What do you think?
Rate this book
El mono gramático
A la vez vasta reflexión y poema en prosa, El Mono Gramático es una de las obras más importantes de Octavio Paz. Dos escenarios convergentes el camino de Galta, en la India, y un jardín de Cambridge son el punto de partida de una indagación en torno al sentido del lenguaje y sus relaciones con la realidad fenoménica, en torno al juego de secretas correspondencias entre idea y verbo, palabra y percepción, erotismo y conocimiento. Los mitos cosmogónicos orientales y los arquetipos revelados en el arte romántico Delacroix o en el arte de los dementes Richard Dadd convergen ocultamente; el budismo tántrico, en cuanto experiencia mística de lo absoluto, se revela afán a la revelación poética. El fulgurante genio expresivo de Paz hace de El Mono Gramático una constelación de signos e imágenes, de presencias fonéticas y semánticas, que estalla con silencioso resplandor en el campo de batalla de la página en blanco.
168 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1974
About the author
Octavio Paz
559 books1,484 followersOctavio Paz Lozano was a Mexican writer, poet, and diplomat, and the winner of the 1982 Neustadt International Prize for Literature and the 1990 Nobel Prize for Literature ("for impassioned writing with wide horizons, characterized by sensuous intelligence and humanistic integrity.")
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 30 of 63 reviews
February 12, 2013
Not a word in the dictionary to rest your head on. How can a true lover of language endorse it? How can a Grammarian escape himself? Hanuman watches the city he will destroy - first by naming and then by fire; Paz observes the Noble Monkey and destroys him by writing about him; and then sets himself down on paper, to be destroyed by the reader as he reads. The words flowing into meaning, the meanings flowing out as they do. Paz reads about Valmiki who had read Hanuman's readings of the battle of Lanka. Valmiki erases, Hanuman erases, Paz erases. Only Splendor survives.
This is one of those books that is humbling and infuriating at the same time. The reader becomes the author and then the actor and then again a mere reader. Then a review is to be written that makes no sense to anyone else. That is the end of this reading. Thank You.
January 12, 2022
Mexican poet and diplomat Octavio Paz won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1990 and first published this work, the Monkey Grammarian, while he was Ambassador to India, in 1972.
Whenever I read a work of prose by a poet, I always get the impression that the writer is stepping down their lofty ideas for us to better understand, the poet as artist, the athlete of words and abstract concepts trying to make it a little easier for the rest of us, attempting to be a bit more accessible.
The Monkey Grammarian is like this, a mesmerizing cloud of words and ideas coming at you off the page in colorful but dizzying rapidity. The mix of Indian and Hindu, philosophy and eroticism, romantic and starkly realistic imagery is a heady brew, and maybe like the best poetry, best read aloud and for the imaginative qualitive more so than a linear narrative to follow from A to B.
I read the Helen Lane translation and while this was enjoyable, it might be best understood and explained as a part of a reading group or a literature class – not near enough beer and pizza for this knuckle dragger.
Whenever I read a work of prose by a poet, I always get the impression that the writer is stepping down their lofty ideas for us to better understand, the poet as artist, the athlete of words and abstract concepts trying to make it a little easier for the rest of us, attempting to be a bit more accessible.
The Monkey Grammarian is like this, a mesmerizing cloud of words and ideas coming at you off the page in colorful but dizzying rapidity. The mix of Indian and Hindu, philosophy and eroticism, romantic and starkly realistic imagery is a heady brew, and maybe like the best poetry, best read aloud and for the imaginative qualitive more so than a linear narrative to follow from A to B.
I read the Helen Lane translation and while this was enjoyable, it might be best understood and explained as a part of a reading group or a literature class – not near enough beer and pizza for this knuckle dragger.
February 9, 2015
No sabría cómo definir este libro, y creo que es parte de su belleza. Paz juega con el lenguaje como un niño con plastilina, lo arma, desarma, deforma, cuestiona. Tiene sensualidad, poesía, imágenes hermosas. Recomendadísimo. Pero estoy obsesionada con Paz, así que no me hagan mucho caso, o no, mejor si, haganme caso.
