dilluns, 27 de novembre de 2017

Cims borrascosos d'Emily Brontë (1847)

Edgar Linton had a sweet, low manner of speaking, and pronounced his words as you do: that’s less gruff than we talk here, and softer.

‘I’m not come too soon, am I?’ he said, casting a look at me: I had begun to wipe the plate, and tidy some drawers at the far end in the dresser.

‘No,’ answered Catherine.  ‘What are you doing there, Nelly?’

‘My work, Miss,’ I replied.  (Mr. Hindley had given me directions to make a third party in any private visits Linton chose to pay.)

She stepped behind me and whispered crossly, ‘Take yourself and your dusters off; when company are in the house, servants don’t commence scouring and cleaning in the room where they are!’

‘It’s a good opportunity, now that master is away,’ I answered aloud: ‘he hates me to be fidgeting over these things in his presence.  I’m sure Mr. Edgar will excuse me.’

‘I hate you to be fidgeting in my presence,’ exclaimed the young lady imperiously, not allowing her guest time to speak: she had failed to recover her equanimity since the little dispute with Heathcliff.

‘I’m sorry for it, Miss Catherine,’ was my response; and I proceeded assiduously with my occupation.

She, supposing Edgar could not see her, snatched the cloth from my hand, and pinched me, with a prolonged wrench, very spitefully on the arm.  I’ve said I did not love her, and rather relished mortifying her vanity now and then: besides, she hurt me extremely; so I started up from my knees, and screamed out, ‘Oh, Miss, that’s a nasty trick!  You have no right to nip me, and I’m not going to bear it.’

‘I didn’t touch you, you lying creature!’ cried she, her fingers tingling to repeat the act, and her ears red with rage.  She never had power to conceal her passion, it always set her whole complexion in a blaze.

‘What’s that, then?’ I retorted, showing a decided purple witness to refute her.

She stamped her foot, wavered a moment, and then, irresistibly impelled by the naughty spirit within her, slapped me on the cheek: a stinging blow that filled both eyes with water.

‘Catherine, love!  Catherine!’ interposed Linton, greatly shocked at the double fault of falsehood and violence which his idol had committed.

‘Leave the room, Ellen!’ she repeated, trembling all over.

Little Hareton, who followed me everywhere, and was sitting near me on the floor, at seeing my tears commenced crying himself, and sobbed out complaints against ‘wicked aunt Cathy,’ which drew her fury on to his unlucky head: she seized his shoulders, and shook him till the poor child waxed livid, and Edgar thoughtlessly laid hold of her hands to deliver him.  In an instant one was wrung free, and the astonished young man felt it applied over his own ear in a way that could not be mistaken for jest.  He drew back in consternation.  I lifted Hareton in my arms, and walked off to the kitchen with him, leaving the door of communication open, for I was curious to watch how they would settle their disagreement.  The insulted visitor moved to the spot where he had laid his hat, pale and with a quivering lip.

‘That’s right!’ I said to myself.  ‘Take warning and begone!  It’s a kindness to let you have a glimpse of her genuine disposition.’

‘Where are you going?’ demanded Catherine, advancing to the door.

He swerved aside, and attempted to pass.

‘You must not go!’ she exclaimed, energetically.

‘I must and shall!’ he replied in a subdued voice.

‘No,’ she persisted, grasping the handle; ‘not yet, Edgar Linton: sit down; you shall not leave me in that temper.  I should be miserable all night, and I won’t be miserable for you!’

‘Can I stay after you have struck me?’ asked Linton.

Catherine was mute.

‘You’ve made me afraid and ashamed of you,’ he continued; ‘I’ll not come here again!’

Her eyes began to glisten and her lids to twinkle.

‘And you told a deliberate untruth!’ he said.

‘I didn’t!’ she cried, recovering her speech; ‘I did nothing deliberately.  Well, go, if you please—get away!  And now I’ll cry—I’ll cry myself sick!’

She dropped down on her knees by a chair, and set to weeping in serious earnest.  Edgar persevered in his resolution as far as the court; there he lingered.  I resolved to encourage him.

‘Miss is dreadfully wayward, sir,’ I called out.  ‘As bad as any marred child: you’d better be riding home, or else she will be sick, only to grieve us.’

The soft thing looked askance through the window: he possessed the power to depart as much as a cat possesses the power to leave a mouse half killed, or a bird half eaten.  Ah, I thought, there will be no saving him: he’s doomed, and flies to his fate!  And so it was: he turned abruptly, hastened into the house again, shut the door behind him; and when I went in a while after to inform them that Earnshaw had come home rabid drunk, ready to pull the whole place about our ears (his ordinary frame of mind in that condition), I saw the quarrel had merely effected a closer intimacy—had broken the outworks of youthful timidity, and enabled them to forsake the disguise of friendship, and confess themselves lovers.

dimecres, 22 de novembre de 2017

XXIV Premi Vent de Port 2017

Reunit el dia 18 de novembre, el jurat de la 24ª edició del Premi Vent de Port, compost per Vicenç Llorca, Jordi Mir, Ada Castells, Jordi Masó i Josep Fabà, després d’examinar la totalitat dels 108 contes presentats a la convocatòria d’enguany, acorda classificar com a finalistes els treballs següents:
David Puig Ferrer El cupcake de Proust
Salvador Vergés i Cubí El secret del Molí
Miquel Darnés i Cirera Sense accent
Sònia Saumell i Guillem La síndrome de Serinus Canarius
Adrià Ibàñez Pelegrí L’enemic invisible
Pere Cullell Viñolas Muts i a la gàbia
Xavier Serra Guasch Sobre de Manila
Mercè Bagaria Mellado En Fabià no hi és
Farners Casas Fontcuberta Hi plana l’àngel de la mort damunt la terra eixuta
Remei Romanos Madriles La llevadora de Port Pi
Carme Castellarnau i Arfelis El dinar
Víctor Jiménez de Miguel Sum vermis (torna un clàssic)
Lliris Pico i Carbonell D’amor i de cendra
Marta Amigó i Olmos Sicari
Elisabet Sanz Mirats El senyal
I atorga per majoria el premi a l’obra “Passions que maten” de Carles Dinarès Turell.
Carles Dinarès Turell Passions que maten