“para los militares, ’psicólogos y psicoanalistas’ eran la misma cosa…”

Maximiliano Olivera escribe:

Con un análisis de los avisos publicitarios y profesionales publicados en La Gaceta, Ventura apunta que “el mundo psicoanalítico fue cediendo hasta llegar a una especie de acostumbramiento al entorno circundante en 1979”. Fueron momentos donde emergieron los grupos de estudios y cursos, que se diversifican más allá de la Asociación Psicoanalítica Argentina (APA). La necesidad de una “universidad paralela” para el desarrollo del psicoanálisis fue acompañada con la proliferación de “distintos grupos que, sin embargo, estudiaban lo mismo”. En sucesivos capítulos se tratará además la tensa relación con la psiquiatría en el camino hacia la legalización profesional del psicólogo.

Más allá de las digresiones teóricas, la autora concluye que “para los militares, ’psicólogos y psicoanalistas’ eran la misma cosa, y ambos profesionales los relacionaban con ’lo subversivo’ por dos motivos: por un lado, antes de que se desatara el Proceso, la representación del psicólogo era la de aquel profesional que actuaba en el campo de la psicología social, que había tenido una participación activa en la sociedad (…); pero por otro lado, también el psicoanálisis, desde su marco conceptual, sobre todo Freud, desde sus ideas sobre la sexualidad y sobre la liberación de lo reprimido, era considerado ’subversivo’”.

Interlitq publishes “Dunfermline Bus Station, 196-“, a story by Andrew McCallum Crawford

Andrew McCallum Crawford


Dunfermline Bus Station, 196-




Andrew McCallum Crawford


Margaret reached to the window and rubbed a hole in the steam with her sleeve. It was still raining. There was a clock on the building across the street. She had to be careful. She’d left wee David with the neighbours. Bill would be home about five. It wasn’t wee David she was worried about, it was Bill coming home early. If he found out she was here he’d kill her.

She rearranged the things on the table: the cup of tea and the scone, which she’d hardly touched, and the empty sachet of butter. The teaspoon and the knife. The tinfoil ashtray. She was the only customer, apart from an old woman near the door sipping a glass of hot orange.

Margaret had chosen the snack bar because it held memories of her children. Her family. She still thought about them like that, as her family, even though she had left them. They used to come here when everything was good. If not good, not bad. Almost bearable. Plates of chips and bottles of Coca Cola once a month, if Patrick hadn’t drunk all the money. She remembered how the coloured straws would bob in the bottles. Alan, her youngest back then, always wanted a glass. He said the straws made too much froth in his mouth.

How would Patrick look when he walked in? It had been a while. Then again, it would be a miracle if he turned up. She didn’t even know if he got her last letter. She’d sent dozens, asking about the children. He’d replied to none of them, apart from the first. ‘Don’t write again,’ was all it said. There wasn’t a signature, but the words were smudged, probably with whisky. It wouldn’t have been tears, Patrick was a man who expressed his emotions with his fists, nothing else. He was a miner, a hard man.

God, she could pick them. She opened a new packet of cigarettes, 20 Kensitas Tipped, bought at the newsagents in Falkirk before she got on the bus. She would have to remember to hide them later, Bill would want to know where she got the money. She’d been saving up the change from the messages, placing the coins carefully in the space behind the wardrobe. What he didn’t know about he wouldn’t worry about. She looked outside. She’d asked Patrick to be here at one, but time was getting on. He must have got the letter, unless he’d moved, but he wouldn’t have done that. The house was tied to the mine, it was a good thing, that was what they used to say. In any case, he wouldn’t have known how to apply for a new house, all he ever cared about was his work and the Club. Not one decent reply in two years. Not one line on a postcard to say how the children were. She was out of her mind with worry, and it was becoming impossible to cover it up. She wanted to see them so much, she could have got a bus straight out to the village, she’d thought about it a million times, but she wasn’t allowed to go back there. She’d tried to talk to Bill about it. It was a short conversation; it covered old ground quickly. ‘You chose me,’ he said. ‘You chose me and the baby.’

It was her penance.

A shape passed by the window, really close. Margaret immediately turned away, hiding her face. For a moment she thought it was Bill, but it wasn’t. Patrick lurched through the door, his overcoat hanging off his shoulders. His forehead was soaking wet, glistening.