February 20, 2008
The best thing to do will be to choose the path to Galta, traverse it again (invent it as I traverse it), and without realizing it, almost imperceptibly, go to the end-- without being concerned about what "going to the end" means or waht I meant when I wrote that phrase . . .
September 21, 2013
Art and India. This piece is rhythmic, sensual and peaceful. I have a sacred temple in my heart for pages and pages of poetry regarding exotic trees their medicinal uses. This is by far my favorite book of poetry.
March 16, 2026
2.5/5
Octavio Paz comes at the crossroads of past calcifications, present resuscitations, and future emancipations: Nobel Prize, Mexico, Global South. I first gloried in his The Labyrinth of Solitude and Other Writings and was loathe to leave him a one-hit-wonder, so when my favorite used book store of all time magically sourced this from its limited inventory as it is so wont to do, I snatched it up. The family member who drew me to that particular corner of the bookish world has since relocated there and away, but I still have this work to ponder over. Indeed, at first glance it is marvelously "difficult," but let your eyes not be dazzled by the 'meta' and your loins not seduced by the cishet, and you'll find some awfully predictable themes tying it all together. For the positives, Vedic belief systems of course, and dwelling upon the new yet oddly familiar figure of Hanuman gave me reason to contemplate the metaphors we live by, Sun Wukong of The Journey to the West and other iconic media, and the relationship struck between Mexico and India in a supreme sociocultural sign of solidarity that will always send the current WASP powers into a tizzy. Still, it was oddly convenient how little the concept of "woman" traversed similarly infinite potentialities, or at least none beyond the images of the perfect cis embodiment of the concept coupling with other women as well as beasts. Once could point to one entity or another, but another fun fact about Hanuman? Supremely venerated for his chastity as part and parcel of his warrior poet personality.
All in all, this is certainly a classic result of outsized masculine insecurities coupled to political aspirations and the furthest reaches of egghead scholarship ranging from Sanskrit strictures to hallucinatory linguistics. Encompassing all the life and death and then some, but the infinities where womanhood acts as reference point rather than grand object are strangely absent. In any case, different enough from what I usually disinter from my shelves, and short enough for me to gather what data points I could without too much frustration. Still, uncouth as it may be, I do prefer Paz in a more postcolonial vein, lest he find himself indulging the more fascist aspects of masculinity and nationalism and otherwise believing the Powers That Be that proclaim that The Master's Tools Will Always Dismantle the Master's House.
Octavio Paz comes at the crossroads of past calcifications, present resuscitations, and future emancipations: Nobel Prize, Mexico, Global South. I first gloried in his The Labyrinth of Solitude and Other Writings and was loathe to leave him a one-hit-wonder, so when my favorite used book store of all time magically sourced this from its limited inventory as it is so wont to do, I snatched it up. The family member who drew me to that particular corner of the bookish world has since relocated there and away, but I still have this work to ponder over. Indeed, at first glance it is marvelously "difficult," but let your eyes not be dazzled by the 'meta' and your loins not seduced by the cishet, and you'll find some awfully predictable themes tying it all together. For the positives, Vedic belief systems of course, and dwelling upon the new yet oddly familiar figure of Hanuman gave me reason to contemplate the metaphors we live by, Sun Wukong of The Journey to the West and other iconic media, and the relationship struck between Mexico and India in a supreme sociocultural sign of solidarity that will always send the current WASP powers into a tizzy. Still, it was oddly convenient how little the concept of "woman" traversed similarly infinite potentialities, or at least none beyond the images of the perfect cis embodiment of the concept coupling with other women as well as beasts. Once could point to one entity or another, but another fun fact about Hanuman? Supremely venerated for his chastity as part and parcel of his warrior poet personality.
