Portraits from another Europe

Literary works

Huelga de controladores aereos, ultimo articulo de Martin Cid

Martin Cid y su opinion

Más en http://www.martincid.com


December 7, 2010 Posted by | Short Stories | , , , | Leave a comment

Jan Steen, pintor de tabernas

Ahora que la taberna como lugar de libertad ha terminado, ahora que ir a un bar comporta plegarse a más normas que en el trabajo, ahora que ya nadie puede cantar, gritar, bailar, beber, fumar…. en un garito. Os dejo lo que era una taberna de la época de Rembrandt: ¡da envidia!

Taberna del pintor Jan Steen

Martín Cid (http://www.martincid.com ) es autor de las novelas Ariza, Un Siglo de Cenizas, Los 7 Pecados de Eminescu y del ensayo Propaganda, Mentiras y Montaje de Atracción.

December 5, 2010 Posted by | Short Stories | , , , , , | Leave a comment

Leopoldo I de Habsburgo con traje de teatro.

Emperador Leopoldo I

Este sí que es un retrato de la “otra Europa”. Cuando estuve en Praga no dejé de apreciar el austero modo de vestir del señor Leopoldo I, retratado por todos los museos y retratado siempre con un atuendo sencillo.

Debía ser simpático el tal Leopoldo que, por cierto, se casó con la infanta Margarita, protagonista de las Meninas. Tuvo con ella 4 hijos y, después de disfrazarse juntos en bailes y teatros, la chica murió de sobreparto.

El óleo se pintó en 1667 por Jan Thomas.
Se encuentra en el Kunsthistorische Museum, Viena

Más sobre Martín Cid: http://www.martincid.com

November 30, 2010 Posted by | Short Stories | , , , | Leave a comment

Muerte del general Riego

por Martín Cid http://www.martincid.com

Muerte del general Riego (fte. wikispaces)

Muerte del general Rafael de Riego

: ejecución en la horca -ocurrida el día 7 de noviembre de 1823-, tras ser arrastrado en una espuerta por las calles de Madrid hasta la Plaza de la Cebada. El cadáver de Riego debía ser decapitado y descuartizado, y enviada la cabeza a la localidad gaditana de Las Cabezas de San Juan, donde el entonces comandante Riego había proclamado la Constitución del año 12 casi cuatro años atrás, el 1 de enero de 1820, ante su batallón formado en cuadro y que debía haber viajado a América.

November 11, 2010 Posted by | Short Stories | , , , | 1 Comment

Isabel del Río y Martín Cid y Ariza

Isabel del Río y Martín Cid y Ariza

November 6, 2010 Posted by | Short Stories | , , , , , | Leave a comment

About Clarin, a Spanish writer (by Martin Cid)

“Spain is not a country of novelists”. In recent times, it is a strong sentence which could keep some truth if we forgot that not only would be Tolstoi but Clarin, a Spanish author, who would join the 19th century literary achievements, establishing the next century fiction basis.

Clarin was born in Zamora in 1852 but he lived in Oviedo many years. Here, in this wet town, surrounded by mountains, near Bay of Biscay, he wrote his important novel: “The Regenta”. It tells Ana Ozores’ life, a beautiful woman full of feelings and passions, trapped in Vetusta’s hypocritical and conservative society. Vetusta is Oviedo’s literary name and since I am from there, I have breathed from the very beginning the same air as Clarin did and I remember my childhood meeting similar priests, civil servants, pensioners and military men that the book describes: people who walked along ancient streets, far from modern times, near from extinguished memories.

In fact, the whole Vetusta smells of Clarin because, in fact, Oviedo was reborn from this great writer’s pen. From every balcony, Ana Ozores is still calling for freedom behind iron railings. In the cathedral, Fermin de Pas, a bitter priest, is trying to win her heart. In the club, Alvaro Mesia is cheating an old, impotent, dizzy husband.

The novel is Vetusta but also Spain skeleton as well as London, Paris or a broken Berlin. In Vetusta, the old Europe is dialoguing with the new one and Ana Ozores is every woman’s reflection. She is a mirror, nothing more… noting less. “The Regenta”, however to be called with the dreadful name of regionalist, is an international story, a landmark in fiction development. It is an innovative island in the middle of a traditional country; it is a new world which sings old lilts.

