Restos de Neruda viajan a Estados Unidos

La investigación sobre la muerte de Pablo Neruda avanza a paso firme. Desde que el 23 de septiembre de 1973 se informó que el poeta chileno había fallecido a causa de un cáncer hasta estos días, el panorama ha cambiado mucho. Las sospechas sobre el posible asesinato del escritor llevaron a desenterrar sus restos para someterlos a diversos tipos de estudios.

Pablo NerudaLa exhumación de la urna que se hallaba en la residencia de Isla Negra tuvo lugar el pasado lunes 8 de abril. Ese día fue llevada a las instalaciones del Servicio Médico Legal (SML) de Santiago.

Ahora, tras el reconocimiento de un cinturón y otra prenda que se encontraban en la urna por parte del sobrino de Neruda, Rodolfo Reyes, los restos del poeta viajarán a los Estados Unidos para que científicos de dicho país busquen la presencia de toxinas. Esto permitiría determinar si Neruda realmente murió como consecuencia de un cáncer o si, como denunció su chofer Manuel Araya, fue envenenado por la dictadura de Augusto Pinochet.

Los fragmentos óseos serán estudiados en un laboratorio de Carolina del Norte en el que se desempeña la experta Ruth Winecker, informa Télam. En Chile, mientras tanto, también se desarrollarán diversos estudios, cuyos informes serán supervisados por Mario Carroza, el juez que tiene la responsabilidad de llevar a cabo la investigación.

Reyes reconoció la ansiedad y el revuelo que se ha producido a partir de la exhumación de los restos de Neruda. Más allá de esta realidad, el sobrino del escritor explicó que los familiares se mantienen tranquilos. En declaraciones recogidas por Europa Press, Reyes resaltó que los diversos pasos inherentes a las labores investigativas se concretaron “con mucha rigurosidad”.

Como afirma la familia de Neruda, ahora es tiempo de esperar y de dejar que la ciencia haga su parte. A casi cuatro décadas de la muerte del poeta, la verdad parece mucho más cerca.

Links relacionados:

https://caminootonal.blogspot.com/2013/04/pablo-neruda-algunas-muestras-oseas-de.html

https://triunfo-arciniegas.blogspot.com/2013/04/pablo-neruda-regresa-santiago-cuarenta.html

Comentarios1

  • Fay Sebille










    And from darkness...light will sprout...and will engender the truth...



    I want you to know one thing
    you know how this is
    if I look at the crystal moon
    at the red branch
    of the slow autumn
    at my window
    if I touch near the fire
    the impalpable ash
    or the wrinkled body
    of the log
    everything carries me to you
    as if everything that exists
    aromas...lights...metals
    were little boats that sail
    toward those isles of yours
    that wait for me...
    Well...now...
    if little by little
    you stop loving me
    I shall stop loving you
    little by little...
    If suddenly you forget me
    do not look for me...
    for I shall already
    have forgotten you...

    • Raoul Shade

      Lovely!
      Except that hardly ever light will sprout from darkness to engender the truth, especially in the Neruda’s case. The truth is that nearly all Neruda ‘s followers still cannot digest truth when it affects their icon, and that the anti-Semitic and Stalinist poet continues to be an untouchable sacred cow, which throws a considerable shadow over his person and poetry. There are expressions used by him which could have been attributed to Hitler violently anti-Semitic and ultra nationalistic.

      • Sophia Sea







        OK ... give me proof...

        • Raoul Shade

          Dear Fay, the proof is in the pudding. But such puddings are very difficult to find because the Left censures everything that undermines their icons. For instance David Schidlowski had to finance the publication of his 1,337-pages long biography on Neruda. But he could only afford 80 copies. It will be easier to find some of the books by Victor Farías, such as “Salvador Allende: contra los Judíos, los Homosexuales y otros degenerados” (2005) or “Salvador Allende: el fin de un mito”. In these books and others you’ll find the evidence. Neruda received the Stalin Peace Prize and he wrote poems dedicated to Stalin, Mao and Castro.

          • Sophia Sea









            I'll dig deep to find the truth... !!

            • Raoul Shade

              I knew you would. If you dig deep enough you'll find the truth. Have a look at my diggings of war crimes in Central America: www.raoulshade.org But remember, when you dig forget ideologies, romantic ideas and utopias. Best luck

              • Sophia Sea







                www.raoulshade.org

                Forbidden

                You don't have permission to access / on this server.