All in all, this is certainly a classic result of outsized masculine insecurities coupled to political aspirations and the furthest reaches of egghead scholarship ranging from Sanskrit strictures to hallucinatory linguistics. Encompassing all the life and death and then some, but the infinities where womanhood acts as reference point rather than grand object are strangely absent. In any case, different enough from what I usually disinter from my shelves, and short enough for me to gather what data points I could without too much frustration. Still, uncouth as it may be, I do prefer Paz in a more postcolonial vein, lest he find himself indulging the more fascist aspects of masculinity and nationalism and otherwise believing the Powers That Be that proclaim that The Master's Tools Will Always Dismantle the Master's House.
September 4, 2021
Wanted to like it — read and re-read a handful of gem-like sections, and Paz (whose theme consists in the fixities of Zeno’s paradox) is certainly a poetic genius, but this work collapses under the weight of its tedious philosophizing. For a more effective (and funner) work that seeks to describe the same problems, check out Dumitru Tepeneag’s Vain art of the fugue.
March 25, 2014
No le pongo más estrellas porque ya no hay más...
Read
May 20, 2021Si fuéramos rigurosos, solo usaríamos el adjetivo «inclasificable» para libros como «El mono gramático», un hito fundamental en la obra de Octavio Paz (México, 1914-1998). Son poco más de un centenar de páginas divididas en 29 capítulos, pero en ellas el premio Nobel combina, con libertad y rigor artístico extremos, narración, prosa poética y ensayo guiado por la idea de «trazar un texto que fuese efectivamente un camino y que pudiese ser leído, recorrido como tal».
Ese camino es el que lleva a Galta, un poblado en ruinas de la India donde se venera al Gran Mono, «hijo del viento, poeta y gramático, […] el mensajero divino, el Espíritu Santo de la India». Paz fue nombrado embajador en ese país en 1962, cargo del que dimitió en 1968 como protesta por la represión de las manifestaciones estudiantiles en la plaza de Tlatelolco. Dos años después, el escritor relata ese viaje que es físico y también —sobre todo— interior, lo recuerda, lo recrea, lo inventa, y cada paso es al mismo tiempo un desvío hacia otras parcelas de una realidad tan única como diversa: un jardín de Cambridge, el lenguaje y el conocimiento, las cosmogonías orientales, el cuerpo, la Naturaleza, una calle de México.
Los fragmentos se conectan a través de imágenes, repeticiones, oposiciones y correspondencias deslumbrantes. También gracias al virtuosismo verbal de Octavio Paz, capaz de expresar con exactitud cualquier idea, gesto, pensamiento, matiz. El texto es como una riada y un remolino, una fiesta en la que todo está permitido menos los tópicos, un salto mortal sin red, un vértigo que permite vislumbrar lo que no se comprende por completo.
«En el camino de Galta siempre recomenzado, insensiblemente y sin que me lo propusiera, a medida que lo andaba y lo desandaba, se fue construyendo este ahora de la terraza: yo estoy clavado aquí, como el baniano entretejido por su pueblo de raíces, pero podría estar allá, en otro ahora —que sería el mismo ahora. Cada tiempo es diferente; cada lugar es distinto y todos son el mismo, son lo mismo. Todo es ahora».
Ese camino es el que lleva a Galta, un poblado en ruinas de la India donde se venera al Gran Mono, «hijo del viento, poeta y gramático, […] el mensajero divino, el Espíritu Santo de la India». Paz fue nombrado embajador en ese país en 1962, cargo del que dimitió en 1968 como protesta por la represión de las manifestaciones estudiantiles en la plaza de Tlatelolco. Dos años después, el escritor relata ese viaje que es físico y también —sobre todo— interior, lo recuerda, lo recrea, lo inventa, y cada paso es al mismo tiempo un desvío hacia otras parcelas de una realidad tan única como diversa: un jardín de Cambridge, el lenguaje y el conocimiento, las cosmogonías orientales, el cuerpo, la Naturaleza, una calle de México.
Los fragmentos se conectan a través de imágenes, repeticiones, oposiciones y correspondencias deslumbrantes. También gracias al virtuosismo verbal de Octavio Paz, capaz de expresar con exactitud cualquier idea, gesto, pensamiento, matiz. El texto es como una riada y un remolino, una fiesta en la que todo está permitido menos los tópicos, un salto mortal sin red, un vértigo que permite vislumbrar lo que no se comprende por completo.