She dragged the ashtray towards her and stubbed out the cigarette.

He collapsed into the chair on the other side of the table.

‘Did you have to get drunk?’ she said.

He pushed his hair back and wiped his hand on his coat. His wedding ring was the colour of bad nicotine. ‘Aye, that’s you,’ he said. ‘Always ready with a remark.’

‘You got my letter, then?’ she said.

He took one of her cigarettes. He had trouble lighting it, he was shaking so much, his head was swaying. He blew smoke across the table, her scone was covered in it. It didn’t matter, she wasn’t hungry. ‘Aye, I got your letter,’ he said.

‘How are the children?’ she said.

He was staring at her. His drunk look, as if he didn’t understand. It was all coming back to her now. ‘Where’s your fancy man?’ he said. ‘Does he trust you on your own?’

‘He’s not my fancy man,’ she said. ‘He’s my husband.’

‘Oh, aye, that’s right. I read about that in one of your letters. Before I threw it on the fire.’

‘How are the children?’ she said.

‘Though it’s funny how you could get married to him when you’re still married to me.’

‘That was all settled in court,’ she said. ‘You know that fine.’

‘In the eyes of the Church…’

‘I don’t care what the church says,’ she said. ‘Everything’s above board.’

‘And how’s the, eh…?’ he said. He took a long drag on the cigarette and held it. He coughed when he exhaled. ‘It must be getting big.’

‘His name’s David,’ she said. ‘He’s fine. I’m expecting another.’

‘Yez’ve been busy,’ he said.

Now it was the sarcasm.

‘That’ll be another bastard in the brood,’ he said.

‘Stop it!’ she said. She was aware of the old woman turning slightly in her seat, but it was only to see if her bus was in. ‘Keep your voice down.’

‘What’s wrong?’ he said. ‘Does the truth hurt?’

‘How are the children?’ she said, again. ‘That’s why I wanted to see you. There’s no point dragging up the past.’

‘Is there not?’ he said. ‘I think dragging up the past is a good thing. We left a lot unsaid, me and you.’

‘We could have talked if you hadn’t…’

‘For a start, how come your fancy man didn’t want your children? Eh? That’s a good question, int it? In fact, that’s the only question.’

‘Don’t bring that up,’ she said.

‘I’d like a fucking answer,’ he said. ‘If you’ve got the time.’

She wasn’t scared of him any more. He couldn’t hurt her now. She remembered when she told him she was pregnant with wee David, and the doing he gave her. That was why she chose Bill. She chose Bill, the baby and a new life. It had felt like she was escaping, at first.

‘Things happen,’ she said. ‘You don’t always get what you wish for.’

‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘I didn’t wish for three wee weans to bring up on my tod, but I got landed with it.’

‘How are they?’ she said. ‘That’s why…’

‘And I’m not drunk, by the way,’ he said. He started coughing and covered his mouth with his hand, the fingernails blue, full of ingrained dirt. His eyes roamed the walls. ‘This place could do with a lick of paint,’ he said.

‘Do you still…’ she said.

‘Coca Cola and plates of chips,’ he said. He seemed to focus on something on the table.

‘Does Alan still have a thing about straws?’ she said. She would make him talk if it was the last thing she did.

He crushed out the cigarette and immediately reached for another. ‘Alan?’ he said. ‘Right enough, Alan and his froth. And Bernadette with the salt shaker.’

‘That was Mary-Geraldine,’ she said.

‘Was it?’ he said. ‘Christ, time flies, eh?’

He hadn’t brought them here since she left. She wondered where he took them when he wasn’t working. Surely not to the Club? ‘It hasn’t flown for me,’ she said. ‘Never a day goes by when I don’t think about them.’

‘Aye?’ he said.

‘That’s why I’ve been sending you all the letters. You realise they’re not for…they’re not just for you. I want the children to know I still think about them, that they’ve got a mother.’

He chewed his bottom lip. Was it regret? She didn’t care. He still hadn’t told her anything. Maybe…maybe they could arrange another meeting. He could bring the children with him. She would buy them all chips and Coca Cola. A glass for Alan. She would save up from the messages. Bill would never find out. She would be careful.

‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ he said.

I’m sure there is, she thought. In his sober moments, when her bruises were still tender, he used to say he would always love her, she knew that was what he was leading up to, she could see it in his face. And his wedding ring. But if she could just have some contact with the children now and again. Bill was earning. Maybe if she talked to him, really talked to him, he would come round to the idea. They could all be together, all the children. It didn’t have to be a secret. It wouldn’t have to be anything permanent. Just as long as they knew about each other. They could see each other in the school holidays, if they wanted. At least they would have that choice.

The old woman moaned. She pushed herself up and made for the door.

‘I’ll have to be going soon,’ said Margaret. ‘Maybe…maybe we could meet again?’


‘You could bring the children with you.’


‘It would be just like it was. We could arrange it for…’

‘Margaret, there’s something…’

‘…and if I talk to Bill he might be okay with it, you never…’

‘Margaret! No. There’s something…it’s not going to happen.’

‘What do you mean it’s not going to happen? If I talk to…’

‘Christ, Margaret, I don’t know where they are.’


‘They’ve been…they got taken off me,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t look after them. I tried, Jesus, Mary and Joseph I tried, but I couldn’t.’ He looked at the floor. ‘It was the best thing.’


‘I haven’t seen them for months.’

‘What are you talking about, Patrick?’ she said. ‘Where are they? What do you mean you don’t know?’

‘I don’t…different places…Margaret, even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you.’


‘Even if I knew where they were, I wouldn’t be able…’ He tried to balance the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray, between the serrations. He let go of it. Then he picked it up again. His fingers were trembling. She watched them move towards his mouth. ‘I told them you were in a car crash,’ he said

Something kicked inside her. ‘What car crash?’ she said.

‘It was…I had to tell them something. You just disappeared.’

What car crash? She’d never been in one. Why would he make up a story like that?

Slowly, the things on the table, the cup, the spoon, the crumbs around the scone grew larger as she realised what he really meant.

‘I only had to tell them once,’ he said.

She was back in the village. She was in the house, in the corner of the living room, watching. The children were sitting on the floor with their backs to the fireplace, which was full of cold ashes, as Patrick leaned over them. ‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ he said. Hard. ‘It’s your mother. She’s had an accident.’ Their wee faces looking up at him. She could see their faces clearly, she was watching from the corner, their mouths were open, they didn’t understand. ‘She won’t be coming…she’s gone up to…’ He crossed himself. ‘You’ll never see her again.’ Then the crying, Alan the loudest. And Mary-Geraldine and Bernadette, how would they…

The window was covered in steam. She felt the words building in her throat. She tried to force them out, but nothing would come.

He was walking away.

‘Why did you do it?’ she said. ‘Patrick! Why did you do it?!’

A gust of wind blew rain through the empty doorway. She scrubbed the window with both hands, but there was no sign of him. There was no sign of him at all.

Ian Rankin on Edinburgh: A Literary Tour/ Video

Ian Rankin on Edinburgh: A Literary Tour/ Video.

“¡Morir! ¡Claro que no quiero morir! Pero, debo hacerlo”: Alejandra Pizarnik

La tumba de Alejandra Pizarnik

Texto: fragmento del diario, entrada del 28 de setiembre de 1955 (Diarios, Lumen 2013).
Siento una profundísima melancolía. Sombras, dolor, vergüenza de no ser, todo, todo, tan feo, tan triste, tan ausente, tan estático. Quiero morir.
Dentro de unos instantes, moriré. Abriré mis venas con un cuchillo.
¿Qué puedo decir? ¿Qué valor pueden tener mis palabra, ahora, que ya es el fin?
¡Morir! ¡Claro que no quiero morir! Pero, debo hacerlo. Siento que ya está todo perdido. Lo siento claramente. Me lo dice la fría noche que nace desde mi ventana enviando mil ojos que claman por mi vida. Ya nada me sostiene. Pienso en usted, y algo, desde muy hondo, rompe a llorar. ¿Debo pensar que por usted es necesario vivir? Mi razón así lo afirma. Pero, la orden imperativa de este momento es un terrible grito que sólo dice ¡sangre!
¡Morir! Ya nada me queda…
Todo se esfumó y yo quedé en la nada. Y así estoy ahora. ¿Puedo pensar que debo vivir? ¡No!¡No! ¡He de morir! Y ¡ahora! Tiene que ser ahora. De lo contrario, no será nunca. Por última vez, le digo de mi amor.

“La Prima sinfonia di Beethoven: principio di una rivoluzione romantica in un mondo classico” scritto da Giovanni Panella

Giovanni Panella


La Prima sinfonia di Beethoven: principio di una rivoluzione romantica in un mondo classico.”

Scritto da Giovanni Panella

 La sinfonia in Do maggiore Op. 21 è la prima delle nove sinfonie composte dal celebre compositore tedesco.

Beethoven si avvicinò a questo genere musicale relativamente tardi (a 29 anni circa) rispetto alla media dei suoi contemporanei. Si deve probabilmente a questa maggiore maturità un tipo di approccio più indipendente e uno stile che, sebbene ancora in parte risenta delle consuetudini del tempo, appare già maturo e apre già le porte a un nuovo percorso di sviluppo di questo genere musicale.

La “sinfonia” dopo Beethoven non sarà più la stessa.

Beethoven infatti inizia già da questo suo primo lavoro una costante e inesorabile “forzatura dall’interno” delle forme e delle peculiarità della sinfonia.

Questa sinfonia infatti rappresenta già una piccola rivoluzione: una specie di “cambio di direzione” rispetto alle convenzioni del classicismo.

La rivoluzione generata da questa prima sinfonia si tende in genere a sottovalutare a un ascolto odierno.

Questo dipende sia dalla tendenza a esecuzioni uniformi della triade Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven da parte degli attuali direttori d’orchestra, sia dal fatto che all’orecchio moderno Beethoven suona come “classico”, abituato come siamo all’ascolto di autori romantici, di fine ‘800 e del ‘900. Ma se questa sinfonia viene comparata a opere ad essa contemporanee, analizzando la partitura con attenzione, ci si rende conto di quanto quest’opera rappresenti un punto di svolta verso un percorso che porterà fino alla celebre Nona Sinfonia, influenzando generazioni di compositori in avvenire.


Analizzando questa partitura “rivoluzionaria” ci si rende conto che Beethoven non cambia radicalmente, ma “spinge” dall’interno la struttura della Sinfonia. Le sue successioni armoniche sono ben lungi dall’essere innovative, sebbene estremamente efficaci, i suoi “temi” musicali sono piuttosto semplici e lontani dalle grandi frasi cantabili di Haydn e Mozart.

Ma in questa musica tutto questo non è uno svantaggio o un demerito ma diventa piuttosto una cifra stilistica, un modo di creare e utilizzare il materiale musicale, di svilupparlo, di utilizzarlo al massimo delle possibilità offerte.


Nella composizione della sua Prima sinfonia quindi Beethoven è ancora piuttosto legato alla tradizione, anche se quest’ultima viene trattata piuttosto come un oggetto da demolire e ricostruire, mantenendo ad esempio la prassi di una struttura Adagio-Allegro nel primo movimento, così come l’adozione del Minuetto (sebbene, come vedremo, sia un minuetto solo nel titolo), utilizzando queste forme come “contenitori” per un nuovo messaggio; l’Adagio molto del primo movimento inizia con un’armonia piuttosto instabile, una settima di dominante sul primo grado (accordo che di solito, per la sensazione di movimento che trasmette non si utilizza sul primo grado – che di solito è statico, soprattutto se questo primo grado è anche il primo accordo della Sinfonia!). In generale lo sviluppo armonico di questa introduzione tende a celare la tonalità di impianto della sinfonia, rimandando e mantenendo sempre in sospensione lo sviluppo armonico fino all’Allegro con brio, dove per la prima volta si ascolta il Do maggiore in stato fondamentale e in una posizione di forza.


Questa ambiguità viene anche assecondata dall’orchestrazione e dalle dinamiche orchestrali: Fortepiano, pizzicati, crescendo con piano improvvisi.

Per una efficace comparazione pensiamo per esempio alla Sinfonia N° 104 London di F.J. Haydn con la sua introduzione armonicamente e dinamicamente ben definita e chiara, seppur nella sua ambivalenza Re maggiore/Re minore e ai suoi chiaroscuri dinamici.

