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El relato en cadena se reinventa: nace el primer relato hecho a base de 'retweets'

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La red social renueva su romance con los escritores

eudald espluga

13 Enero 2014 11:59

Teju Cole, escritor norteamericano, ha reinventado la memez de los relatos en cadena. Sí, esos en que uno escribe un frase y pasa el texto a otro, para que a su vez colabore en la rueda, sin que nadie conozca la historia en su totalidad por adelantado. Sí, ese invento que pretende ser garante de la creatividad y acaba en fraseología trasnochada. Sí, ese ejercicio que quiere hacer del azar y el desorden una forma de arte. Aceptamos que para entretenerse está muy bien, ¿pero qué estatuto merece un relato construido sobre el desconocimiento y la falta de dirección narrativa?

El caso de Teju Cole parece corregir la desorientación de la vieja forma de hacer relatos en cadena: él ha creado un relato consciente a base de retwitear mensajes de sus seguidores. El resultado ha sido 'Hafiz', la historia de un cincuentón que está a punto de tener un ataque al corazón. Es cierto que este método sigue conteniendo fragmentos escritos aisladamente por individuos que no pueden alterar los trazos maestros del relato. Sin embargo, el hecho de que Teju Cole ejerza de editor, de titiritero tras las bambalinas, permite estructurar un relato que no sea el resultado de navegar sin timón.

No es el primer (ni será el último) de los experimentos literarios realizados en Twitter. Atrás quedan la fiebre de los microrelatos, las retransmisiones "en directo" de los diarios de Wittgenstein o las ínfulas aforísticas del 70% de los usuarios. La red de microblogging ha sido terreno abonado para este tipo de intentos, y de hecho en estos momentos está abierta la convocatoria de ideas para el #TwitterFiction Festival 2014.

Esta nueva forma de relato construido a partir de los trinos de otros pronto convocará las huestes de críticos culturales formados en el templo del postestructuralismo, que revelarán al mundo las virtudes de la deconstrucción y la cita no contextual. Seguro que también nos honrarán con su presencia los ciberfetichistas, que interpretarán la reconstrucción pública del cuento como la promesa de una nueva forma de comunión democrática post-material.

Es probable que algunos escritores se sumen al carro, siguiendo la lógica Jenna Jameson, y pongan a sus miles de fans a escribir sus relatos —lo cual, en ciertos casos, podría ir en benefició de la obra del autor—. Otros aprovecharán para justificar su falta de capacidad narrativa escudándose en el argumento de que Twitter ha modificado nuestra aproximación a la literatura. Sin embargo, lo único que podemos dar por hecho es que se acaba de abrir la veda para que todo el mundo haga lo propio en su timeline. Se repartirán libremente carnets de 'creador' y 'cuentista' entre nuestros seguidores; los mismos que considerábamos carne de taller literario.

Los relatos en cadena han vuelto, y esta vez nos salpicarán a todos.

Puedes leer 'Hafiz' a continación:

. . . to the subway, I saw a man on the ground. He sat on the sidewalk, under trees, with his feet out to the quiet street.

— rünty reader (@runtyreader) enero 8, 2014

Four others were there: a young man busy with a phone, a young woman, a baby in a pram, a girl who was with the woman.

— George Szirtes (@george_szirtes) enero 8, 2014

There was a stillness in the scene, as in an altarpiece. There was a helpless air in those who stood around him.

— ; (@murab) enero 8, 2014

The seated man was closer to sixty than to fifty, dressed in an ordinary way, a button-down long-sleeved shirt, trousers.

— Chioma Ogwuegbu (@AfricanCeleb) enero 8, 2014

His right hand was inside his shirt. He clutched at his heart and winced.

— ST (@seyitaylor) enero 8, 2014

The young man with the phone said, "He's having chest pains. Earlier he said he was having chest pains."

— Ayesha A. Siddiqi (@pushinghoops) enero 8, 2014

"Is it a heart attack?" "I don't know." "Did you call 911?"

— culdivsac (@culdivsac) enero 8, 2014

He hesitated. Then he said no, and that maybe I should. The man on the ground grimaced and did not look up.

