hang 
The July 28, 1846, a tired and aged Chateaubriand, but with growing pains with extreme clarity, check out the preface to the publication of his memoirs afterlife. The preface was written some months before, specifically in April of that year. Ten years earlier, in the spring of 1836, had succeeded in selling these reports, or rather, had sold the possibility of same by 136,000 francs and a yearly income of 12,000. This allowed him to turn over the project. Thus, in the year 1846, writes: "The sad necessity, I have always had one foot on the neck, forcing me to sell my Memories . No one can get an idea of \u200b\u200bwhat I have suffered by having to mortgage my grave. " And later he adds: "Ah, if before leaving the ground, he could find someone rich enough and sufficiently reliable to redeem shares of the Company And that did not look like the society, the need to print the work as the bells ring for me! ". I already knew at that point, two years before and behind, the Company owns its Memories they had given worth 80,000 francs director La Presse that were published in installments. Its architectural design was coming down, but could do nothing but resign and return back to work, reviewing written, remaking and adjusting chapters. So, write with some despair: "Some of the shareholders are my friends, several of them are helpful people who have tried to avail me useful, but the actions may have finally been sold, be passed to third parties that I do not know and family interests take precedence over all other considerations, for These, of course, the continuation of my days is, if not inappropriate, at least harmful. Finally, if it were still owned these Memories either handwritten or delay would keep his appearance fifty years. " It was in the background that the intention of Chateuabriand, who a few lines later, says, "but I prefer to speak from the bottom of my coffin, my story is well accompanied by the voices that have something sacred, because they arise from the tomb, it is certainly a very modest interest, but what lay in the absence of anything better for the orphan (my Memories ) designed to survive after me in this world. " The symbolism of his death, sacred to the full extent of it, is transmuted into the weight left in the book. And in the same context concluded: "The life I feel bad, maybe I better go to death." Chateaubriand knows that death is near (die two years later, in 1848) and knows that what he writes be read with the hollow sound coming from the grave and yet, and here's what important, not abandoning the movement that extreme sense of the transcendent, abandoning the strict seriousness of death. Life will feel bad and later, "but would raise the time that ghosts are around to correct at least the proofs." The irony comes to his words. The resurrection would only be justified, he said, in this case, where it joins the living and the dead through the words. But this resurrection is complicated, the only possible resurrection is the will embodied in its orphan that is, in his . The book, the overall architecture of Memories has the ability, I think, to join the passing of time and closed circuit of a lifetime. Schiller said through another of our players, "would aim to eliminate the time in time to reconcile evolution with the absolute, the change of identity." Schiller is talking here of play drive as a connection point between the two poles of our existence: matter and spirit, freedom and necessity, something that certainly the French writer interested. This passing of time in the mean time, as well has studied Domingo Hernández, "the intrusion, the emergence over time of something that is not in itself temporary character, but acting only makes sense in time. " Chateaubriand seems to be clear about the premise Schiller stating that while we are not gods we sustain, acting between the two spaces, ultimately, writing. What is declaring This way is the experience of finitude. This is the place where services such as recreation and confusion of identity that you want to stress to Chateaubriand thinking about the potential reader of his Memoirs .
But not only the orphan have that capacity. At one point in his memoirs introduces another character, nature. He writes: "I have attached to my trees, I've dedicated elegies, sonnets, odes. There is not one of them that I did not watch my own Hands, who has not escaped the worm that attacks the roots of the caterpillar attached to your leaf know them all by name as if they were my children, my family, I have nothing, I hope to die in it " . But this idea of \u200b\u200bnature is not far from the materiality of the book. Nature is for Chateaubriand space where he has been reflected through his care and his gaze. Like other romantic, Hölderlin, in his youth was Rousseau said, but unlike the poet, Chateaubriand's interested in nature as a subject, as objects of care, inheritance and enjoyment, while for the poet nature was occasion , malutilizando to Malebranche, for the poet to express his feeling. On this point is in the Proceedings as it passes through the Alps, classical model for the romantic sublime. There is an entire sublime nature causing a feeling of infinity through a deep loneliness. If, however, assert, that "there are mountains such as those we see then, are the mountains such as passion, talent and muse have drawn their lines. [...] The landscape is in the palette of Claude Lorrain, no Vaccino Field. Do you love, and you will see a lone apple tree, whipped by the wind, blown [...] acquire miteriors fascination of my happiness or sadness of my heart. "
But, finally, that nature, as materiality, including death as a destination. To conclude his preface, Chateaubriand makes it clear what action to take after his death.
'll rest, then, on the shores of the sea that I loved so much. If I die outside France, I want my body to be repatriated until after the first fifty years of burial. They are free to my remains in a sacrilegious autopsy to save the effort to look at my ice cream off my brain and heart the mystery of my being. Death does not reveal the secrets of life. A corpse running the post horrifies me, bleached bones and lightweight are easy to transport: faint least on this trip that when I dragged them to and fro laden with my sorrows.
traveler to the character and Chateaubriand well as for the writer Chateaubriand's death can not come to reveal the secrets of life. And this is an important point. Death does not reveal anything beyond what one can say corruption body quietly through an autopsy. The death makes it impossible to connect the spiritual and material, makes it impossible for the confusion of the two that is the condition of possibility of life in writing. The romance of Chateaubriand has its limits. Only life can reveal something, anything, secret or no-one's life. Or put otherwise, only the exercise to observe and recreate their lives (through writing) may reveal his secret, which is the very act of living. So he wrote: "The changing shape of my life and have invaded each other: I thought that in my moments of happiness, I had to talk about my days of misery, in my days of trial, describe my day said. " And later: "My crib has some of my grave, my grave some of my birthplace, my sufferings become pleasures, my pleasures, pains, and I do not know, to stop reading these memoirs , if a head of gray hair or a dark-haired. "
When Chateaubriand describes this kind of confusion , as he calls it, the romance is already a strange movement, moved away from its roots. But you understand, at the end of its journey, the essential mark of this romance. The confusion as an exercise in self-knowledge. Fragmentation as elemental impulse after wandering illustrated. The dive within oneself in order to rescue pieces of that puzzle, impossible to decipher in the full sense, that is the subject himself to himself. The economic duty, the evidence printing, the presence of death, youth, everything ends well steeped in his prose rote. This confusion is not far from overcoming or the end of romanticism, but on top of that, its full implementation. Recall that a poet like William Wordsworth, in another of those rare romantic architecture and grounds, Prelude , he wrote: "My own voice and encouraged me even more, in the mind / the internal echo imperfect sound; / both heard and received the two / a cheerful confidence in things to come. "
blog1 from Pablo Portilla on Vimeo .
