Salarrue

Conjecture in the penumbra

The life struggle of opposites Fragment of the saints and the righteous

War is declared the existence in peace and who asks she does not know what he says. Only God is peace and peace only in those warriors who fight in the middle of being God in his heart. Fighting for peace, for peace in the heart of the war in the soul of the struggle. The paradox is once again the truth. There can be only peace that is all. Wherever it exists, there is also the expression with respect to their peers in the struggle of opposites unrestrainable: good and bad, positive and negative men and women who make the rhythm, vibration, contrast, and the generation of progressive and evolving universe said. War, then, is life and if we live we have to fight and who will not fight annihilated.

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Justice Fragment of right and wrong

The slogan is no longer modern “is virtuous” but “is smart”, not the “have faith, hope and charity” but “to understand, to have certainty and justice.” Good comprendedor just fine. Who is better between the good, the good that is full of pity for all beings and the good that is full of justice? The pity is beautiful because it is the highest human quality, the first tier of gold to glory, but justice is greater because it is a divine quality. The good kind is like the cock-eyed who see only one side, the side of good. The best just go clear when sharing a caress or a mandoble, in the same.

But it will be good to understand that the just man is never violent. Understanding and non-violence congenian. Violence darkens, blinds and it is always the mother of injustice. Justice will come or not but never punished for his evil action at times, wounded in the living by the sword of light, try to trick the man into believing that he is injured.

Nothing filled my life as when I warned of complacency that Mal was not bad, but it was not passively stubborn, the integral good. Nothing so I eased back the soul as the realization that the only thing in existence that aspires is Evil, Evil that grows and grows in the shadow abyss, unconsciously looking for the highest light, to surrender and be passive and female owned and produced. Opposition to evil is the result of developing their own difficulty in assimilating the good. It is the dark shadow of the opposition that rejects and drowns l

Evil therefore might seen in a certain way, take the winners of the effort, because it is more effort to climb down that steep dive. Only God Himself is capable of such effort and that is why we see Evil patent enjoying the presence of God Himself for mysterious reason that nobody would dare to understand from a human, but to the insight that seems obvious, but not enough words to express or to compress the signs correctly when recording as much monograms doubtful power, as one of the cosmic serpent biting its tail.

It is blasphemy to see God in the Poor? No, there is no evil in the vulgar conception of it. It’s seeing all sides, above and below, in rights and setbacks on front and back, as white as black, in the light in the shadows, God, God everywhere, life entirely full of God, God in the fullness of life, filling it all, so all around creating and destroying everything God may be the only of things and all beings are but aspects, though we also wonder how all in the heart, because God, as the aphorism says, “is a sphere whose center is everywhere and its circumference in none.” Another paradox, another possible truth.

Quotes from the book Conjectures in the penumbra (Decline of holiness), originally published by the Directorate of Publications and printed in the Collection Caballito de Mar.

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Thus spoke Salarrué
This selection of excerpts from the newspaper Patria was conducted and published in the journal Trends, No. 46, November 1995, San Salvador

 

Between the twenties and thirties, was Salarrué editor and, for a very short time, editor of the newspaper founded by Patria Alberto Masferrer. There, the heat of the events he wrote articles and reviews of various nature. Among other treasures found by Ricardo Aguilar Human study Salarrué, a ramshackle scrapbook in which to beat our writer desgaire, without order or concert, no date, some of the published work. We pick revealing fragments of this material and, often, baffling their full effect. Trends

Self

I am even if some unscrupulous man wanted to tell me I’m good people. There is something I am not modest. If you would not be here screaming emboldened with his shirt off in this rugged place. I am also spoiled boy, disrespectful, and sometimes I am happy to go exploring the patience of the neighbors, as in that famous Kolia Dostoyevski camorra assembled by arming it. I have grave defects, but also have great qualities, and above all have a very unusual feature: the flexibility of the human personality that kills and is indifference to the honors and awards. The international artists are beings, but among them are some very international and have no personality. These are the poets, not poems, but that those who love the hard life that are true. Including myself, thank God.

