Cuentos Escogidos: El Ombu, Historia de Un Overo, El Nino Diablo (Spanish Edition)

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9789871316199: Cuentos Escogidos: El Ombu, Historia de Un Overo, El Nino Diablo (Spanish Edition)

Hudson nacio en la provincia de Buenos Aires en 1841, hijo de padres norteamericanos y nieto de ingleses (del condado de Devon.) En nuestro pais fue naturalista, sobre todo ornitologo y dejo a la Argentina a los treinta y tres anos de edad para establecerse en Inglaterra hasta su muerte en 1922, probablemente con la esperanza de trabajar en ciencia, pues estaba vinculado con la Royal Zoological Society y en su pais natal de entonces no tenia posibilidades. En Londres se destaco como escritor en idioma ingles. Es autor de numerosos libros, algunos de narrativa (como el cuento que llamo ''El Ombu'') y en su mayor parte de ensayos sobre naturaleza. ''Alla lejos y hace tiempo'' cuenta sus experiencias primeras en la Argentina en plena epoca de Rosas; ''Dias de ocio en Patagonia'', las de su viaje juvenil a esa zona; ''Aves del Plata'', es lo que el titulo indica y publico muchos sobre pajaros ingleses: ''Birds in London'', ''Birds and man'', ''Adventures among birds'', ''British birds'', son ejemplos. ''La tierra purpurea'' es una novela que sucede en Uruguay; ''Mansiones verdes'', otra, mas fantasiosa, en la Guayana Inglesa. Tambien novela es ''Una edad de cristal'' que se podria considerar ciencia ficcion. Fue muy valorado en Londres por los escritores contemporaneos; era amigo de Conrad, Cunninghame Graham, Galsworthy, Wells, Henry James. Conrad dijo de Hudson ''escribia como crece el pasto'', aludiendo a la facilidad y sencillez de su prosa. Ningun autor lo supero en el ensayo sobre la naturaleza en su pais donde ese genero abunda durante siglos, resultado de recorrer los pueblos del sur de Inglaterra en su primer periodo en Londres, que fue de gran pobreza. Mas etologo y observador de aves que cientifico, supo describir los habitos de estas, en los dos paises en que vivio, con suprema exactitud y admirable elegancia.

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About the Author:

Nacio en la zona rural ubicada en la actual localidad de La Carolina, en ese entonces una zona rural del partido de Quilmes (hoy partido de Florencio Varela), el 4 de agosto de 1841, 4to. hijo de Daniel Hudson y de Carolina Augusta Kimble, quienes se casaron en Boston, Estados Unidos, en 1827 y llegaron al Rio de la Plata en 1837, en el vapor ''Potomac''. Se afincan en una suerte de estancia de 400 varas de frente por legua y media de largo, adquirida a Tristan Nuno Valdez, cunado a su vez del hacendado Juan Manuel de Rosas, llamada los ''25 Ombues''. Alli comienzan una ardua vida de hacendados con la cria de ovejas. El matrimonio se ve bendecido por la llegada de 6 hijos, 4 varones y dos ninas. Su cuarto hijo se hace famoso describiendo los alrededores de su rancho natal, en su autobiografia ''Alla lejos y hace tiempo''. Los ninos de origen anglosajon, eran llevados a bautizar a la ciudad de Buenos Aires, en la Primera Iglesia Metodista en la Avenida Corrientes, existe un registro de bautismos, que contiene las partidas de esos primeros hijos. Cincuenta anos despues, en 1891, se crea el nuevo partido de Florencio Varela, sobre el pueblo de San Juan. Al fallecer Guillermo Enrique Hudson, el Dr. Fernando Pozzo, (medico y eminente ciudadano e intendente de Quilmes), se aboca a difundir su memoria. Primero dicta una conferencia en la Facultad de Medicina. Mas tarde ubica con su esposa el rancho natal y crea una Asociacion de Amigos en 1941, plantan un historico ''ombu'' y descubren un monolito en la esquina de la antigua estanzuela los ''25 Ombues'', festejando con exito la donacion del solar natal del Escritor y primer naturalista argentino, en las antiguas tierras del Visconde Davidson, el mismo se encuentra en la zona rural del actual partido de Florencio Varela, es declarada ''Reserva Natural'' por la Ley 12.584 de la provincia de Buenos Aires en 2000, y alli funciona un museo evocativo. Su primera directora, ''ad honorem'' durante los primeros anos fue la Profesora Violeta Shinya, sobrina nieta del escritor. Difundio su obra y promovio el lugar en su larga trayectoria educativa y directiva; obteniendo importantes logros y donaciones, para ampliar de las 4 ha iniciales, llegar a la antigua estanzuela, preservando asi la belleza del lugar. Crea tambien 2 bibliotecas y restaura el antiguo rancho natal. Guillermo E. Hudson Actualmente es una reserva natural que abarca 54 ha. Por el predio pasan los arroyos ''Las Conchitas'' y ''Santo Domingo'', y tiene una amplia variedad de ecosistemas con animales y plantas nativas, manteniendo el paisaje como lo viera su tio abuelo en su tierna infancia dedicado a su memoria. Descendientes de los primeros colonos ''Pioneros'' de America. En 1874 afectado por una grave dolencia cardiaca, se mudo a Londres, Inglaterra. Al ano siguiente se casa con Emily Wingrave. Fue cofundador de la primera sociedad real protectora de las Aves: ''Bird Protection Royal Society'' (1922) Pero por no ser Lord ingles, cede la presidencia. Fallece en Worthing, West Sussex, Londres, el 18 de agosto de 1922. Su tumba se encuentra en Broadwater (Sussex) (Sussex; parte de Worthing), West Sussex, Inglaterra. En su honor se nombro con su apellido La localidad homonima del Partido de Berazategui, provincia de Buenos Aires. -- Fuente: Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Review:

1. I take up pen for this foreword with the fear of one who knows that he cannot do justice to his subject, and the trembling of one who would not, for a good deal, set down words unpleasing to the eye of him who wrote Green Mansions, The Purple Land, and all those other books which have meant so much to me. For of all living authors--now that Tolstoi has gone--I could least dispense with W. H. Hudson. Why do I love his writing so? I think because he is, of living writers that I read, the rarest spirit, and has the clearest gift of conveying to me the nature of that spirit. Writers are to their readers little new worlds to be explored; and each traveller in the realms of literature must needs have a favourite hunting-ground, which, in his good will--or perhaps merely in his egoism--he would wish others to share with him. The great and abiding misfortunes of most of us writers are twofold: We are, as worlds, rather common tramping-ground for our readers, rather tame territory; and as guides and dragomans thereto we are too superficial, lacking clear intimacy of expression; in fact--like guide or dragoman--we cannot let folk into the real secrets, or show them the spirit, of the land. Now, Hudson, whether in a pure romance like this Green Mansions, or in that romantic piece of realism The Purple Land, or in books like Idle Days in Patagonia, Afoot in England, The Land's End, Adventures among Birds, A Shepherd's Life, and all his other nomadic records of communings with men, birds, beasts, and Nature, has a supreme gift of disclosing not only the thing he sees but the spirit of his vision. Without apparent effort he takes you with him into a rare, free, natural world, and always you are refreshed, stimulated, enlarged, by going there. He is of course a distinguished naturalist, probably the most acute, broad-minded, and understanding observer of Nature living. And this, in an age of specialism, which loves to put men into pigeonholes and label them, has been a misfortune to the reading public, who seeing the label Naturalist, pass on, and take down the nearest novel. Hudson has indeed the gifts and knowledge of a Naturalist, but that is a mere fraction of his value and interest. A really great writer such as this is no more to be circumscribed by a single word than America by the part of it called New York. The expert knowledge which Hudson has of Nature gives to all his work backbone and surety of fibre, and to his sense of beauty an intimate actuality. But his real eminence and extraordinary attraction lie in his spirit and philosophy. We feel from his writings that he is nearer to Nature than other men, and yet more truly civilized. The competitive, towny culture, the queer up-to-date commercial knowingness with which we are so busy coating ourselves simply will not stick to him. A passage in his Hampshire Days describes him better than I can: ''The blue sky, the brown soil beneath, the grass, the trees, the animals, the wind, and rain, and stars are never strange to me; for I am in and of and am one with them; and my flesh and the soil are one, and the heat in my blood and in the sunshine are one, and the winds and the tempests and my passions are one. I feel the 'strangeness' only with regard to my fellow men, especially in towns, where they exist in conditions unnatural to me, but congenial to them. . . . In such moments we sometimes feel a kinship with, and are strangely drawn to, the dead, who were not as these; the long, long dead, the men who knew not life in towns, and felt no strangeness in sun and wind and rain.'' This unspoiled unity with Nature pervades all his writings; they are remote from the fret and dust and pettiness of town life; they are large, direct, free. It is not quite simplicity, for the mind of this writer is subtle and fastidious, sensitive to each motion of natural and human life; but... --Foreword to ''Green Mansions'' by John Galsworthy

