Archivo de la categoría: HISTORY

CARMEN LAFORET & BARCELONA


Columna de Opinión

Israel Rolón-Barada, columnista de Balsia Producciones y biógrafo de Carmen Laforet.

Por Israel Rolón Barada.

Guadalajara, 6 de diciembre de 2025

Entonces, LAFORET, por medio de su personaje y protagonista, Andrea, obtuvo todo el éxito literario con su primera obra, que fue toda una revelación feminista y renovación de la novela española peninsular contemporánea. Gracias a su sensibilidad y vena literaria logró alcanzar la cumbre aún en vida, como autora de una nueva novela de carácter universal. ¿Quién, en el universo literario hispanoamericano, que haya leído NADA, no sería capaz de identificarse con ANDREA y su creadora, CARMEN LAFORET, capaces de tocar profundamente y para siempre las fibras del corazón de cualquier lector tanto en castellano como en todas las lenguas en las que ha sido traducida y publicada durante los últimos 80 años?

Por eso me atrevo a decir que CARMEN LAFORET, NADA y ANDREA son parte inherente en BARCELONA. La autora, su obra y su protagonista son Barcelona. Y Barcelona está en ellas magistralmente representada para la eternidad.

¿Cuántos no hemos ido y continuamos yendo a Barcelona en busca de Andrea por la calle de ARIBAU y por todos los lugares emblemáticos de la gran ciudad, como el Barrio Chino, el Tibidabo, Plaza Cataluña, la avenida Diagonal, entre tantos puntos claves recorridos por ambas jóvenes estudiantes (tanto Carmen como Andrea) con vehemencia en busca de amor, comprensión, sentido de la vida, y un desarrollo intelectual?

Algunos / muchos hemos encontrado a nuestra ANDREA, otros todavía continúan en esa búsqueda. En mi caso, gracias a mi apreciación por su obra literaria, la complicidad intelectual, mi perseverancia académica, y un poco de magia, he tenido la fortuna de también haber encontrado a CARMEN LAFORET. Que sirva de evidencia los resultados de mi investigación académica, la base y los cimientos de su biografía, y la recuperación y conservación de la mayoría de su correspondencia, además de haber localizado el manuscrito de NADA, reeditado su obra, y promovido su figura literaria por más de 25 años, con la satisfacción de hablarlo compartido todo con la escritora misma antes de su fallecimiento en febrero de 2004.

Guadalajara, December 6, 2025.

Thanks to the honorary invitation extended to the city of Barcelona to the Guadalajara International Book Fair, we also remember and pay tribute to those key figures who have represented literature, culture, and the arts in general throughout history, both nationally and internationally, hailing from this Catalan capital.

Among the top one hundred writers who could possibly top this list, it would be impossible not to include Carmen Laforet. When speaking of or imagining Barcelona in an intellectual and literary context, it is also absolutely necessary to remember and include the renowned postwar novelist Carmen Laforet, her masterpiece Nada (1945), and its protagonist Andrea. Because Nada, as a novel and a literary work, is Barcelona, ​​and Barcelona was and will forever be portrayed in this book. A book that became a classic even during its author’s lifetime, which is saying something. Therefore, both Laforet and the essence of her first novel are an integral part of Barcelona for posterity.

Among the many distinguished and excellent writers from Barcelona, ​​such as Mercè Roderedas, Ana María Matute, Rosa Regas, and Baltasar Porcel, all natives of this great city, so famous for its beauty, architecture, painting, music, gastronomy, and the rich artistic and intellectual culture that makes it one of the most cosmopolitan and attractive tourist destinations, we find the outstanding story of a very particular writer with a unique style who revolutionized the history and trajectory of contemporary Spanish literature: Carmen Laforet.

Born in Barcelona on September 6, 1921, she moved to Las Palmas de Gran Canaria at the age of two due to her father’s professional commitments. She did not return to her hometown until 1939, just after the end of the Spanish Civil War. With a Canarian accent, thanks to having convinced/blackmailed her father by finding love letters between him and her stepmother written before her mother’s death, when the future author was only 13 years old, she manages to return to Barcelona and settle in her grandparents’ historic apartment at number 36 Aribau Street, on the corner of Consell de Cent. This would undoubtedly become the setting for her future masterpiece.

Under the dramatic impact of a city in ruins after the war, the inevitable and unsustainable socioeconomic and cultural circumstances—factors responsible for the limitations of all kinds she faced due to that family and academic depression during her first two years at university—proved invaluable. The combination of all these tangible factors was her inspiration and driving force, the motivators for the creation and writing of a novel that would win the first Nadal Prize, break the mold and reshape the trajectory of the romance novel, and stand out as one of the new pillars of post-war Spanish fiction. Written by a young student, but full of talent and artistic and literary sensitivity, at just 24 years old at the time of the first edition and publication, thanks to Editorial Destino, which has sold at least 8,000 copies a year without interruption since 1945. A book that, quite possibly, according to publishing statistics, has been reprinted nearly as many times as Don Quixote or the Bible.

Thus, Laforet, through her character and protagonist, Andrea, achieved great literary success with her first work, which was a feminist revelation and a renewal of the contemporary Spanish peninsular novel. Thanks to her sensitivity and literary talent, she reached the pinnacle of her career while still alive, as the author of a new novel of universal appeal. Anyone in the Hispanic American literary world who has read Nada would not be able to identify with Andrea and her creator, Carmen Laforet, who have the power to deeply and permanently touch the hearts of any reader, both in Spanish and in all the languages ​​into which it has been translated and published over the last 80 years.

That is why I dare say that Carmen Laforet, Nada, and Andrea are an inherent part of Barcelona. The author, her work, and her protagonist are from Barcelona. And Barcelona is masterfully represented within them for eternity.

How many of us haven’t gone, and continue to go, to Barcelona in search of Andrea, wandering along Aribau Street and through all the iconic landmarks of the great city, like the Barrio Chino, Tibidabo, Plaça Catalunya, and Avinguda Diagonal, among so many other key locations traversed by both young students (Carmen and Andrea) with such fervor in their search for love, understanding, meaning in life, and intellectual growth?

Some of us have found our Andrea, while others continue their search. In my case, thanks to my appreciation for her literary work, our intellectual affinity, my academic perseverance, and a touch of magic, I have been fortunate enough to also find Carmen Laforet. The results of my academic research, the foundation of her biography, and the recovery and preservation of most of her correspondence serve as evidence of this. Furthermore, I have located the manuscript of Nada, republished her work, and promoted her literary legacy for over 25 years, with the satisfaction of having shared it all with the writer herself before her passing in February 2004.

LAFORET and BARCELONA, for me, are one and the same.

Imagen 1- El emblemático portal de hierro y cristal, de la casa de la calle de ARIBAU #36, el escenario de NADA, la obra maestra de CL. Imagen 2 y 3 -La casa / y el piso de 8 balcones q la protagonista describe tan minuciosamente en su libro… / Image 1 – The iconic iron and glass doorway of the house at 36 Aribau Street, the setting for NADA, CL’s masterpiece. Images 2 and 3 – The house and the apartment with 8 balconies that the protagonist describes so meticulously in her book… Fotos: Cortesía.

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CONSULTA AQUÍ OTRAS COLUMNAS DE ISRAEL ROLÓN BARADA

Folios


El balazo que no pudo ajusticiar al tiempo

COLUMNA DE OPINIÓN

El reloj del Palacio de Gobierno de jalisco todavía conserva la cicatriz vidriosa que le ocasionó el coronel Medina aquella madrugada de un 30 de enero mientras decía: “Pa´ que recuerden la hora en que estuvimos aquí”

Desde entonces cientos de curiosos desfilan frente al palacio para contemplar el orificio que mide cinco centímetros de diámetro. Pareciera que, a raíz del histórico balazo, el herido aún no se repone del susto, pues hasta la fecha mantiene esa palidez de pan crudo en su carátula. 

Hace años yo subí y encontré como rescoldo del estrago, una densa oscuridad en la habitación donde mora la maquinaria del reloj. 

Vi en la penumbra un centauro a cuyo jinete le amputaron la cabeza y los brazos. Su otra mitad de equino quedó intacta. A través de estímulos metálicos todo su esqueleto funciona en sincronía. Como si fuera una bestia atada al molino del tiempo y, cargando pilotes y pesas, da vueltas día y noche. En su periplo, marcado con números romanos, tiene la consigna de dar, con exactitud, los cuartos y las horas. El ubicuo tiempo se encarga de que las migajas de cada segundo no caigan al vacío, No quiere que alguien descubra de qué materia está hecha su existencia. 

Las sombras centenarias continúan acuarteladas ahí, los halcones luminosos del día que ahuyentan las parvadas de la noche no han incurrido en el palomar del palacio. 

Algo siniestro hay ahí: uno siente escalofrío cuando entra en la mansión picoteada por los tictacs de un péndulo invisible. Algo de Ugolino transpiran las paredes al escucharse cómo ávidos engranes devoran el silencio estancado sin que puedan saciar su hambre. 

Esa madrugada del 30 de enero una tropa comandada por el general Julián Medina llegó a Guadalajara. 

Los villistas, con sus carrilleras cruzadas, entraron a todo galope por la avenida 16 de septiembre y al llegar a la plaza de Armas frenaron de golpe. Los caballos rayando, sacaban chispas en el pavimento con sus herraduras, apisonaban su visita con peculiar bailoteo, ponían en lo alto las patas delanteras; luego, el relincho encabritado y sus crines se obstinaban en revolver el viento frío para hacer más espesas las tinieblas. 

Enseguida el coronel Jesús Medina, hermano de Julián, así montado en su potro color de fuego, se posicionó en el acceso oriente del quiosco, sacó de su chaquetilla de revolucionario el reloj de leontina, miró la hora: 4:36 a. am.,, y lo guardó. Luego empuñó su carabina 30-30, apuntó al reloj y le disparó, dejándole un boquete, al tiempo que decía: Pa’ que vean los carranclanes a qué hora estuvimos a visitarlos”. Eran las 4:37 de la madrugada del 30 de enero de 1915. Cuentan que el plomazo paralizó al reloj. 

A las seis de la tarde vino el relojero. No le costó mucho trabajo revivirlo. Ya repuesta del impacto, la máquina empezó a caminar y las manecillas empezaron de nuevo a depredar minutos. Se dice que el saldo del enfrentamiento entre villistas y constitucionalistas fue de 200 y de 30 muertos respectivamente. 

Los hombres de Julián Medina que salieron ilesos de la refriega huyeron por La Alameda. 

Incluso tomaron preso al general Enrique Estrada, pero no lo pudieron fusilar debido a la prisa por salir de la Ciudad. 

Casi en todos los combates suele haber oídos. Todas las cosas fenecen cuando se les acaba la cuerda. Lo único que no muere es el tiempo. Puedes llevarlo al paredón y ejecutarlo con una ráfaga de balas… y no cae.

Puedes, con un disparo, dejar tuerto el cíclope del palacio y, sin embargo, el tiempo sigue su marcha. 

The clock on Jalisco’s Government Palace still bears the glassy scar inflicted by Colonel Medina that early morning of January 30th, as he said, «So you remember the time we were here.»

Since then, hundreds of curious onlookers have filed past the palace to contemplate the hole, which measures five centimeters in diameter. It seems that, following the historic bullet, the wounded man has still not recovered from the shock, as to this day the face retains that raw-bread pallor.

Years ago, I went up there and found, like the afterglow of the devastation, a dense darkness in the room where the clockworks reside.

In the gloom, I saw a centaur whose rider had his head and arms amputated. His other equine half remained intact. Through metallic stimuli, his entire skeleton works in synchrony. As if it were a beast tied to the mill of time, carrying piles and weights, it turns day and night. On its journey, marked with Roman numerals, it is tasked with striking the quarters and the hours precisely. The ubiquitous time ensures that the crumbs of each second do not fall into the void. It does not want anyone to discover what its existence is made of.

The centuries-old shadows remain quartered there; the luminous falcons of the day that scare away the flocks of night have not ventured into the palace dovecote.

There is something sinister about it: one feels a chill when one enters the mansion, pecked by the ticking of an invisible pendulum. Something of Ugolino transpires from the walls as one hears the avid gears devouring the stagnant silence, unable to satisfy their hunger.

That early morning of January 30, a troop commanded by General Julián Medina arrived in Guadalajara.

The Villistas, with their cheek pieces crossed, galloped down 16 de Septiembre Avenue and, upon reaching the Plaza de Armas, stopped suddenly. The horses, scratching, threw sparks onto the pavement with their shoes, stamped their feet with a peculiar dance, and raised their front hooves. Then, their rearing whinny and their manes insisted on stirring the cold wind to thicken the darkness.

Immediately, Colonel Jesús Medina, Julián’s brother, mounted on his fiery colt, positioned himself at the eastern entrance to the kiosk, took his watch chain from his revolutionary jacket, checked the time: 4:36 a.m., and put it away. Then he drew his 30-30 caliber rifle, aimed at the clock, and shot it, leaving a hole, while saying, «So the Carranclans can see what time we came to visit them.» It was 4:37 a.m. on January 30, 1915. It is said that the bullet shot paralyzed the clock.

At six in the afternoon, the clockmaker arrived. It didn’t take much effort to revive it. Once it had recovered from the impact, the clock started moving, and the hands began to tick away again. It is said that the death toll in the confrontation between the Villistas and the Constitutionalists was 200 and 30 dead, respectively.

Julián Medina’s men who emerged unharmed from the fray fled through La Alameda.

They even took General Enrique Estrada prisoner, but were unable to shoot him due to their haste to leave the city.

Almost every battle is heard. All things perish when they run out of energy. The only thing that never dies is time. You can take it to the wall and execute it with a burst of bullets… and it won’t fall.

You can, with one shot, blind the palace cyclops, and yet time marches on.


El contenido de esta columna de opinión es responsabilidad única del autor