The church

I do not know for sure what the Catholic Church holds in the fund, he hesitated to take up a fund. Vericuetos not familiar with the dogma and ritual of the Roman Church and even within them encounter Franciscos Teresas and that fills me with admiration, I was powerless to remove, what I know (our church with us), a moderately juice taste .

Vitamin P((((The main activity, the axis around which revolves the lives of some small towns in the world, is the Policy. Almost all citizens have called the attention fixed at the center of this whirlpool that swallows the entire life of the poor people.

These poor people. The activities of science, art and philosophy are ities, scorned. The authority is at the top of the policy, and lives are shaped by it. In these poor people, the surprises and the changes that this rudimentary form of power offers hablárseles how can art, or philosophy or decency? They become indifferent to the head every expression that is not stamped with the red stamp of the policy, political drink, breathe politics, sudan politics from school to the grave.

((((The voices of men are free of this plague of mosquitoes buzzing for them. And sooner or later, these mosquitoes were crushed in a clap, for fear that they may inoculate fever sanity.

The artist and the party Letter to Alberto Masferrer

Antigregario I’m a man, my kind of artist I am away from all that is group, caste, sect, party, and Conciudadania isms in general. Therefore, not for another reason I refuse to be part of the vital parts. Understand the significance of such an organization, but I understand the doctrine as such, because doctrine is amplitude and is restricted party (…) Through this letter I to you on my initial impulse, because I feel the urgent need to move toward you; I want to go more freely, without commitment from reserving the right to be outside all that regulation, fee or condition, my quality of artist I get that right.

Faramundo, 1933

Yesterday one year died of Augustine Faramundo Marti. We want to dedicate to his memory these few lines, first, because he was our friend and several times we were alone talking of things of the spirit, and secondly because Martí, as a perfect man, to surrender, hero, deserves the healthy admiration of every man, not by their ideas but for his integrity and to sustain INEG.

Augustine was a simple man, without vanity, without weakness. Dropped his head as the bull and with eyes closed, both sides attacked it annoys the shadow, shadow the same amount that the dreamer enardecía Ricardo Alfonso Araujo. The love of both the suffering, the oppressed, the high quality of the parents. His bias was almost instinctively and did not see beyond the misleading facts. Naively believed in the unhappiness of the poor and the rich in happiness and any effort to demolish, the battering ram of philosophy, the foundation of hatred, soon failed. With the recklessness of the Indus tamagaz stung by a fly that pit the hand and Faramundo Martí was launched on that member of society who felt engangrenado. Knew that cost him his life, not shaken. He arrived on time and in the same Mother’s Day smile gave her body to the mother earth as a seed of a dream release.

O!

You are the new men of the earth. It is time to go out of this mask is to entertain men femininity. Snatched the words from the lips of men. Believes burlaos, criticize. Come out of your nipples full of secular laziness, smiles and eyes moist environments. Sed helix of this man, tasteless and incompetent, that the burden of their vices collapses before landing on the beach of your fate racial blue. Do not ask that paséis intended to fill the male roles, or demostréis you are so gross and stubborn like them to treasure, making war, Holger bestial only want to go to the most remote corner of your antediluvian cavern, you find that terrible mallet good wood to use as you provided in the remote past, which he tenderly quitéis dust you near the hammock in paradise that lies on your man and, brandishing bravely, Deis is a good cachiporrazo screaming in the head at the same time: “Do not sleep, you bastard.”

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Credits go to: www.DPI.gob.SV
El Venado

Voice was heard saying: Thou, deer, throw the weeds. You birds, volad to high and green glasses. The Popol Vuh

Atardecía. It was raining on the mountain that sifting gold dust sun crushed in an avalanche of cliffs gray clouds. The recent storm had left the high tops of cedars, and flying conacastes of the foxes, and balsams copinoles, draining the drops of bright stones. In forest clearings was velvety lawns. Along with the big puddle of “The Funnel” the grasses had been scrambled, disheveled by the wind that preceded the hurricane aguaje. The green shade would slowly fill from the bottom up and by contrast, the sky was a dome of gold. Even some birds sang grateful. Before dying day, verspertina flood of light was a water stop, a change of tide and held for more than half an hour perhaps, in that pale aura-calling people: dead light of a lamp not ATIN is where it comes from, whether top or bottom, or if it comes from things that appear opaque in the form of infusion therapy and radiation emanates tiresome.

