Pasaje: “A passage to India”, por E.M. Forster

Tal vez mi escritor favorito. E.M. Forster.
Las cuevas de Marabar son uno de los sitios que me aventuraría a visitar.
Lastimosamente, creo que no existen. Físicamente.
Refraseo.
Las cuevas de Marabar son uno de los sitios que más placer me ha reportado visitar.
Agradezco a E.M. Forster por extenderme un pasaje.

“There are some exquisite echoes in India; there is the whisper round the dome of Bijapur; there are the long, solid sentences that voyage through the air at Mandu, and return unbroken to their creator. The echo in a Marabar cave is not like these, it is entirely devoid of distinction. Whatever is said, the same monotonous noise replies, and quivers up and down the walls until it is absorbed into the roof. ‘Boum’ is the sound as far as the human alphabet can express it, or ‘bou-oum,’ or ‘ou-boum’ — utterly dull. Hope, politeness, the blowing of a nose, the squeak of a boot — all produce ‘boum.’ Even the striking of a match starts a little worm coiling, which is too small to complete a circle, but is eternally watchful. And if several people talk at once, an overlapping howling noise begins, echoes generate echoes, and the cave is stuffed with a snake composed of small snakes, which writhe independently.”

(…)

La señora Moore:

“The crush and the smells she could forget, but the echo began in some indescribable way to undermine her hold on life. Coming at a moment when she chanced to be fatigued, it had managed to murmur, ‘Pathos, piety, courage — they exist, but are identical, and so is filth. Everything exists, nothing has value.’ If one had spoken vileness in that place, or quoted lofty poetry, the comment would have been the same — ‘ou-boum.’ If one had spoken with tongues and pleaded for all the unhappiness and misunderstanding in the world, past, present, and to come, for all the misery men must undergo whatever their opinion and position, and however much they dodge or bluff — it would amount to the same . . . suddenly, at the edge of her mind, Religion appeared, poor little talkative Christianity, and she knew that all its divine words from ‘Let there be Light’ to ‘It is finished’ only amounted to ‘boum.’”

Boum.

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Boum.