«En el camino de Galta siempre recomenzado, insensiblemente y sin que me lo propusiera, a medida que lo andaba y lo desandaba, se fue construyendo este ahora de la terraza: yo estoy clavado aquí, como el baniano entretejido por su pueblo de raíces, pero podría estar allá, en otro ahora —que sería el mismo ahora. Cada tiempo es diferente; cada lugar es distinto y todos son el mismo, son lo mismo. Todo es ahora».
February 13, 2026
en ocasiones da la impresión de ke ni él mismo sabe lo ke esta escribiendo ni sobre ké escribe (y tp m sorprendería ke realmente fuera así). es el tipo d libro ke cuando lo terminas no te keda claro del todo si el autor es un genio o un imbécil.. escojo pensar lo primero
realmente a lo largo d la obra está muy presente la reflexión sobre la mutabilidad del Ser y la obra misma adkiere bastante ese carácter asik no sabría cmo definirla o describirla
enfin un 10 aunk m kedo cn ganas d releerla dsps d leer más a Heidegger y Zambrano pa ver si capto más o mejor
realmente a lo largo d la obra está muy presente la reflexión sobre la mutabilidad del Ser y la obra misma adkiere bastante ese carácter asik no sabría cmo definirla o describirla
enfin un 10 aunk m kedo cn ganas d releerla dsps d leer más a Heidegger y Zambrano pa ver si capto más o mejor
August 13, 2019
"When I am alone, I am not alone: I am with myself; being separated is not being excluded: it is being oneself. When with everyone, I am exiled from myself; when I am alone, I am in the whole that belongs entirely to me."
A journey to the temple of Galta in India becomes an opportunity for Paz to explore the nature of reality, language, knowing, time, fixity and the momentary nature of life. If you are unwilling to go on a linguistic inquiry, (with phrases like "momentary fixity" scattered throughout), and the thought experiment of a remarkable mind, then give this a miss.
"names as we already know, are empty, but what we did not know, or if we did know, had forgotten, is that sensations are perceptions of sensations that die away, sensations that vanish on becoming perceptions, since if they were not perceptions, how would we know that they are sensations?"
There are worlds of thinking and wisdom here. What a delight.
My gasps of surprise and joy sometimes came after a few minutes of wearing a confused and furrowed brow as I read and re-read paragraphs like the one above. I found this full of moments of startling brilliance and lucidity, an ability to dwell in paradox, which is rare, accompanied by luscious, evocative prose that put me in the jungles with him.
Regarding the fierce stubbornness of plants: "But they choose to remain where they are: they do not have blood or nerves, only sap, and instead of rage or fear, a silent tenacity possesses them. Animals flee or attack; trees stay firmly planted where they are. Patience: the heroism of plants."
Shut up. How great is that?
Octavio Paz. A master.
A journey to the temple of Galta in India becomes an opportunity for Paz to explore the nature of reality, language, knowing, time, fixity and the momentary nature of life. If you are unwilling to go on a linguistic inquiry, (with phrases like "momentary fixity" scattered throughout), and the thought experiment of a remarkable mind, then give this a miss.
"names as we already know, are empty, but what we did not know, or if we did know, had forgotten, is that sensations are perceptions of sensations that die away, sensations that vanish on becoming perceptions, since if they were not perceptions, how would we know that they are sensations?"
There are worlds of thinking and wisdom here. What a delight.
My gasps of surprise and joy sometimes came after a few minutes of wearing a confused and furrowed brow as I read and re-read paragraphs like the one above. I found this full of moments of startling brilliance and lucidity, an ability to dwell in paradox, which is rare, accompanied by luscious, evocative prose that put me in the jungles with him.
Regarding the fierce stubbornness of plants: "But they choose to remain where they are: they do not have blood or nerves, only sap, and instead of rage or fear, a silent tenacity possesses them. Animals flee or attack; trees stay firmly planted where they are. Patience: the heroism of plants."