ClarinClarin sets up from realism (he had constantly correspondence with Galdos, the writer of Madrid’ life and Spanish contemporary history). Galdos goes and comes quickly among a big amount of characters, able to solve adventures and become heroes. Clarin reduces the frantic sequence of happenings to analyze deeply each one of them. He writes slowly and smartly… he arrives at the psychological novel.

This novel goes without teller to be conscious of itself -the point of view-. It claims for its own voice, ethic and atheist… wonderful. From the highness, flying over Vetusta, a vulture introduces us Ana. She is our heroine, muse and cruel goddess; she is the Babylonian myth, the three White goddess’ manifestations fighting secretly and constantly. Nevertheless, our world is different and now she is not a divine creature but a sensitive woman who rememberes old readings, dreams and journeys on a boat. Pages pass as well as years and we see her face at the foreground: “The Regenta”. The nickname comes from his husband’s job, a high authority in the deep town, an old tired man called Victor Quintanar.

Ana is a typical woman from last nineties but she is also a goddess willing to face her fate, beyond Fermin de Pas –the bitter priest- and Alvaro Mesia –a new Don Juan-. She goes far from herself, the same as Madame Bovary did. Flaubert wrote lyrics to a goddess who feelt lost; Clarin, the professor, wakes us up with sharp sentences.

Vetusta is Don Quijote and El Buscon but is Manhattan Transfer too. Clarin mixes Henry James’ brilliant dialogues with Zola’s descriptions. He is a Zaratustra at the top of a mountain, looking proud at a Spain full of knights who fight giant mills, full of kidnapped ladies, poets and dragons. He is the vulture, able to discover new lands and futures.

We are there, walking along the streets of whatever town. We turn a corner and meet the old colonel, the parish and a deformed slave. The vulture smiles. Quasimodo and Esmeralda are following Victor Hugo’s steps. Rabelais is visiting Spain… old dreams always return. Maybe we are beside a woman -married with a civil servant-; perhaps we are a seducer or a priest… but it is sure that we have a place among these old, modern pages.

Leopoldo Alas Clarin. April 25th 1852- June 13th 1901. 



September 12, 2010 Posted by | Short Stories | , , , , | Leave a comment

About Jorge Luis Borges, by Martín Cid

Martin Cid writing in English

In a small room, a book was opened by a mystic man… all that happened in an eternal library.
He was one of the last Borges’ characters, Jaromir Hladik, who -in the point of being shot- stopped a bullet to correct his imaginary literary work.

“Kabala” is a way of studying reality: “The Word” and its 22 magical symbols are its tools.
The Argentine writer was precisely one of the few authors who could stop the literary time, just to correct his epitaph… on a false grave:

Jorge Francisco Isidoro Luis Borges (Buenos Aires, 24th of August, 1899 – Genève, 14th of June, 1986.

The Kabalistic Tree has 10 sefirot and 22 ways and 4 worlds.
For Borges, “Time” is words, only words which speak to the silent centuries.
For kabala, “Time” is nothing but words which speak to faceless gods.
22 + point + comma + space = 25 orthographic symbols in The Library of Babel.
And the sky which looks at the Creation and sees everything and speaks every language was called Mathematics by Pythagoras.
And the place, where every language was confused, was called Babel by God.
And the librarian of hexagonal dead cold rooms, which contends exactly twenty five raised to one million three hundred thousand and twelve books of twenty five symbols, was called Jaromir Hladík by Borges.
Every Hebrew letter has its corresponding number.
“Secret geometry” is the branch of kabala which looks into relationships among words of a similar numeric value.