2. (CONT.) ...but his sensitiveness is somehow different from, almost inimical to, that of us others, who sit indoors and dip our pens in shades of feeling. Hudson's fancy is akin to the flight of the birds that are his special loves--it never seems to have entered a house, but since birth to have been roaming the air, in rain and sun, or visiting the trees and the grass. I not only disbelieve utterly, but intensely dislike, the doctrine of metempsychosis, which, if I understand it aright, seems the negation of the creative impulse, an apotheosis of staleness--nothing quite new in the world, never anything quite new--not even the soul of a baby; and so I am not prepared to entertain the whim that a bird was one of his remote incarnations; still, in sweep of wing, quickness of eye, and natural sweet strength of song he is not unlike a super-bird-- which is a horrid image. And that reminds me: This, after all, is a foreword to Green Mansions--the romance of the bird-girl Rima--a story actual yet fantastic, which immortalizes, I think, as passionate a love of all beautiful things as ever was in the heart of man. Somewhere Hudson says: ''The sense of the beautiful is God's best gift to the human soul.'' So it is: and to pass that gift on to others, in such measure as herein is expressed, must surely have been happiness to him who wrote Green Mansions. In form and spirit the book is unique, a simple romantic narrative transmuted by sheer glow of beauty into a prose poem. Without ever departing from its quality of a tale, it symbolizes the yearning of the human soul for the attainment of perfect love and beauty in this life--that impossible perfection which we must all learn to see fall from its high tree and be consumed in the flames, as was Rima the bird-girl, but whose fine white ashes we gather that they may be mingled at last with our own, when we too have been refined by the fire of death's resignation. The book is soaked through and through with a strange beauty. I will not go on singing its praises, or trying to make it understood, because I have other words to say of its author. Do we realize how far our town life and culture have got away from things that really matter; how instead of making civilization our handmaid to freedom we have set her heel on our necks, and under it bite dust all the time? Hudson, whether he knows it or not, is now the chief standard-bearer of another faith. Thus he spake in The Purple Land: ''Ah, yes, we are all vainly seeking after happiness in the wrong way. It was with us once and ours, but we despised it, for it was only the old common happiness which Nature gives to all her children, and we went away from it in search of another grander kind of happiness which some dreamer--Bacon or another--assured us we should find. We had only to conquer Nature, find out her secrets, make her our obedient slave, then the Earth would be Eden, and every man Adam and every woman Eve. We are still marching bravely on, conquering Nature, but how weary and sad we are getting! The old joy in life and gaiety of heart have vanished, though we do sometimes pause for a few moments in our long forced march to watch the labours of some pale mechanician, seeking after perpetual motion, and indulge in a little, dry, cackling laugh at his expense.'' And again: ''For here the religion that languishes in crowded cities or steals shamefaced to hide itself in dim churches flourishes greatly, filling the soul with a solemn joy. Face to face with Nature on the vast hills at eventide, who does not feel himself near to the Unseen? All Hudson's books breathe this spirit of revolt against our new enslavement by towns and machinery, and are true oases in an age so dreadfully resignd to the ''pale mechanician.'' But Hudson is not, as Tolstoi was, a conscious prophet;... --Foreword to ''Green Mansions'' by John Galsworthy