Shut up. How great is that?
Octavio Paz. A master.
August 22, 2023
6,5/10. Lúcida reflexión sobre el lenguaje. Gran ejercicio de fusión de estilos poético y filosófico. A partir de un punto, la obra pasa a ser percibida como una gimnástica demostración de la exuberancia intelectual del autor —como circuiteros de gimnasio, pero con el cerebro—, y ahí ya te empiezas a incomodar y piensas: «don Octavio, por favor, guárdese el pajarito». Se lo recomendaría mucho a mis enemigos. Viva Juan Rulfo.
March 27, 2015
Surprised by the pleasure of enjoying the translation as much as I had enjoyed the work in it s original language. Perhaps such pleasure derives from the sense-awaking way in which our Mexican renowned-artist, Octavio Paz, paints intricate designs on the canvas of language, using multifarious tones from his palate of language to paint language and so on.
February 19, 2014
"Me di cuenta de que mi texto no iba a ninguna parte" dice Paz y, precisamente, yo creo que ese es el problema. Terrible caso. El texto es bonito pero no tiene algo detrás. "Ay, pero si el agua, ay, si no sabe a nada".
June 9, 2013
Me resultó complicado seguir el ritmo y lenguaje de Paz, pero con tiempo y ganas es posible (aún para alguien como yo) disfrutar de su exquisito léxico y recursos.
April 23, 2016
Un libro experimental, valiente, poesía en prosa en su máxima expresión. Me lo repetiré cuando me jubile, jejeje
May 28, 2023
Close to 4 stars. There were some super cool ideas in the book and when I understood/was following the plot the boom got much better but there was too much that went over my head. I couldn’t tell if I was being dumb or just what but I couldn’t wrap my head around some of Paz’s ideas about time and words and how they disappear and might not mean anything. Too confusing to me to give it anything higher.
March 25, 2026
anything by Octavio Paz will fly in my world
this - even though I got very much used to it, was somehow on the edge of - will I get it??
this - even though I got very much used to it, was somehow on the edge of - will I get it??
June 23, 2025
Beautiful, like nothing else I’ve ever read. Definitely required a lot of attention and warrants a re-read.
May 24, 2020
A short walk, pilgrimage, a questioning of the distance language puts between us, the permanence of slipping shifting nearing... there are parts of this that are wonderful koan-like contradiction, parts that are delicate descriptive poetry, parts that will frustrate any of us for getting nowhere.
September 2, 2021
The author of this book took a trip to Galta. If you’re wondering what it was like then don’t worry. He intends to show you to the best of his ability. I honestly don’t think this book can be explained, but hopefully related. Galta is actually awaiting us at the end of this summarization too. Well maybe not the end. At the end there is nothing. If something were to await us at the end then surely it was never the end. But we’ll set forth even if no one or nothing is awaiting us. But clearly you’re not traveling. You have to travel using grammar. Reading and a path. Reading a stretch of ground, deciphering a fragment of the world. Reading considered a path towards. If the universe really is a meaningless text then grammar is the critique of the universe.
Words are weaved together in this book to reflect reality. Like if I say “Galta will be a dusty ancient place with greenish yellow pools filled with filth. Inhabited by monkeys. Old temples with stone archways for entrances and aging idols depicting Hanuman, beastial orgies, and some sexy as fuck artwork. All of it sitting atop a cracked earth but below a sky ready to crack.” You’re seeing some of it already but not all of it. Maybe you’re just sensing Galta’s presence in your present. Or the imminence of its presence before it presents itself. But there is no presence - only an expectation comprised of irritation and impotence. There will be dust whirlwinds. Phantoms that appear, disappear, reappear here and there. Ceremonies of dust and air. Which don’t contain any actual realities just signs of it.