It was during this time that the deer came from the low bushes and came step by step, just alert, amber drinking water of the pond. Thus, raised his head, with antlers enhiesta neck bent slightly in an attempt to at least listen to the silent silence, copper silhouette of the deer had the classic beauty of a beast of the retinue of Artemis, the fine line and a graceful composure piece of sculpture in cast metal.

Grace on the vitality electric transmitting the virtual mild tingling agility and latent fear and presto, it was wonderful that the fund should be: dark grass, tall trees and illuminated sidelong clear skies faded gold and platinum.

It was so easy, so casual and beautiful appearance that game, the hunter removed the peephole to see with open eyes, and admired his attempt deflected by the same admiration. The archaic sense nemrodiano led now by a hurry beauty, again revealing a sense of the artist who goes in every modern browser, argued on the basis of culture. There is then the moment a slight blush numinoso and rude awakening to a new concept of sport, bartering is the same as the shotgun or rifle at the camera or kinematics. “Hunting without killing” is the slogan of the new hunter. Leaving intact killing life. The cruelty destiñendo is slowly giving rise to the interest for life rather than death, to the satisfaction of the heart rather than the stomach, to accomplishment of the aesthetic rather than the vanity of the eye accurate.

The hunter was well in their corner, slightly supported by the gun, watching the deer to drink Belfer flame lit in the cool twilight of water while the pond is in concentric circles rizaba driven by the tube and the smaller circles, drying produced by each drop that fell when the head stood the lymph.

Slowly, as he had come, the deer moved away from the pool, tried some grass here and there, and listened with eyes and ears on a different course; table comb his neck in the trunk of a small bush and walking in full shade like a shadow among shadows, faded from sight and hearing.

Hunter breathed some relief, not without joy and received a prize as an award, the first star, above the forest. Award was, apparently, by that decision seemed to have filled his soul so naturally, the moment when the man enters a new class of nobility and becomes a being of compassion, a man better.

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This passage from the story “The Deer” comes from the book The Sword and other narratives, Included in Complete Story, published by the Directorate of Publications and Forms El Salvador.

Here Additional Stories:

1. Short Story – Semos Malos

Semos malos

Salarrué

Loyo Cuestas y su «cipote» hicieron un «arresto», y se «jueron» para Honduras con el fonógrafo. El viejo cargaba la caja en la bandolera; el muchacho, la bolsa de los discos y la trompa achaflanada, que tenía la forma de una gran campánula; flor de «lata» monstruosa que «perjumaba» con música.
  • Dicen quen Honduras abunda la plata.
  • Sí, tata, y por ái no conocen el fonógrafo, dicen…
  • Apurá el paso, vos; ende que salimos de Metapán trés choya.
  • ¡Ah!, es que el cincho me viene jodiendo el lomo.
  • Apechálo, no siás bruto.
«Apiaban» para sestear bajo los pinos chiflantes y odoríferos. Calentaban café con ocote. En el bosque de «zunzas», las «taltuzás» comían sentaditas, en un silencio nervioso. Iban llegando al Chamelecón salvaje. Por dos veces «bían» visto el rastro de la culebra «carretía», angostito como «fuella» de «pial». Al «sesteyo», mientras masticaban las tortillas y el queso de Santa Rosa, ponían un «fostró». Tres días estuvieron andando en lodo, atascado hasta la rodilla. El chico lloraba, el «tata» maldecía y se «reiba» sus ratos.

