Sé que para algunos de ustedes, la lengua de Chaucer, Milton y el bardo de Stradford sigue siendo terra quasi incognita. Sé que para otros es un vado difícil de cruzar. Prometo en otro momento escribir la version castellana, pero sabrán entender que hoy estoy muy cansado para pensar en dos idiomas.
El inglés sigue siendo una lengua extranjera para mí y a veces me es difícil decir todo lo que quiero decir. Pero hoy salió mejor en la lengua de esta isla que me cobija.
Un gran abrazo,
Juan
Last Sunday my uncle Peter passed away. Since I got to know the news, I haven’t been able to stop crying. He died at home, surrounded by his numberless friends and his beloved wife Laura in this cold South American winter of our discontent.
Peter was a wolf amongst dogs, a lion amongst hyenas, a giant in a world of dwarfs. Within the little case of his tiny feeble body, he encapsulated the wisdom of the Seven Sages, Bertrand Russell’s wit, St Francis’ tenderness and love for everyone he knew. He was loved by millions and millions did he love.
Being my uncle, he became my fried and brought me great support and relief in the darkest hours of my life. He taught me that if there’s any point in life, it is to become knowledgeable rather than acknowledged, loving rather than beloved, befriending rather than befriended. He introduced me into Dionysus’ cult and its fermented grapes of life. He showed me that there’re no such things as disciplines, but only one science, the greatest human enterprise.
Nature was unfair to him and gave him a weak heart. All he had in generosity for the others, in health for himself, he lacked. He always said that he’d been outliving himself for years. He’s now departed for the land whence nobody comes back. The clocks have all stopped, the dogs don’t bark no more, the muffled funeral drum has gone a-silent.
We’re made of the same stuff as dreams, and as dreams we all shall vanish. It is just in the minds of the living that we survive. Heroes get statues and sagas to honour their immortality. I haven’t got but tears to dedicate to his memory. He’ll remain alive in everyone of us who’ve been fortunate enough to be his friends. Immortal as he’s become, he’ll be forever watching us from Aldebaran.
Juan,
on a cold summer morning amidst the hills of Moseley, Beorma, Britannia Maior.
