Vision de Anahuac is an evocation of the artistic image of the ancient city of Tenochtitlan Mexico, or as it appeared in to the eyes of the Spanish. Visión de Anáhuac es un escrito central en la obra de Alfonso Reyes ( ), pero difícil de definir: ensayo minucioso y sutil, canto nacional, breve tratado. Vision de anahuac (Spanish Edition) [Alfonso Reyes] on *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. Los nueve ensayos reunidos en este libro son.
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Carina del Valle Schorske. In the Age of Discovery, books appear filled with extraordinary news and fanciful geographies. History, obliged to discover new worlds, overflows its classical channel, and so political fact cedes its post to ethnographic discourse and visio the picture-painting of civilizations.
The work consists of three volumes in-folio that were later reprinted individually, and illustrated with profusion and enchantment.
From the bosom of the impressionistic clouds, a fat-cheeked Reyfs blows, indicating the course of the winds—the constant guardian of the sons of Vsiion. See the footprints of African life, beneath the traditional palm tree next to the squat straw hut, always smoking; men and beasts of other climes, minute and detailed scenes, exotic plants and imagined islands.
And on the coasts of New France, groups of natives given over to hunting and fishing, to dancing or the building of cities. Hold, here, your eyes: Ceres’ ears of corn and paradisical plantains, fruits ripe vidion unknown honey; but, above all, the typical plants: In the sharp outlines of the illustrations, fruit and leaf, stem and root, are abstract forms, their clarity undisturbed by color.
These plants, protected by alfohso, announce that nature here is not, like in the south or on the coasts, abundant in saps or nourishing vapors. But over the course of centuries, man will contrive to drain away the waters, working like a beaver, returning to the valley its own terrible character: The desiccation of the valley has been going anahiac from to Three races have worked on it, and almost three civilizations—how little there is in common between the viceroyal organization and the prodigious political fiction that gave us thirty years of Augustan peace!
Three monarchical regimes, divided by parentheses of anarchy, are here an example of how the work of the state grows and corrects itself before the same threats of nature and the same land to hoe. Our century found us still digging up the last shovelful and tearing open the last alfonzo.
The draining of the lakes is its own small drama with its own heroes and scenic backdrop. Before a great assembly overseen by the Viceroy and the Archbishop, the sluices were opened: Alonso the spirit of disaster, the vengeful water spied over the city; troubling the dreams of that cruel and petty people, sweeping clean its flowering stones; lying in wait, blue eye open, for its brave bastions.
When the makers of the desert finish their labors, the social catastrophe erupts.
The American traveler is condemned to hear the same question from Europeans: We would surprise them if we were to speak of an American Castile higher than Spain’s, more harmonious, surely less bitter however much they are broken by enormous mountains instead of by hills, where the air glitters like a mirror and enjoys perennial autumn. The Spanish plain suggests ascetic thoughts; the Mexican valley, simple and sober ones.
What one gains in tragedy, the other in formal precision. Our nature has two opposing aspects. One, the virgin jungle of America, so long-sung it is hardly worth describing. An obligatory object of praise in the Old World, it inspires Chateaubriand’s verbal effusions. Hothouse where energies seem to spend themselves with generous abandon, where our spirit drowns in intoxicating fumes, it is the exaltation of life and the vital image of anarchy: The cries of parrots, the thunder of waterfalls, the savage eyes of beasts!
In these profusions of fire and fantasy, other tropical regions surely outdo us. At least for those who like to have their wills alert and minds clear at all hours. The most quintessential vision of our nature is in the regions of the central highlands: So observed a great traveler, whose name merits the pride of New Spain; a classical and universal man like those of the Renaissance, who resuscitated in his century the ancient way of acquiring wisdom on the road, and the habit of writing only of his own memories and meditations: In that landscape, not without a certain aristocratic sterility, where the eyes wander with discernment, the mind deciphers every line and caresses every curve; beneath the brilliance of that air and in its pervasive freshness and placidity, those undiscovered men let their broad, meditative, spiritual gaze wander.
Ecstatic before the cactus with its eagle and its serpent—the happy essence of our country—they heard the bird’s prophetic voice promising them refuge on those hospitable lakes. Later, from that little stilt village a city had welled up, repopulated with the incursions of mythological warriors that came from the Seven Caves—the cradle of the seven tribes spilling over our land.
Later, the city became an empire, and the clamor of a Cyclopean civilization, like that of Babylon and Egypt, endured, wearying, until the ill-starred days of Moctezuma the Mournful. At their feet, in a mirage of crystals, the picturesque city spread out, emanating from the temple, so that its radiant streets extended the corners of the pyramid.
To their ears, in some dark and bloody rite, came howling the moan of the ancient oboe and, multiplied by the echo, the throb of the savage drum. It resembled the house of enchantments that the book.
I know not how to describe it.
Bernal Diaz del Castillo. The conversations come to life without clamor: Sweet clicks can be heard; the vowels flow and consonants tend to liquify. The chatter alfonsk a delicious music. Those x’sthose tl’sthose ch’s that so alarm us written, drip from the lips of the Indian with the smoothness of maguey syrup.
The water, oozing, trills in the pungent jars. The flower, mother of the smile. The historical age in which the conquistadors arrived proceeded precisely from the rain of flowers that fell on the heads of men at the end of the fourth cosmic sun. The land avenged its old shortages, and men waved the flags of jubilation. In the drawings of the Vatican codex, this is represented by a triangular figure adorned with trellises of plants; the goddess of licit loves, hung with verdant ribbons trailing to the ground, while seeds burst from above, dropping leaves and flowers.
The principal material for studying the artistic representation of plants in America is found in the monuments of culture that flowered in the valley of Mexico immediately before the conquest.
Alfonso Reyes – Wikipedia
Hieroglyphic writing offers the most varied and abundant material. The flower was one of the twenty signs of the days; the flower is also the sign of the noble and the lovely, and, at the same time, represents all perfumes and drinks. It also arises from the blood of sacrifice, and crowns the hieroglyph for oratory. Garlands, trees, maguey, and maize alternate as the hieroglyphs for places.
The flower is painted in a schematic mode, reduced to a strict symmetry, seen in profile anwhuac in the mouth of the corolla. In the same way, a defined scheme is used to represent the tree: In the stone and clay sculptures there are isolated flowers—without leaves—and radiant fruited trees, some as attributes of the divine, others as personal adornment or decoration for utensils.
Nagualli: Alfonso Reyes, from “Vision of Anáhuac, ,” trans. Carina del Valle Schorske
In dde pottery of Cholula, the background of the pots flaunts a floral star, and on the interior and exterior walls of the vase run interlaced calyxes. The cups of the spinners have black flowers on a yellow background, and, on occasion, the flower appears to be evoked merely by a few fugitive lines. We also seek the flower, nature, and the landscape of the valley in the indigenous poetry.
But glorious it was to see, how the open region. Was filled with horses and chariots…. Whatever historical doctrine one professes and I am not one of those who dream of absurd perpetuations of indigenous traditions nor place too much faith in perpetuations of the Spanishit unites us with the race of yesterday, without speaking of blood, with the community of effort to dominate our dense and fierce nature; the effort which is the brute base of history.
Much more profoundly, we are united by the community of quotidian emotion when faced with the same natural object. The confrontation of human sensibility with the same natural world cultivates and engenders a common soul. But if one accepts neither one nor the other—neither the work of collective action, nor of collective contemplation, let it be conceded that the historical feeling is part of contemporary life, and that without its glow, our valleys and our mountains would be like reyee theater without light.
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