Uno sviluppo del materiale musicale molto diverso a solo pochi anni di distanza.

Il primo tema è molto deciso, marcato, netto. L’uso particolare degli “sforzando” – che da qui in avanti lo contraddistinguerà – marcano il fraseggio, nella fattispecie la direzione delle frasi, gli “accenti” dinamici, ritmici: un nuovo modo di fraseggiare grazie all’utilizzo personalissimo di questo segno musicale.

Il secondo tema, meno marcato, viene diviso e distribuito tra vari strumenti, prima legni, poi archi.

Nello sviluppo verrà utilizzato prevalentemente materiale del primo tema, con modulazioni, imitazioni e reiterazioni di piccoli frammenti tematici.

Il secondo movimento, forse il più convenzionale dei quattro, è in 3/8, un Andante cantabile molto anch’esso in forma sonata (tripartita).

Nel terzo movimento si evince tutta la volontà di Beethoven di “forzare la scatola strutturale” della Sinfonia. Il Minuetto era l’elemento “alla moda” delle sinfonie, l’elemento cortigiano che spesso veniva utilizzato nelle feste, e del minuetto conserva la struttura con le varie ripetizioni, trio etc., ma l’indicazione agogica Allegro molto e vivace non ne permetterebbe di certo il ballo e di fatto ne fa praticamente uno scherzo, con i suoi estremi contrasti dinamici, gli sforzando e il polso “in uno”. Successivamente, dalla Seconda alla Nona sinfonia lo scherzo sostituirà definitivamente il minuetto. L’unica eccezione al riguardo sarà rappresentata dall’Ottava, nella quale Beethoven tornerà a comporre un vero e proprio minuetto, l’unico vero minuetto inserito dal compositore nelle sue sinfonie. Bisogna notare che al momento della stesura dell’Ottava l’utilizzo dello Scherzo in favore del Minuetto era ormai consolidato, quindi a quel punto il Minuetto dell’Ottava creava un’eccezione.

Il quarto movimento è, nella forma, quanto di più classico ci sia: una struttura “Adagio-Allegro” in forma sonata. Fin dalle sue prime battute, però, se ne coglie l’ironia e la derisione nei confronti delle convenzioni. Al contrario del primo movimento, infatti, il quarto inizia con una “corona” in fortissimo, con unisoni e ottave (quasi uno strizzare l’occhio alle vecchie abitudini). Subito dopo comincia a formarsi una scala, la quale ascende in altezza e in dinamica, sino a completarsi (con una implicita settima di dominante) con una successiva corona, questa volta in pianissimo.

Le articolazioni e le dinamiche che Beethoven indica per l’esecuzione di questa scala ne marcano il carattere ironico, così come il piano e il pianissimo finale. Da questa dinamica (pp), l’Allegro molto e vivace apre le porte all’esposizione del quarto movimento e a tutto il suo sviluppo in forma sonata.


Già da questa sua prima sinfonia Beethoven mette in chiaro quale sarà la sua cifra stilistica, fatta di provocazioni, di anticonvenzionalità (per l’epoca) ma anche e soprattutto, è il caso di dirlo, di autentiche perle musicali di rara bellezza.

Non si parla di “Bellezza” intesa come gusto personale, quanto piuttosto di un criterio estetico universale e oggettivo fatto di equilibrio, sapienza, proporzione, conoscenza del materiale sonoro intriso anche di quel sano e antico “artigianato musicale” che alla fine segna la differenza tra un compositore comune, un grande compositore.


Sicuramente Beethoven, che senza dubbio è contemplato nella seconda di queste categorie, già compone la sua Prima sinfonia come un fulgido esempio di “Bellezza” che non impallidisce con il passare del tempo anche se, forse, per comprenderne la grandezza, sarebbe necessario calarsi maggiormente nell’estetica del suo tempo, ma con intelligenza e rispetto più che con cieca filologia. Questo è un invito rivolto soprattutto agli interpreti (musicisti e direttori) che hanno il sacro compito di interpretare il segno della partitura cercando di trasmettere nel migliore dei modi il messaggio originario del compositore, pur sapendo che si tratta dell’interpretazione di un codice musicale.



Giovanni Panella


Buenos Aires,  17/04/2018