El cura de Santa Rosa había aconsejado a Goyo no dormir en las galeras, porque las pandillas de ladrones rondaban siempre en busca de «pasantes». Por eso, al crepúsculo, Goyo y su hijo se internaban en la montaña; limpiaban un puestecito al pie «diún palo» y pasaban allí la noche, oyendo cantar los «chiquirines», oyendo zumbar los zancudos «culuazul», enormes como arañas, y sin atreverse a resollar, temblando de frío y de miedo.

  • ¡Tata: brán tamagases?…
  • Nóijo, yo ixaminé el tronco cuando anochecía y no tiene cuevas.
  • Si juma, jume bajo el sombrero, tata. Si miran la brasa, nos hallan.
  • Sí, hombre, tate tranquilo. Dormite.
  • Es que currucado no me puedo dormir luego.
  • Estírate, pué…
  • No puedo, tata, mucho yelo…
  • ¡A la puerca, con vos! Cuchuyate contra yo, pué…

Y Goyo Cuestas, que nunca en su vida había hecho una caricia al hijo, lo recibía contra su pestífero pecho, duro como un «tapexco»; y rodeándolo con ambos brazos, lo calentaba hasta que se le dormía encima, mientras él, con la cara «añudada» de resignación, esperaba el día en la punta de cualquier gallo lejano. Los primeros «clareyos» los hallaban allí, medio congelados, adoloridos, amodorrados de cansancio; con las feas bocas abiertas y babosas, semiarremangados en la «manga» rota, sucia y rayada como una cebra.

Pero Honduras es honda en el Chamelecón. Honduras es honda en el silencio de su montaña bárbara y cruel; Honduras es honda en el misterio de sus terribles serpientes, jaguares, insectos, hombres… Hasta el Chamelecón no llega su ley; hasta allí no llega su justicia. En la región se deja -como en los tiempos primitivos- tener buen o mal corazón a los hombres y a las otras bestias; ser crueles o magnánimos, matar o salvar a libre albedrío. El derecho es claramente del más fuerte.

Los cuatro bandidos entraron por la palizada y se sentaron luego en la plazoleta del rancho, aquel rancho náufrago en el cañaveral cimarrón. Pusieron la caja en medio y probaron a conectar la bocina. La luna llena hacía saltar «chingastes» de plata sobre el artefacto. En la mediagua y de una viga, pendía un pedazo de venado «olisco».

  • Te dijo ques fológrafo.
  • ¿Vos bis visto cómo lo tocan?
  • iAjú!… En los bananales los ei visto…
  • ¡Yastuvo!…

La trompa trabó. El bandolero le dio cuerda, y después, abriendo la bolsa de los discos, los hizo salir a la luz de la luna como otras tantas lunas negras. Los bandidos rieron, como niños de un planeta extraño. Tenían los «blanquiyos» manchados de algo que parecía lodo, y era sangre. En la barranca cercana, Goyo y su «cipote» huían a pedazos en los picos de los «zopes»; los armadillos habíanles ampliado las heridas. En una masa de arena, sangre, ropa y silencio, las ilusiones arrastradas desde tan lejos, quedaban abonadas tal vez para un sauce, tal vez para un pino…

Rayó la aguja, y la canción se lanzó en la brisa tibia como una cosa encantada. Los cocales pararon a lo lejos sus palmas y escucharon. El lucero grande parecía crecer y decrecer, como si colgado de un hilo lo remojaran subiéndolo y bajándolo en el agua tranquila de la noche.

Cantaba un hombre de fresca voz, una canción triste, con guitarra.

Tenía dejos llorones, hipos de amor y de grandeza. Gemían los bajos de la guitarra, suspirando un deseo; y desesperada, la «prima» lamentaba una injusticia.

Cuando paró el fonógrafo, los cuatro asesinos se miraron. Suspiraron…

Uno de ellos se echó a llorar en la «manga». El otro se mordió los labios. El más viejo miró al suelo «barrioso», donde su sombra le servía de asiento, y dijo después de pensarlo muy duro:

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-Semos malos.

