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Curiosa assessing a student's second of the ESO, which tells me a companion. A teacher's question of why a poem by Gerardo Diego, who had just read in class, was a literary text, the student replied: "Because words are tuneadas ."

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Poetic language Another Valente time

again, and always Valente. Have recently seen the light two works of mine on the master: a comprehensive review, written long ago, on his complete works, published in Insula in the October issue, and a study on the trace of the sacred in his work ( in the Journal of Literature , CSIC).
As always a good excuse to read the teacher, left here this poem, the last closed (or open) the entire poem, published in his posthumous book Fragments of a future book :

______________ Anonymous: version _______________

Ridge Summit. _______________
The Nightingale and you
_______________ ye are the same.

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Cruelty Language Teacher

An anecdote that perhaps no surprise to colleagues: a student scolds me, outraged, because in Language and Literature course, I insist that students be properly expressed in the reviews (and not only in these), intolerable cruelty that makes me worthy (I guess) of all kinds of curses and punishments.

perhaps not so surprising that an adolescent is considered a luxury, not a necessity, the act of acquiring adequate command of their own language. What is really worrying is that many adults shared that contempt. A society that reads and writes more and worse is a society that thinks worse, probably less and less democratic society. And no little blame for this is that ideology the full communication diffuse, who under the guise of a total transparency hides the distortions and power play inherent in the linguistic exchange. Meanwhile, we insist that students learn what the predicative complement or pragmatic properties of the text, as if the acquisition of these grammatical knowledge alone would guarantee a good command of language. Or maybe that really is little interest to form citizens who are both readers (and is possible today, in a society that calls itself the information society, full citizenship without being a reader?).

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Galerna Instant

Beautiful

instant definition of Levinas gives us "a cut that does not bleed." An expression that reminds me of those verses Fausto, who was so fond of Jorge Guillén:

Werd 'ich zum sagen Augenblicke:
verweilen doch! du bist so schön!

"At the moment I would say:" Stay. You are so beautiful. "Perhaps the only eternity that we have been given is that of those moments without past or future, cuts without pain, while succession and pause in the flow of time without rest.

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PRESENTATION OF GALE. INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF LITERATURE.

The November 11 (Thursday) at 19:30 at the Runaway (C / Santa Isabel, 7. 28012 Madrid).

Speakers: Marta Lopez Luaces and Ernesto García López, directors.

participate with their own texts: Pilar Fraile, Ana Gorría, Carlos Jiménez Arribas, Esther Ramon, Juan Soros, James Womack, Juan Jacinto Muñoz Rengel, collaborate in the number of Galerna VIII.

will be read also translations of Martine Audet (Canada), Uljana Wolf (Germany), Anne Katchinska (Russia) and Adam O'Riordan (UK) by Mercedes Roffé, James Womack and José Luis Gómez Toré.

The editors thank the universities Montclair State University and The City College of New York for their support in conducting this project. Also Vladimir García-Morales for his translation of the poems of Uljana Wolf.

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A Presentation of the Fates (Friedrich Hölderlin)

grant me one summer alone, oh mighty,
And an autumn to ripen the song,
And when my heart is willing, sweet game
Del satisfied, kill me.

The soul, that the law of the gods in life
rejected, not find rest there in the Orc,
But once sacred, living
In my heart, the poem is true,

Be welcome, silence of the world of shadows,
'm glad, though the sound of my lyre
down not me.
once lived like the gods and that's enough for me.

(Friedrich Hölderlin. JLGT Version)

An die Parzen
Nur Einen Sommer
gönnt, ihr Gewaltig! Und einen Herbst
reifem Gesang zu mir, daß
williger mein Herz, vom süßen
Spiele gesättiget, dann mir sterbe.

Die Seele, der im Leben ihr göttlich Recht
Nicht ward, sie ruht auch drunten im Orkus nicht;
Doch ist mir einst das Heilge, das am
Herzen mir liegt, das Gedicht, gelungen,

Willkommen dann, o Stille der Schattenwelt!
Zufrieden bin ich, wenn auch mein Saitenspiel
Mich nicht hinab geleitet; Einmal
Lebt ich, wie Götter, und mehr bedarfs nicht.