When I realized that I wasn’t Gregory Peck

When I was few months old I was blond and I looked like an angel. To be modest, it seemed as if I had been stolen from a picture of Michelangelo. Do you remember the Sistine Chapel? I was even more lovely than these angels that are playing around, in a cloudy sky, while the two muscular men are stretching their rude arms to touch their fingertips, in a notorious effeminate way. My hair was curly and blond as theirs. My skin was smooth like theirs. I was a chubby boy, like them and like Cupid. And I had a big rounded face and two big and bright eyes. Women used to gaze at me in a combination of tenderness and envy -because their children didn’t look so lovely. However, I lost my charm very fast. When I was four my hair had already turned out pretty mousy. When I was five it couldn’t be said that I was the tallest boy of the class. Nevertheless, I imagined my self as an actor. Yes, I was convinced that I had the appearance of Gregory Peck. Do you remember how slim and tall this actor was? Do you remember his dark hair, so straight and well combed? You’ve probably got in your mind his meticulous manners and how well-groomed good looking was him, don’t you? I was convinced that I looked like him! Mister Peck is my mother’s favourite actor and I suppose this is the reason why I was so wrong. Finally, one day I collided with the truth. It happened while I was visiting a museum with the school. The museum is dedicated to the history of science and situated at the top of Tibidabo, the mountain that draws the northern limit of Barcelona. Inside de museum, near to the entrance hall, there was an attraction called the mirror room. The room was full of mirrors of all widths, lengths, and surfaces. I remember perfectly the instant when I became conscious that I didn’t look like Gregory Peck. I saw a boy with a mousy, wavy, scruffy hair reflected in the mirror. I thought that maybe he had been playing football until few minutes before. “Maybe he’s lost”, I thought-, because he didn’t look like anybody of my class. His nose looked like a potato and he seemed shorter than a boy of his age must to be. It is not necessary to explain how disappointed I was, when I realized that this boy was me.

Nota pel Joan: Ep, moltes gràcies per la correcció. Però aquest és l’anglès que sé i el joc també consistia en això. Els lectors que vulguin veure la correcció la tenen als comentaris.

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8 pensaments sobre “When I realized that I wasn’t Gregory Peck

  1. En la polèmica amb el Sostres, estic de part teva: al Sostres el perd el seu narcisisme sense límits. A mi em va agradar molt el teu llibre del Pla, i gràcies a tu ara veig el personatge des d’una altra perspectiva. Pel que fa a la redacció en anglès, crec que n’hauries d’aprendre més abans de penjar-les al blog: els textos en català i anglès semblen escrits per persones diferents, un que en sap molt i un altre que li passa alguna cosa, respectivament. De bon rollo sigui dit. (justament per això l’he penjat, home, però reconec que potser l’humorada m’ha sortit un pèl àcida)

  2. Mira, com que avui tinc poca feina, m’he pres la llibertat de fer una ràpida correcció del text. take it or leave it.

    The day I realized I wasn’t Gregory Peck

    When I was a few months old I was blond. I looked like an angel. To be more precise, it seemed I had been taken from a Michelangelo’s painting. Do you have the Sistine Chapel in your mind? I was even lovelier than those angels that are playing around in a cloudy sky, while two muscular men are stretching their rude arms to touch their fingertips, in a notoriously effeminate way [aquesta és molt bona!]. My hair was as curly and blond as the lovely angels’. My skin was smooth as theirs. I was a chubby boy, just as them and Cupid. And I had a big round face and two big bright eyes. Women used to gaze [jo potser diria stare més aviat] at me in a combination of tenderness and envy –their children didn´t look so lovely. Unfortunately, I lost my charm very fast. When I was four, my hair had already turned pretty mousy. When I was five, one could not say that I was the tallest boy in the class. However, I pictured myself as an actor. Yes, I was convinced that I looked like Gregory Peck. Do you remember how slim and tall he was? Do you remember his dark hair, so straight and well combed? You probably recall his meticulous manners and how well-groomed and good-looking he was, don’t you? I was convinced that I looked like him. Mr. Peck was my mother’s favourite actor and I guess that this is why I was so wrong. Fortunately, one day the revelation came. It happened while I was visiting a museum with the school. The museum, on top of the Tibidabo –a mountain that draws the Northern limit of Barcelona- was dedicated to the history of Science. In the museum, near the entrance hall, there was an attraction called the mirror-room. The room was full of mirrors of all widths, lengths, and surfaces. I perfectly remember the precise instant when I became aware that I didn’t look like Gregory Peck. I saw a boy with a mousy, wavy, scruffy hair reflected in the mirror. Fist I thought that maybe he had been playing football until just a few minutes before. Or “Maybe he’s lost” I thought, since he didn’t look like anyone in my class. His nose was like a potato and he was shorter than boys of his age were supposed to be. No need to say how disappointed I was when I realized that boy was me.

    • Joan: felicitats pels teus coneixements de l’anglès. Disculpa’m sisplau si l’altre dia vaig estar inapropiada en la discussió sobre el terme “random”.

      • Hola, no era pas amb mi amb qui discuties… devia ser un altre Joan. Ja ho diuen de Joans Joseps i ases n’hi ha a totes les cases….

    • Jo també penso que és una pena, però també penso que en aquest combat la causa de l’Enric és justa i les seves armes nobles.
      I a més a més la seva causa és també la meva.

  3. Els pitjors adversaris de qualsevol tipus de catalanisme, avui, son els del PP, però especialment els de Ciudadanos. El gran risc és que els espanyolistes arribin a manipular els espanyols que viuen a Catalunya, més de la meitat de la població, sembla, i enfrontar-los als catalans. Per això personatges com Jiménez Losantos, Arcadi Espada, Albert Boadella, etc. són els que fan més mal. No crec que algú que diu que és admirador i/o amic d’aquests personatges pugui ser-ho al mateix temps dels qui tants esforços van haver d’esmerçar, durant 23 anys, per alliberar-nos d’aquest risc. Un individu que fa això pot ser un histrió sense gaire interès en res excepte la seva egolatria o fins i tot un “agent provocateur” per lliure. Es una opinió.

  4. el problema és molt més simple, esgambi de vestíbol, a tots dos us agradaria vendre croquetes amb el de la pedofília, i fer de monosabios de la fiesta nacional amb el de la lligacama… tant se val si és en penós castellano, (“la llengua de les minyones”), o en un anglès de quisca evacuada per un fill de paquistaní borratxo emigrat des de liverpool a lloret (“Have you got in mind the Sistine Chapel?”)… el problema és que tu ets (encara) més envejós que ell… i no pots soportar que ell se’n surti (una mica) menys malament que tu, sent com sou idèntics…o, en paraules de la meva agüela, parell de vedelles manyaga, que de totes les vaques mamen o intenten mamar.

    au, papalló pavonat de tu mateixa, a pixar hores i a cagar quarts, que se t’acosta un cap d’any quiromàntic. vull dir, igual que tu, quiromànticament quiscarro. [Ja et trobava a faltar. Avui t’aprovo el comentari. bon nadal, torrat!]

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