Hay un libro precioso de Anthony Esolen sobre la nostalgia que abre con este escena de Ulises, en la playa de la isla de Calipso, con lágrimas en los ojos, anhelando volver a casa, sintiendo el dolor (algos) por el regreso (nostos).
The man is sitting on the shore, looking out upon the sea, his arms about his knees. That’s what he has done for a long time now, longer than he can remember. He sheds a tear.
All around him is beauty. The sea glints with the light and play of wine. The breeze is gentle, and the plane trees and the oaks dapple the hill behind him with shade. He hears the chatter of a bird above—a kingfisher, circling about and suddenly plunging into the shallows beak-first. Will he come out with his dinner? The man is distracted for a moment. (...)
In all the world, only the man is lost, only the man is not well.
It’s a beautiful world, often a world of terror and pain, but always beautiful. So it
seems to the man when he is not sighing and sitting on the shore. He has lived all his life in places where the weather was warm and mild and men and women spent most of their waking hours out of doors, by the sea, atop high and rocky hills, on windy plains beneath the endless sky, and in deep mysterious valleys where the winding river was so clearly a god that it seemed a holy thing to bathe your feet in his waters. He has an eye for beauty. It is the great heritage of his people.
En esa mirada nostálgica de Ulises pienso.
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LA MIRADA DE ULISES
Hay viajes que se suman al antiguo color de las pupilas.
Después de ver la isla de Calipso ¿es que acaso Odiseo
volvió a mirar igual? ¿No se fijó un color
como un extraño cúmulo de algas
en sus pupilas viejas? Lo mismo que en los pliegues
mínimos de la piel
se fosilizan besos y desdenes, así los ojos filtran
esa franja turquesa del mar que acuna islas,
medusas de amatista, blancura de navíos.
La piel es vertedero de memoria
lo mismo que el poema. Pero acaso unos ojos
extrañamente verdes de repente dibujen
empapados de luz
un boscoso archipiélago perdido.
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