Everything I have written is a ceremony also. The whirling of words that appear and disappear as they circle round and round. These words are weaved together to reflect a sensation of a perception of a sensation. They must be weaved together to form a metaphor for reality. Perhaps reality is a metaphor too. These words only point to other words. String enough of them together you have a permanence that fades as the words leave your lips. Fixity is always momentary. As you read this you are inventing the writer. He doesn’t coincide with my own reality the same way the person that wrote these words does not coincide with the reality I created for him. No reality belongs to us. We all live somewhere beyond where we are. The self is not you or I. It is a transitory state that is the perception of a sensation. But who or what perceives, who senses? Are the eyes that look at what I write the same eyes I say are looking at what I write. Who is writing what you are reading? These aren’t my words. I’m only mimicking another writer. All I know is you are which means I am. It’s reversible. I wrote this and you read it. It’s just as much yours now as it was mine.
And here we are at the end… Galta… nothing. You’ve been in a state of becoming. Transitioned from what you were to what you are now. By now your path to here has faded. The words remain but the journey is gone and now the end fades to (to what).
Look this is how this book reads. You’ll absorb it and release it. If you've made it to this point then I think you'll enjoy it. To me it was incredible.
Words are weaved together in this book to reflect reality. Like if I say “Galta will be a dusty ancient place with greenish yellow pools filled with filth. Inhabited by monkeys. Old temples with stone archways for entrances and aging idols depicting Hanuman, beastial orgies, and some sexy as fuck artwork. All of it sitting atop a cracked earth but below a sky ready to crack.” You’re seeing some of it already but not all of it. Maybe you’re just sensing Galta’s presence in your present. Or the imminence of its presence before it presents itself. But there is no presence - only an expectation comprised of irritation and impotence. There will be dust whirlwinds. Phantoms that appear, disappear, reappear here and there. Ceremonies of dust and air. Which don’t contain any actual realities just signs of it.
Everything I have written is a ceremony also. The whirling of words that appear and disappear as they circle round and round. These words are weaved together to reflect a sensation of a perception of a sensation. They must be weaved together to form a metaphor for reality. Perhaps reality is a metaphor too. These words only point to other words. String enough of them together you have a permanence that fades as the words leave your lips. Fixity is always momentary. As you read this you are inventing the writer. He doesn’t coincide with my own reality the same way the person that wrote these words does not coincide with the reality I created for him. No reality belongs to us. We all live somewhere beyond where we are. The self is not you or I. It is a transitory state that is the perception of a sensation. But who or what perceives, who senses? Are the eyes that look at what I write the same eyes I say are looking at what I write. Who is writing what you are reading? These aren’t my words. I’m only mimicking another writer. All I know is you are which means I am. It’s reversible. I wrote this and you read it. It’s just as much yours now as it was mine.
