SABATO AND BORGES, BETWEEN WRITERS . When came the fall of Perón, the call Liberating Revolution, my father was appointed director of Mundo Argentino, a magazine. At one point he got a serious allegation that he was tortured Peronist workers and trade unionists. And my father complained to the magazine and on National Radio a hearing in which they were Borges, Dad and others. And I think that this complaint Borges seemed in bad taste. That was the historical reason for the fight. At the time I deeply despised Borges: I was very young, but I knew that there was torture and torture good bad and I thought that someone who exercised the literature, one of the most noble things you can do one, could not have such meanness. Luckily Borges reminds people it's worth, it's that huge letters. And it does not deserve to be remembered: Borges as a person is much less than Borges as a writer and ultimately that's what will be in the literature. At this stage of the game, I'm not so sure what I believed then that a great film or a wonderful poem fell into one great guy. Unfortunately not. Sometimes not, sometimes it does. In short, does not matter much less if one is not contemporary. [...] I do not think that this dispute has been enriching in any way. For neither. Although it was impossible not to happen, because it was time for passions and there was good that the passions. And the dispute, on the other hand, there was not much lower due less: denounce the torture and executions of those who had been their opponents, as in the case of my father, is something for me as important or more than any work. What happens is that after all that, despite all that, what remains is the work. And that is the transcendent, the rest has to do with the daily tasks that must be and no one, no human being can be so generous as to forget the pettiness, the traditions, of opportunism. [...] With experience, over time, a belief held more important, the basic ones that matter, and begins to realize while the rest know very little. That is not so easy to judge, not so easy to determine and many times one gets confused when it does. I do not think that doubt is the boast of intellectuals, I think that's the advantage of intellectuals. The comparative advantage we have, doubt. Not sure, contradicting. Find and search. Search knowing that one, most of the things you want, not going to find. [...]
So I think they both lost a lot in those years they were apart. [...] But those are the known effects of the drawbacks of known, because the writers of a sudden (it seems inconceivable but true) have lower passions: jealousy, this jealousy that could have a neighborhood girl, at that level. Dad
get along with some writers a little older than he, as Marechal and Gombrowicz, whom he met and who promoted quite a bit in Buenos Aires. But Cortázar, for example, had a distant relationship, did not want too and it was this jealousy. This is a case of jealousy, the little things, tiny, ridiculous, but fun. Things that one knows when it is close. Borges, for example, was petty. And petty evil never publicly praised a giant writer and his close friend Bioy Casares, with whom my father did not get bad, though very different. My father could instead be ... maybe the better word would be just that: jealous. As a boy.
ERNESTO AND MATILDE, A LOVE STORY. I think that if there is community property, the work of my father should have been. Dad wrote for Mom: Mom bound by, encouraged by mother, mother corrected. Powered by Mom. And the sad thing is that my mother was an excellent poet and never wanted to publish. That is, it gave itself the target to be who pushed and held my father. And not only that, but my mother was really the only sensible person in my house: it was absolutely necessary, for everyone. So I think it works should be signed by Ernesto Sabato and Matilda. If I might as heir to this would be an act of justice.
SABATO AND DEATH. I think Daddy forgot to die, that's the point. Is age: age you forget things and well, I think he forgot to die. It has remarkable tenacity. Beyond the jokes he made, if at the time we shot those scenes with which the film later did Ernesto Sabato, my father, I had asked if he thought he could live to 99 or 100 years, it me had responded that even remotely. It is a long-lived family of my father, or died young of cancer and lived to 100 years. Well, there it is.
Fragmentos de una entrevista realizada en Junio de 2010, con motivo del estreno del documental Ernesto Sabato, mi padre , de Mario Sabato, estrenado con motivo del cumpleaños número 99 del escritor.
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