— Mister Simian (@MisterSimian) enero 8, 2014

He gave no indication of being aware of our presence. He was tranquil, wordless. The tears were falling from his eyes.

— Matt Pearce (@mattdpearce) enero 8, 2014

Christopher Logue, "All Day Permanent Red": "Or are they only asleep? They are too tired to sleep. The tears are falling from their eyes."

— Disruptia (@Ebsje) enero 8, 2014

"The noise they make while fighting is so loud That what you see is like a silent film."

— Elon Green (@elongreen) enero 8, 2014

"And as the dust converges over them The ridge is as it is when darkness falls."

— Saudamini (@saudaminid) enero 8, 2014

I called 911. The dispatcher put me through to the EMTs. I told them where we were and what I had seen.

— Kima Jones (@kima_jones) enero 8, 2014

When I finished and had hung up the phone, I tried to talk to my man on the ground but his sound lacked all sound.

— Ainehi Edoro (@brittlepaper) enero 8, 2014

Why tears? Because light is beautiful. Because we do not wish to leave something and stray away into nothing.

— rob delaney (@robdelaney) enero 8, 2014

Because we have some dim awareness that being alive is better than being dead, which might be nothing, which might be nothingness.

— Ayanna Gillian Lloyd (@AyaRoots) enero 8, 2014

The man leaned back, further back, lay his head and shoulders on the concrete, softly, and closed his eyes.

— neo maditla (@neo_maditla) enero 8, 2014

He was very still. Dead, possibly.

— Elif Batuman (@BananaKarenina) enero 8, 2014

Coming close to take his pulse, I smelled alcohol. His tear-stained cheek shone. I placed a thumb on his wrist. His hand was cold.

— Elisa Gabbert (@egabbert) enero 8, 2014

After a few moments, I remembered that the thumb has a pulse of its own, so I placed, instead, two fingers on his wrist.

— Oluchi 007 Ogwuegbu (@LuchiesO) enero 8, 2014

Distracted by the young man with the phone, the young woman with the pram, the girl, and by my own presence, I was unable to concentrate.

— rjctr (@rejecter) enero 8, 2014

I tried again and finally faintly felt through my fingers the blood softly throb.

— J. Robert Lennon (@jrobertlennon) enero 8, 2014

And only then did I also notice his chest subtly rise and fall.

— tolu ogunlesi (@toluogunlesi) enero 8, 2014

The ambulance arrived sirenlessly about five minutes later. Two EMTs came out of the vehicle, a man and a woman, both young and slender.

— ashish (@ashishgajera) enero 8, 2014

The male EMT had a beautiful name which right away I began to forget: Ahmed, or Hamid, or Aziz, or Hafiz.

— ndinda (@ndinda_) enero 8, 2014

I told the EMTs what I had seen. They were calm and uninterested, concerned only to have their own questions answered.

— hystericalblackness (@hystericalblkns) enero 8, 2014

"How did he get into that position?" "He lay down there." "Lay how? Did he bang his head?" "He lay down there like someone going to sleep."

— Mark O'Connell (@mrkocnnll) enero 8, 2014

"He didn't hit his head on the ground?" "No."

— Madam Sin (@Robirobi1) enero 8, 2014

They worked with Homeric clarity. In each unwasted gesture was the message: it's always someone's turn, always someone's bad day.

— Rachel Rosenfelt (@rachelrosenfelt) enero 8, 2014

The female EMT knelt down and checked his pulse with two fingers at the throat. Ahmed, Hafiz, shook him by the shoulders and spoke to him.

— Emily Raboteau (@emilyraboteau) enero 8, 2014

No response. With my help and the help of the young man, he is lifted onto the stretcher.

— Josh Begley (@joshbegley) enero 8, 2014

He dips into present tense: his eyes slit open for a moment, and close again. A white froth appears around his mouth. His eyelids glisten.

— Lee Brackstone (@leebrackstone) enero 8, 2014

"I know him," the young man said. "I've seen him around. Drinks a lot."

— Patrick Nathan (@patricknathan) enero 8, 2014

Without a word to us, the EMTs lifted the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, and without a word to us...

— elizabeth angell (@kitabet) enero 8, 2014

FIN

— Christopher Hayes (@chrislhayes) enero 8, 2014

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