Y lloraron los ladrones de cosas y de vidas, como niños de un planeta extraño.
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2. Poem "Los Dioses"

Los dioses

Salarrué

El rostro de los dioses se asomaba al abismo y allí los hombres mínimos se destrozaban los unos a los otros llenos de pasión. Los dioses de faz serena sonrieron una vez más y dijeron:
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3. Poem "Las Campanas"

Las campanas

Salarrué

Pasaban tristes en la torre vieja, pero un día una banda de golondrinas invadió la torre para hacer de ella su retiro de verano; entonces se alegraron tanto las campanas que echaron al viento sus badajos y se pusieron a cantar.
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4. Poem "La Justicia"

La justicia

Salarrué

-Hijo mío -decía el Rey Padre-, no debes preferir nunca la justicia humana a la divina justicia.

-Entonces, oh padre -respondió el Príncipe-, quiero comer esta noche en la mesa de mis sirvientes.

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Frunció el Rey el entrecejo y apuntó:

La justicia

Salarrué

-Pero no olvides que tu misión comprende el mantenerte en cierta posición sobre tus súbditos, para que éstos no olviden que has sido dado a ellos como Rey y Señor por la Justicia Divina.

-En tal caso -repuso el joven Príncipe-, la Justicia Divina no es la Justicia del Bien.

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6. Poem “El Rio”

El río

Salarrué

La mariposa loca revoloteó junto a la rosa, con tan poco tino que se clavó en la espina y allí quedó muerta, con sus alas azulverdeoro, bellamente fláccidas, caídas sobre las hojas.

-¿Qué flor eres? -preguntó sorprendida y celosa la rosa reina del jardín.

-Soy la legítima flor del amor -repuso la espina orgullosa.

Y sin saberlo, decía la verdad.

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5. Poem "La flor del amor"

La flor del amor

Salarrué

Un río que caía al mar entre promontorios gigantescos les decía a éstos:

-He vertido mis aguas en esta gran cuenca durante muchas centurias y aún no he logrado colmarla.

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7. Short Story – El Cuento del Cuento que contaron

El cuento del cuento que contaron

Salarrué

Puesiesque Mulín, Cofia, Chepete y la Culachita se sentaron y dijeron: “Contemos cuentos debajo desta carreta”. “Sí”, dijeron “contemos”. Y entonces Chepete dijo: “Yo sé uno bien arrechito”. “Contalo, pué”, le dijeron. Y él entonce lo contó y dijo: “Puesiesque un día, ya bien de noche, venía un tren y al yegar a una sombra de un palón, siasustó la máquina y se descarriló sin sentir a quioras, y se jue caminando por un montarral hasta que ya nuguantó, porquiba descalza, y se paró debajo de unos palencos de la montaña. Y los maquinistas dijeron: “¡Dejemos aquí esta papada vieja, que tanto que pesa!” Y la dejaron, y creció el monte con el tiempo. Y un día la hayaron ayí los micos y se encaramaron en ella y pensaron: “¿Qué será?” Y un mico jaló la pita de la campana y ¡talán, glán, glán! sonó. Y salieron virados por los palos y diay regresaron y la golvieron a sonar hasta que ya no les dio miedo. Entonce con unos martiyos se pusieron a sonar la campana y toda la máquina, hasta que le sacaron chispas y se golvió a prender la leña y empezó a calentarse: ¡fruca, fruca, fruca!… Y un mico jaló el pito y ¡pú-pú!, pitó y salió a toda virazón otragüelta, hasta que se les quitó el miedo y se pusieron a meterle leña y leña, pero como la máquina no tenía ya agua, cuando le jalaron la palanca, se tiró corcoviando por un camino y reventó ¡¡pom!! y todos los micos volaron por el aigre y se quedaron prendidos de las colas en las ramas más altas de los palos”.

Entonce la Culachita le dijo: “Golvelo a decir”. Y Chepete le dijo: “Güeno”. Y golvió a comenzar y siacabuche.