And here we are at the end… Galta… nothing. You’ve been in a state of becoming. Transitioned from what you were to what you are now. By now your path to here has faded. The words remain but the journey is gone and now the end fades to (to what).
Look this is how this book reads. You’ll absorb it and release it. If you've made it to this point then I think you'll enjoy it. To me it was incredible.
April 15, 2020
Όπως πολύ εύστοχα διερωτάται ο μεταφραστής και προλογογράφος της ελληνικής έκδοσης Βίκτωρ Ιβάνοβιτς, τί είναι ο γραμματικός πίθηκος;
Πρόκειται φυσικά για τον άνθρωπο. Η διττή φύση του αναλύεται σε πολιτισμό και ζούγκλα, πνεύμα και ζώο, γραμματικό και πίθηκο. Μία ταυτόχρονη διπλή ιδιότητα. Οι δύο πλευρές μάχονται για την κυριαρχία. Να λατρέψω ή να κατακτήσω το γλυκό εφηβαίο της Λάμπουσας; Να θαυμάσω και να υμνήσω τη φύση ή να την κυριεύσω ολοκληρωτικά; Και τί σημαίνει ολοκληρωτικά; Πώς μπορώ να εκφράσω κάτι που δεν εκφράζεται;
Ο Παθ παίζει με τις λέξεις. Στο παρόν βιβλίο ενσαρκώνει πολλούς ρόλους, απο αυτόν του ποιητή και του ημερολογιογράφου ως αυτόν του δοκιμιογράφου, και αναγνωρίζει τη ματαιότητα του ίδιου του του εγχειρήματος. Τίποτα δε μπορεί να αποδοθεί ακέραιο και αυτούσιο σε λέξεις. Τίποτα δε μπορεί να κατανοηθεί πλήρως απο τον αναγνώστη, αφού το ίδιο το μέσο μεταφοράς της ιδέας, η γλώσσα, πάσχει. Ίσως ούτε ο ίδιος ο συγγραφέας ως αναγνώστης να μην εμπεδώνει πλήρως το γέννημα της πένας του, αφού πλέον και ο ίδιος έχει αλλάξει. Όπως όρισε και ο Φερντινάν ντε Σοσσίρ με το περίφημο γλωσσικό του σημείο, η σύχγηση του σημάινοντος με το σημαινόμενο αποτελεί πρόβλημα στην μετάδοση της ολότητας μιας ιδέας. Μόνο η ποίηση ίσως μπορεί να ξεπεράσει το πρόβλημα αυτό, χρησιμοποιώντας την αναλογία, το πιο δυνατό της εργαλείο, και μας φέρνει πιο κοντά στις καθολικές αλήθειες. <<Αναλογία: οικουμενική διαφάνεια: σε τούτο να βλέπεις εκείνο>>. Όταν μία λέξη δεν χρησιμοποιείται για να περιγράψει το πραγματικό περιεχόμενό της, αλλά κάτι άλλο, τότε οι δρόμοι της ερμηνείας είναι εξαιρετικά διευρυμένοι. Έτσι, ο Παθ μας αποδεικνύει πως η πάλη για το ανέφικτο δεν είναι μάταια.
Δύσκολο αλλά εξαιρετικά απολαυστικό βιβλίο, το οποίο δε χωρά σε καμιά κατηγορία.
Πρόκειται φυσικά για τον άνθρωπο. Η διττή φύση του αναλύεται σε πολιτισμό και ζούγκλα, πνεύμα και ζώο, γραμματικό και πίθηκο. Μία ταυτόχρονη διπλή ιδιότητα. Οι δύο πλευρές μάχονται για την κυριαρχία. Να λατρέψω ή να κατακτήσω το γλυκό εφηβαίο της Λάμπουσας; Να θαυμάσω και να υμνήσω τη φύση ή να την κυριεύσω ολοκληρωτικά; Και τί σημαίνει ολοκληρωτικά; Πώς μπορώ να εκφράσω κάτι που δεν εκφράζεται;
Ο Παθ παίζει με τις λέξεις. Στο παρόν βιβλίο ενσαρκώνει πολλούς ρόλους, απο αυτόν του ποιητή και του ημερολογιογράφου ως αυτόν του δοκιμιογράφου, και αναγνωρίζει τη ματαιότητα του ίδιου του του εγχειρήματος. Τίποτα δε μπορεί να αποδοθεί ακέραιο και αυτούσιο σε λέξεις. Τίποτα δε μπορεί να κατανοηθεί πλήρως απο τον αναγνώστη, αφού το ίδιο το μέσο μεταφοράς της ιδέας, η γλώσσα, πάσχει. Ίσως ούτε ο ίδιος ο συγγραφέας ως αναγνώστης να μην εμπεδώνει πλήρως το γέννημα της πένας του, αφού πλέον και ο ίδιος έχει αλλάξει. Όπως όρισε και ο Φερντινάν ντε Σοσσίρ με το περίφημο γλωσσικό του σημείο, η σύχγηση του σημάινοντος με το σημαινόμενο αποτελεί πρόβλημα στην μετάδοση της ολότητας μιας ιδέας. Μόνο η ποίηση ίσως μπορεί να ξεπεράσει το πρόβλημα αυτό, χρησιμοποιώντας την αναλογία, το πιο δυνατό της εργαλείο, και μας φέρνει πιο κοντά στις καθολικές αλήθειες. <<Αναλογία: οικουμενική διαφάνεια: σε τούτο να βλέπεις εκείνο>>. Όταν μία λέξη δεν χρησιμοποιείται για να περιγράψει το πραγματικό περιεχόμενό της, αλλά κάτι άλλο, τότε οι δρόμοι της ερμηνείας είναι εξαιρετικά διευρυμένοι. Έτσι, ο Παθ μας αποδεικνύει πως η πάλη για το ανέφικτο δεν είναι μάταια.