And someone said: every room shall be a hexagon and every hexagon shall contend 640 books:
6 + 4 + 0 = 10 = 1. According to cabalists, One is God’s number.
Rabbis say that God looked at the Torah before creating the world.
Because nothing is by chance in the book which is the father of other books.
Because nothing is by chance in the book which contends all of the words.
Because every room has 640 books.
Date of Borges’ birth: 24/8/ 1899. 2 + 4 + 8 + 1 + 8 + 9 +9 = 41
Date of Borges’ death: 14/6/1986. 1 + 4 + 6 + 1 + 9 + 8 + 6 = 35
41 + 35 = 76 = 7+6=13
“God is one” is summarized repeating the Word ejat “one” since its geometric value is: 1 + 8 + 4 = 13
2×13 = 26 = IHVH

The Library of Babel was a short story by Borges, written in 1941.
1 + 9 + 4 + 1 = 13
Maybe the tired echo of those hexagonal walls will return “The Word” and the order to the mystic man… or maybe it will not.
The mystic man looked at his shadow on the wall which summed 13.
In his prison of words and numbers, the mystic man remembered his name: Jaromir Hladík.
Now, always, he remembered a bullet which went through his chest and he remembered being playing in an imaginary library and being reading and being alive and finally, seeing the snow falling on his corpse.

August 22, 2010 Posted by | Short Stories | , , , | Leave a comment

“The Mirror” by Martín Cid

Martin Cid

            Smiling, he takes the mirror, takes again and leave the town, as I can remember, as he can remember. Maybe.

            He takes a look for first time, while the light was so cleany, foggy and crowd…, the town was waiting, for him, for me, all of us.

            I can remember, when I was just a child, even a man. I was near river Liffey, near my mother and his husband, not my father, not for more. The house was a XIX typical house, rooms and corridors, that foggy light crossing the steps, wathing us, wathcing me.

            -He did it –my mother said, I couldn´t understand it, maybe I wouldn´t understand it at all, never.

            I ran downstairs to meet my sister. No, she was´t there, she won´t be there –here- never again. Not for more, not for me. He did it, said again, he did it. I could find my steps, while I got my future, while I was living, maybe into my broken soul.

            -Give me your hand

            She was –ever- just a girl, my sister. We came to Ireland. She was eleven years old, blue eyed, beyond me. He was in the room next door, wathing, always watching, worth, Liffey sang, just three words: He did it, lilt, silent, strongly, brief… music and holy water bathing his eyes, her smooth skin.

            I opened my eyes, while she was still life, while her eyes was still open. I wathched myself, on the mirror, on my own relfection.

He did t, you did it.

The mirror always speaks with silent words, nearly, hearing the water. I meet it, I meet me. I stick her head of the water, while I was still life, while the mirror, still, got back my soul, my reflection, still over the water, smiling.

Maybe he raise it.

Read more: http://www.martincid.com

August 19, 2010 Posted by | Short Stories | , , | Leave a comment

My bio: Martin Cid

I am a writer. Novels: Ariza, A Century of Ashes and Eminescu’s 7 Sins.

Director of the magazine Yareah (http://www.yareah.com)

Web: http://www.martincid.com

August 6, 2010 Posted by | Uncategorized | | Leave a comment

The train, by Martin Cid

When the train arrived, he felt alone, ethereal. Who was he? He was aware of his own hands and fingers, of the skin under them…, maybe much more.

His corpse was in front of him, again strange… past and future.

The cops were around the crowded station -sirens and lights-.., he could fly now, among sounds and skins. Ten o’clock, too late, foggy night. It happened on the third wagon.

-I was waiting for you, my old friend.

Cloudy silent screams.

            His voice was ringing familiar like a dark memory, like the bells were sounding broken in his own unreachable dream. He recognized this voice tone, this fury. How could it be? When? He turned his face off, with a brilliant movement of his eyes, come, come… There are shadows, again and again, still beyond the window. Something was watching them.

-Time is over, David.

He knew it: the shadow always knew the future like every soul knows the past. He slides the knife along his face, no more fear.

-You knew it before it happened.

The last thing he saw it was his own shape with veins and struggles…, he saw the past along the ghost… Look at your eyes, look deeply, time is over.

He left the wagon and his corpse, waiting for the next station, waiting for him. He could watch now all souls, splitting in two, in the bloody past.

Why? I was there, near the border.

Read more: http://www.martincid.com


August 4, 2010 Posted by | Short Stories | , | Leave a comment