                Why I can´t access ?

                • Raoul Shade

                  Hello Fay, I have no idea why. I wrote to my friend who designed the page and Iam still waiting for a reply. Thank you for trying to see my webpage. I 'll let you know.
                  Kind regards Raoul

                  • Sophia Sea








                    OK...I'm waiting for your news...!! 🙂

                    • Raoul Shade

                      Dear Fay:
                      T.S. Eliot admired Keith Douglas’ poetry, but Douglas, who was born in 1920, was reached by Nazi mortar fire (just after the D-Day) and died in June 1944. See if you like his poetry:

                      Cairo Jag
                      Shall I get drunk or cut myself a piece of cake,
                      a pasty Syrian with a few words of English
                      or the Turk who says she is a princess--she dances
                      apparently by levitation? Or Marcelle, Parisienne
                      always preoccupied with her dull dead lover:
                      she has all the photographs and his letters
                      tied in a bundle and stamped Decede in mauve ink.
                      All this takes place in a stink of jasmin.

                      But there are the streets dedicated to sleep
                      stenches and the sour smells, the sour cries
                      do not disturb their application to slumber
                      all day, scattered on the pavement like rags
                      afflicted with fatalism and hashish. The women
                      offering their children brown-paper breasts
                      dry and twisted, elongated like the skull,
                      Holbein's signature. But his stained white town
                      is something in accordance with mundane conventions-
                      Marcelle drops her Gallic airs and tragedy
                      suddenly shrieks in Arabic about the fare
                      with the cabman, links herself so
                      with the somnambulists and legless beggars:
                      it is all one, all as you have heard.

                      But by a day's travelling you reach a new world
                      the vegetation is of iron
                      dead tanks, gun barrels split like celery
                      the metal brambles have no flowers or berries
                      and there are all sorts of manure, you can imagine
                      the dead themselves, their boots, clothes and possessions
                      clinging to the ground, a man with no head
                      has a packet of chocolate and a souvenir of Tripoli.

                      • Sophia Sea









                        Interesting ... very different from what I usually read ... I liked it .... thank you very much...

                        • Raoul Shade

                          Yes, no rhetoric, no sentimentalism, no grandiloquence, yet profound poetry with internal rhyme. I'm glad you like it.

                          • Sophia Sea










                            Would like to read more... 🙂

                            • Raoul Shade

                              The Knife
                              Can I explain this to you? Your eyes
                              are entrances the mouths of caves
                              I issue from wonderful interiors
                              upon a blessed sea and a fine day,
                              from inside these caves I look and dream.

                              Your hair explicable as a waterfall
                              in some black liquid cooled by legend
                              fell across my thought in a moment
                              became a garment I am naked without
                              lines drawn across through morning and evening.
                              And in your body each minute I died
                              moving your thigh could disinter me
                              from a grave in a distant city:
                              your breasts deserted by cloth, clothed in twilight
                              filled me with tears, sweet cups of flesh.

                              Yes, to touch two fingers made us worlds
                              stars, waters, promontories, chaos
                              swooning in elements without form or time
                              come down through long seas among sea marvels
                              embracing like survivors in our islands.

                              This I think happened to us together
                              though now no shadow of it flickers in your hands
                              your eyes look down on ordinary streets
                              If I talk to you I might be a bird
                              with a message, a dead man, a photograph.

                              Vergissmeinnicht

                              Three weeks gone and the combatants gone
                              returning over the nightmare ground
                              we found the place again, and found
                              the soldier sprawling in the sun.

                              The frowning barrel of his gun
                              overshadowing. As we came on
                              that day, he hit my tank with one
                              like the entry of a demon.

                              Look. Here in the gunpit spoil
                              the dishonoured picture of his girl
                              who has put: Steffi. Vergissmeinnicht.
                              in a copybook gothic script.

                              We see him almost with content,
                              abased, and seeming to have paid
                              and mocked at by his own equipment
                              that's hard and good when he's decayed.

                              But she would weep to see today
                              how on his skin the swart flies move;
                              the dust upon the paper eye
                              and the burst stomach like a cave.

                              For here the lover and killer are mingled
                              who had one body and one heart.
                              And death who had the soldier singled
                              has done the lover mortal hurt.




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