3. (CONT.) ...his spirit is freer, more willful, whimsical --almost perverse-- and far more steeped in love of beauty. If you called him a prophet he would stamp his foot at you--as he will at me if he reads these words; but his voice is prophetic, for all that, crying in a wilderness, out of which, at the call, will spring up roses here and there, and the sweet-smelling grass. I would that every man, woman, and child in UK were made to read him; and I would that you in America would take him to heart. He is a tonic, a deep refreshing drink, with a strange and wonderful flavour; he is a mine of new interests, and ways of thought instinctively right. As a simple narrator he is well-nigh unsurpassed; as a stylist he has few, if any, living equals. And in all his work there is an indefinable freedom from any thought of after-benefit--even from the desire that we should read him. He puts down what he sees and feels, out of sheer love of the thing seen, and the emotion felt; the smell of the lamp has not touched a single page that he ever wrote. That alone is a marvel to us who know that to write well, even to write clearly, is a wound business, long to learn, hard to learn, and no gift of the angels. Style should not obtrude between a writer and his reader; it should be servant, not master. To use words so true and simple that they oppose no obstacle to the flow of thought and feeling from mind to mind, and yet by juxtaposition of word-sounds set up in the recipient continuing emotion or gratification--this is the essence of style; and Hudson's writing has pre-eminently this double quality. From almost any page of his books an example might be taken. Here is one no better than a thousand others, a description of two little girls on a beach: ''They were dressed in black frocks and scarlet blouses, which set off their beautiful small dark faces; their eyes sparkled like black diamonds, and their loose hair was a wonder to see, a black mist or cloud about their heads and necks composed of threads fine as gossamer, blacker than jet and shining like spun glass--hair that looked as if no comb or brush could ever tame its beautiful wildness. And in spirit they were what they seemed: such a wild, joyous, frolicsome spirit, with such grace and fleetness, one does not look for in human beings, but only in birds or in some small bird-like volatile mammal--a squirrel or a spider-monkey of the tropical forest, or the chinchilla of the desolate mountain slopes; the swiftest, wildest, loveliest, most airy, and most vocal of small beauties.'' Or this, as the quintessence of a sly remark: ''After that Mantel got on to his horse and rode away. It was black and rainy, but he had never needed moon or lantern to find what he sought by night, whether his own house, or a fat cow--also his own, perhaps.'' So one might go on quoting felicity for ever from this writer. He seems to touch every string with fresh and uninked fingers; and the secret of his power lies, I suspect, in the fact that his words: ''Life being more than all else to me...'' are so utterly true. I do not descant on his love for simple folk and simple things, his championship of the weak, and the revolt against the cagings and cruelties of life, whether to men or birds or beasts, that springs out of him as if against his will; because, having spoken of him as one with a vital philosophy or faith, I don't wish to draw red herrings across the main trail of his worth to the world. His work is a vision of natural beauty and of human life as it might be, quickened and sweetened by the sun and the wind and the rain, and by fellowship with all the other forms of life-the truest vision now being given to us, who are more in want of it than any generation has ever been. A very great writer; and--to my thinking-the most valuable our age possesses. --Foreword to ''Green Mansions'' by John Galsworthy

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