Δύσκολο αλλά εξαιρετικά απολαυστικό βιβλίο, το οποίο δε χωρά σε καμιά κατηγορία.
December 31, 2020
This was a wonderful book to find and read on the last day of the year. The story of a journey to a small town in India called Galta is no more about going to Galta than Carlos Casteneda's Journey to Ixlitan is about going to Ixlitan. More than anything it is about space and time and movement or more accurately about space and time and movement existing and yet being non-existent, simultaneously having meaning and no meaning. Paz is a Mexican Parmenides, using movement and change to prove that there is no movement or change. But there are also echoes of Zeno and Plato, and beyond that of Heidegger and Bergson and Wittgenstein and beyond that the Hindu, Buddhist and Taoist philosophies of life, time, motion and existence. There is epistemology, ontology and metaphysics here -- great thoughts about knowledge, being and time. And it is all wrapped up in the beautiful language and imagery of a great poet.
This is a book that I could read many times. I will put it aside and come back to it again in a year or two.
This is a book that I could read many times. I will put it aside and come back to it again in a year or two.
February 17, 2015
Tremendo glosador que supo encubrir (en realidad muy pocas veces) las lecturas que le fascinaron. Roba como un artista, dice un poeta texano, y Paz lo sabe hacer excelentemente, sin embargo esa brillantez de no dar crédito la siento, en muchas ocasiones, como un insulto; en esta ocasión, por citar sólo un ejemplo, no refiere que gran parte de "su" teoría del lenguaje proviene de Wittgenstein. Para ser un hombre determinado por el pensamiento binario, un mal traductor, un ensayista de verdades poéticas, un gran poeta al servicio del poder dictatorial de un partido, mismo que lo hizo embajador en India (por lo que pudo visitar Nueva Dehli, Galta, etc.) y a sabiendas de que el Nobel es un premio político, pues el ejercicio no está mal.
November 5, 2019
Un poema experimental en prosa. Lo mágico de este texto es como Paz lo hace «girar en torno a sí mismo», volviéndolo el inicio y el punto de encuentro esencial.
Hay algunos pasajes que en verdad sorprenden, y terminan por darle un sentido espiritual y místico a la literatura y a las Letras.
Una manera diferente de aproximarse a la India y perderse por el camino del lenguaje y la pasión, cuyo destino final es Galta y el inicio mismo de la obra.
Hay algunos pasajes que en verdad sorprenden, y terminan por darle un sentido espiritual y místico a la literatura y a las Letras.
Una manera diferente de aproximarse a la India y perderse por el camino del lenguaje y la pasión, cuyo destino final es Galta y el inicio mismo de la obra.
September 9, 2009
Ensayo poético filosófico en torno a la creación. ¿Es la escritura poética un camino para llegar a algún lugar? ¿a la búsqueda de sentido? O por el contrario es la escritura poética una crítica del lenguaje, un desvanecimiento de las apariencias?
VM.
VM.
February 12, 2016
Maravillosas descripciones, erotismo (capts. 10 y 11, increíbles) puro y duro.
Me llevó hasta un lugar exótico.
Cap 16 Liberación-reconciliación muy bueno.
Estilo agradable, con metáforas, pero muy descriptivo.
Me llevó hasta un lugar exótico.
Cap 16 Liberación-reconciliación muy bueno.
Estilo agradable, con metáforas, pero muy descriptivo.
September 21, 2019
Good book. Really surprized to see a non Indian understanding the culture of India in a very good way. But the genre of the book is prose poetry. I am not a big fan of this genre. So, I was not able to enjoy this book to its fullest extent.
November 3, 2016
Beautiful language, sometimes slightly tedious, but still very much enjoyed it.
December 16, 2018
Some parts were brilliant others left me confused.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 63 reviews