El momento de la sensación verdadera by Peter Handke

By Peter Handke

«¿La violencia y el sinsentido no son, al fin y al cabo, una y l. a. misma cosa?»» M. Horkheimer Un hombre se levanta una mañana tras un largo sueño en el que se ha visto a sí mismo convertido en un asesino. A partir del momento del despertar, los dos días en que seguiremos a este Keuschnig, diplomático austriaco en París, se convertirán en una espiral de repugnancia y sinsentido, de caída del mundo, de despojamiento hasta el propio horror. Y es que, en definitiva, El momento de los angeles sensación verdadera, una de las obras que más sólidamente ha cimentado el prestigio de Peter Handke, es una own experiencia de los angeles muerte cuyo desenlace habrá de ser, sin embargo, el nuevo brillo de lo cotidiano a través del espejo de los angeles infancia.

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El momento de la sensación verdadera

«¿La violencia y el sinsentido no son, al fin y al cabo, una y l. a. misma cosa? »» M. Horkheimer Un hombre se levanta una mañana tras un largo sueño en el que se ha visto a sí mismo convertido en un asesino. A partir del momento del despertar, los dos días en que seguiremos a este Keuschnig, diplomático austriaco en París, se convertirán en una espiral de repugnancia y sinsentido, de caída del mundo, de despojamiento hasta el propio horror.

Extra resources for El momento de la sensación verdadera

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Obvious and inevitable. First lesson learned: Don’t go where it’s comfortable. Something bad will be waiting. I don’t remember any swear words yet, so under my breath I just repeat formless murmurs. Like grunting, only they would be words if I could remember. There was no swearing in the Dreamtime. How wrong was that? What could they possibly… “I want it to stop,” I croak. ” I begin to rant. I’m special, I have needs, I have a job to do—once I get my act together. I’m going to be important. I get so angry I start to feel weak.

We stand. We walk. One by one, beginning with Pushingar, we run forward—I think, I hope. I have no idea where we’re going and suspect neither does the little girl. Maybe Pushingar or the other two know something, but they’re not talking—just running. The floor is getting very cold. It’s starting all over again, variations on a nasty theme. Chasing heat, staying alive, seeking food—seeking answers really low on the list of my frustrated basic drives. Minutes of running. Maybe only seconds. But something visible ahead—a wall.

Last chance. I stretch my legs, connect solidly with the edge of the sheet, kick as hard as I can, and arrow toward the fistula. The sheet spins and moves off in the general direction of a new heaviness. … I glide toward it, arguably toward the safer option, hungry, scared out of my wits. I see it behind me again, the toothy snout and beak so close! I can smell its acid, sour-sweet breath— I’m through! I slam into the far surface of the tube, then scramble for purchase with my raw knees and feet and hands to get out of the way of what I know is coming— The rasp and head thrusts through the fistula, beak snapping, teeth gnashing, meshing, gnashing in reverse, then withdrawing behind thick lips, the whole apparatus sphinctering shut.

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