Trabajo el poema de Auden a la muerte de Freud, realmente emocionante.
“(…) but in a world he changed
simply by looking back with no false regrets;
all he did was to remember
like the old and be honest like children. (…)
(…) if often he was wrong and, at times, absurd,
to us he is no more a person
now but a whole climate of opinion
under whom we conduct our different lives (…)
(…) but he would have us remember most of all
to be enthusiastic over the night,
not only for the sense of wonder
it alone has to offer, but also
because it needs our love. (…)
(…) One rational voice is dumb. Over his grave
the household of Impulse mourns one dearly loved:
sad is Eros, builder of cities,
and weeping anarchic Aphrodite.”
In memory of Sigmund Freud
Me atrevo con la traducción, algo libre, de la última estrofa:
