alegría. Era como si el universo entero se precipitara en su interior, me dijo, y en aquel instante comprendió que todas las cosas estaban conectadas entre sí, que todo el mundo estaba mutuamente relacionado, y esa fuerza vinculante, ese poder que mantenía todo y a todos unidos, era Dios. Y esa era la única palabra que podía pensar. Dios. No un Dios judío o cristiano, no el Dios de las religiones, sino Dios como la presencia que anima cualquier vida.

Paul Auster, Un Hombre en la Oscuridad

En estos días releo la Odisea, preguntándome hasta qué punto es cierta. Es muy sospechoso que de la parte más fantástica del viaje (con cíclopes, sirenas, viajes al inframundo y hechiceras que convierten en cerdos a marineros) sólo sepamos por la narración que Odiseo, “rico en ingenios”, hace a los feacios en un banquete. Bien podría ser uno más de sus embustes, quizás Odiseo pasó esos diez años pirateando en el Mediterráneo, o en los brazos de Calipso, o buscando manzanas doradas en el Atlántico.

Pero puede haber un nivel más de mentiras en el libro. Cuando aparece Eumeo, el porquero de Odiseo, la narración se dirige a él en segunda persona. ¿Es un recurso estilístico? Y, de serlo, ¿por qué sólo se usa con el porquero?
Existe otra posibilidad: que toda la Odisea sea una historia que Odiseo cuenta a Eumeo, quizás años después de su regreso, probablemente en la cabaña de este, comiendo cerdo asado, emborrachándose con retsina. Eumeo sabe que su señor es un mentiroso (ya le mintió a su llegada a Ítaca, contándole una historia sobre cretenses y piratas), pero no osará corregirle, incluso cuando este distorsiona hechos en los que él estuvo presente. Y la historia real pudo ser muy diferente. ¿Y la historia que Odiseo narra a los fecios? De esa nada podríamos saber, ni tan siquiera si realmente fue contada.
Todo lo que sabemos es que el taimado Odiseo aparece un día, veinte años después de que Agamenón desenmascarara su fingida locura y le forzara a unirse a la expedición de los aqueos, solo y cargado de objetos valiosos. Lo que hiciera en los diez años que duró su camino a Ítaca jamás lo sabremos de verdad. Solamente tenemos la palabra de un mentiroso, un, como Atenea lo llama, trapacista de dolos.