bilingüe [pdf] - Blog de Javier Smaldone
bilingüe [pdf] - Blog de Javier Smaldone
bilingüe [pdf] - Blog de Javier Smaldone
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George Orwell 1 9 8 4<br />
he knew in his dream that in some way the lives<br />
of his mother and his sister had been sacrificed to<br />
his own. It was one of those dreams which, while<br />
retaining the characteristic dream scenery, are a<br />
continuation of one's intellectual life, and in<br />
which one becomes aware of facts and i<strong>de</strong>as<br />
which still seem new and valuable after one is<br />
awake. The thing that now sud<strong>de</strong>nly struck<br />
Winston was that his mother's <strong>de</strong>ath, nearly thirty<br />
years ago, had been tragic and sorrowful in a way<br />
that was no longer possible. Tragedy, he<br />
perceived, belonged to the ancient time, to a time<br />
when there was still privacy, love, and<br />
friendship, and when the members of a family<br />
stood by one another without needing to know<br />
the reason. His mother's memory tore at his heart<br />
because she had died loving him, when he was<br />
too young and selfish to love her in return, and<br />
because somehow, he did not remember how, she<br />
had sacrificed herself to a conception of loyalty<br />
that was private and unalterable. Such things, he<br />
saw, could not happen today. Today there were<br />
fear, hatred, and pain, but no dignity of emotion,<br />
no <strong>de</strong>ep or complex sorrows. All this he seemed<br />
to see in the large eyes of his mother and his<br />
sister, looking up at him through the green water,<br />
hundreds of fathoms down and still sinking.<br />
Sud<strong>de</strong>nly he was standing on short springy turf,<br />
on a summer evening when the slanting rays of<br />
the sun gil<strong>de</strong>d the ground. The landscape that he<br />
was looking at recurred so often in his dreams<br />
that he was never fully certain whether or not he<br />
had seen it in the real world. In his waking<br />
thoughts he called it the Gol<strong>de</strong>n Country. It was<br />
an old, rabbit-bitten pasture, with a foot-track<br />
wan<strong>de</strong>ring across it and a molehill here and there.<br />
In the ragged hedge on the opposite si<strong>de</strong> of the<br />
field the boughs of the elm trees were swaying<br />
very faintly in the breeze, their leaves just stirring<br />
in <strong>de</strong>nse masses like women's hair. Somewhere<br />
near at hand, though out of sight, there was a<br />
clear, slow-moving stream where dace were<br />
swimming in the pools un<strong>de</strong>r the willow trees.<br />
The girl with dark hair was coming towards them<br />
across the field. With what seemed a single<br />
soñaba estaba seguro <strong>de</strong> que, <strong>de</strong> un modo u otro, las<br />
vidas <strong>de</strong> su madre y su hermana fueron sacrificadas<br />
para que él viviera. Era uno <strong>de</strong> esos ensueños que, a<br />
pesar <strong>de</strong> utilizar toda la escenografía onírica habitual,<br />
son una continuación <strong>de</strong> nuestra vida intelectual y en<br />
los que nos damos cuenta <strong>de</strong> hechos e i<strong>de</strong>as que<br />
siguen teniendo un valor <strong>de</strong>spués <strong>de</strong>l <strong>de</strong>spertar. Pero<br />
lo que <strong>de</strong> pronto sobresaltó a Winston, al pensar<br />
luego en lo que había soñado, fue que la muerte <strong>de</strong><br />
su madre, ocurrida treinta años antes, había sido<br />
trágica y dolorosa <strong>de</strong> un modo que ya no era posible.<br />
Pensó que la tragedia pertenecía a los tiempos<br />
antiguos y que sólo podía concebirse en una época en<br />
que había aún intimidad — vida privada, amor y<br />
amistad — y en que los miembros <strong>de</strong> una familia<br />
permanecían juntos sin necesidad <strong>de</strong> tener una razón<br />
especial para ello. El recuerdo <strong>de</strong> su madre le<br />
torturaba porque había muerto amándole cuando él<br />
era <strong>de</strong>masiado joven y egoísta para <strong>de</strong>volverle ese<br />
cariño y porque <strong>de</strong> alguna manera — no recordaba<br />
cómo — se había sacrificado a un concepto <strong>de</strong> la<br />
lealtad que era privadísimo e inalterable. Bien<br />
comprendía Winston que esas cosas no podían<br />
suce<strong>de</strong>r ahora. Lo que ahora había era miedo, odio y<br />
dolor físico, pero no emociones dignas ni penas<br />
profundas y complejas. Todo esto lo había visto,<br />
soñando, en los ojos <strong>de</strong> su madre y su hermanita, que<br />
lo miraban a él a través <strong>de</strong> las aguas ver<strong>de</strong>oscuras, a<br />
una inmensa profundidad y sin <strong>de</strong>jar <strong>de</strong> hundirse.<br />
De pronto, se vio <strong>de</strong> pie sobre el césped en una tar<strong>de</strong><br />
<strong>de</strong> verano en que los rayos oblicuos <strong>de</strong>l sol doraban<br />
la corta hierba. El paisaje que se le aparecía ahora se<br />
le presentaba con tanta frecuencia en sueños que<br />
nunca estaba completamente seguro <strong>de</strong> si lo había<br />
visto alguna vez en la vida real. Cuando estaba<br />
<strong>de</strong>spierto, lo llamaba el País Dorado. Lo cubrían<br />
pastos mordidos por los conejos con un sen<strong>de</strong>ro que<br />
serpenteaba por él y, aquí y allá, unas pequeñísimas<br />
elevaciones <strong>de</strong>l terreno. Al fondo, se velan unos<br />
olmos que se balanceaban suavemente con la brisa y<br />
sus follajes parecían cabelleras <strong>de</strong> mujer. Cerca,<br />
aunque fuera <strong>de</strong> la vista, corría un claro arroyuelo <strong>de</strong><br />
lento fluir.<br />
La muchacha morena venía hacia él por aquel<br />
campo. Con un solo movimiento se <strong>de</strong>spojó <strong>de</strong> sus<br />
52