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Source text - English It's now 10 years since that overcast but otherwise mild winter afternoon at the dead end of my apprenticeship, when, debating whether or not to bother with a book signing on my lunch hour and not knowing what I could expect or hope to gain -- a sense of reinforcement? -- from so brief an encounter I crossed Fifth Avenue from Rockefeller Center to meet the distant mentor who'd played such a crucial role in my development.
We met face to face, and that was that. I was glad of it. His own attitude, appropriately enough, seemed a kind of curious disinterestedness, as of a scientist pausing momentarily to observe before releasing back into its own environment a specimen tagged for monitoring, perhaps, but otherwise free to flourish or perish according to the nature of things.
When he was that age, naturally, Vidal also wanted to meet his literary heroes. In Paris, he was granted audience with André Gide, made pilgrimage to see an aged Santayana at the Convent of the Blue Nuns in Rome, met E.M. Forster at Cambridge. "As a result, I never again wanted to meet, much less know, a writer whose work I admired."
Once you've begun to move in "literary circles" yourself -- talked for a few hours with Joseph Brodsky at a sidewalk café in Brooklyn Heights, endured Derek Walcott a couple of times at this or that event -- you begin to see firsthand what he means.
Even low-key and ostensibly festive occasions fairly bristle with neurotic anxiety (tempered by the transient camaraderie of cocktails and free hors d'oeuvres), as odd pairings of rich patrons and starving artists, brilliant prospects and savvy talent scouts, eager newcomers and jaded veterans spy, sniff, circle, warily greet and change partners as if to the inaudible rhythm of an intricate minuet.
The gradual hardening of the outer shell, the subsequent inward retreat seem inevitable. And you sympathize wholeheartedly when, given an alternative to the promise of envious chatter at yet another literary gathering, a normally sociable writer like Vidal groans, "I'd rather read Turgenev."
Translation - Spanish Pues, hace más de diez años desde aquel día de invierno nublado pero de otra manera poco frío al fin de la calle sin salida de mi aprendizaje. No sabiendo qué esperaba ganar de un encuentro tan breve, crucé la quinta en mi hora de almuerzo a encontrar al mentor distante que había desempeñado un papel tan crucial en mi desarrollo.
Nos habíamos encontrado cara a cara, y ya estuvo. Me sentía aliviado. Su propia actitud parecía, apropiadamente dadas las circunstancias, un tipo de curiosidad desprendida, como si fuera un científico deteniéndose por un momento a observar antes de soltar a su medio ambiente un espécimen controlado electrónicamente, a lo mejor, pero de otra manera libre de florecer o perecer según la naturaleza de las cosas.
Cuando había tenido mi edad, Vidal también quería, claro, encontrar a sus héroes literarios. En París, fue concedido audiencia con André Gide; fue de peregrinación a Roma a hablar con el filósofo español Santayana al Convento de las Monjas Azules; conoció a E.M. Forster en Cambridge.
«Por consiguiente, yo nunca jamás quería econtrar a, y mucho menos conocer a, un escritor que admiraba.»
Una vez metido en «círculos literarios» tú mismo – peleado en grupo unas pocas horas con un ganador del premio Nobel en una terraza en Brooklyn Heights, aguantado en silencio la egolatría repugnante del otro un par de veces en esto u el otro acontecimiento – empiezas a comprender de primera mano lo que quiere decir Vidal.
Aún ocasiones tranquilas y aparentemente festivas están plagadas de una ansiedad neurótica. Suavizados por el compañerismo transitorio de cócteles y entremeses gratis, parejas raras de patrones ricos y artistas hambrientos, joven promesa y exploradores [sagaces/astutos] de talento, recién llegados ilusionados y veteranos hastiados se espían, se husmean, se saludan recelosamente y cambian de sitio como si al ritmo de un vals inaudible.
Poco a poco, el caparazón se hace fuerte, y la vuelta atrás parece, volviendo la vista atrás, inevitable. Así que uno incondicionalmente compadece cuando, puestos a escoger entre cháchara envidiosa en otra tertulia más supuestamente sofisticado, aún escritores normalmente sociables como Vidal gimen, «prefiero leer.»
25 years' experience as author & journalist on broadly literary and cultural subjects as well as 20 years' day-job immersion in highly technical subjects like investment banking and corporate law.
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