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Salarrue

Salarrué, Salvador Salazar Arrue Ephraim (born October 22, 1899 in Sonsonate, El Salvador. Died November 27, 1975 in San Salvador, El Salvador) is a writer, poet and painter from El Salvador.

Known by the pseudonym of “Salarrué” (a derivation of his name), he is considered one of the greatest exponents of Salvadoran narrative, and one of the Founders of a new school of Latin American folkloric narrative (storytelling customs “). He was born in Sonsonate, on 22 October 1899, and died in San Salvador on November 27 1975. A poet, a painter and a writer, he has been considered the greatest exponent of cuzcatleca narrative. Salarrué was one of the Founders of the new Latin American fiction current. In his “Tales of Clay (” Clay Stories “) and” Tales of Cipot “(” Children Stories “), he manages to fully identify with the countryside, agricultural world, in a way unprecedented in Salvadoran narrative.

Salarrue Works

  • El Cristo Negro (The Black Christ) (1927)
  • El Señor de la Burbuja (The Lord of The Bubble) (1927)
  • O Yarkandal (1929)
  • Remotando el Uluán (Remoting the Uluan) (1932)
  • Cuentos de Barro (Clay Stories) (1933)
  • Conjeturas en la Penumbra (Conjectures in the twilight) (1934)
  • Eso y Más (That and More) (1940)
  • Cuentos de Cipotes (Children Stories) (1945).
  • Trasmallo (1954)
  • La Espada y Otras Narraciones (The Sword and Other Narrations) (1960)
  • Vilanos (1969)
  • El Libro Desnudo (The Naked Book) (1969)
  • Ingrimo (1969)
  • La Sombra y Otros Motivos Literiarios (The Shadow and other Literary Motifs) (1969)
  • La Sed de Sling Bader (Sling Bader’s Thirst) (1971)
  • Catleya Luna (1974)
  • Mundo Nomasito (Poesía -1975)
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Salarrué (1899-1975)

Efrain Salazar Arrue Salvador, known as Salarrué, born in 1899 in Sonsonate. From very early began to show signs of great human sensibility and aesthetic, to be turned in different disciplines such as literature, visual arts and spiritual reflection.

Like many young Salarrué moved to San Salvador in order to find the possibilities of economic survival was not in his hometown, because of their complicated family situation. In the capital, began to publish in newspapers, teaching himself to literature and fine arts, influenced largely by his cousin, the caricaturist Toño Salazar. In 1916, he obtained a government scholarship to study painting at Corcoran School, an arts academy in the capital of the United States.

His first book was the short story The black Christ, published in 1926. The following year he published the novel Lord of the bubble and in 1929, O ‘Yarkandal. But his most famous works are tales of Cipot, 1945, and Tales of mud. He also published volumes of stories like that and more, and the sword and other stories, a poetry book entitled World nomasito, published only once so far in 1975 and the novels The thirst for Sling Bader and Catley Moon. Literature reveals a wealth of human perspectives, which reflects the vision of children in Cipot Tales of the Salvadoran countryside and its existence in dramatic stories of mud and a spiritual approach to a vision influenced by the visions of Theosophy and Eastern world.

His paintings were exhibited in the United States and the country. In addition, he served in several government positions, such as the General Directorate of Fine Arts and the direction of the National Gallery of Art, now converted into the National Exhibition Hall, located at Parque Cuscatlan in San Salvador.

Salarrué, the much loved Salarrué, died in 1975. We can only repeat, with affection, words that the Salvadoran poet Roque Dalton wrote on his seventieth birthday:

God bless you and make it a holy gift Salarrué Many thanks for your sweet guáshpiras by tentuntazos tenderness to me with the somato arganillas heart …

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The mission of CEA is to increase awareness of Salvadoran Culture & History within our local & international community. CEA will accomplish the awareness by providing Cultural & Educational services in our communities, both local and international.



Rincon Literario (Writers)

Alberto Masferrer

Baron Castro

Hugo Lindo

Salarrue



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