Colm Tóibín

Homage to Barcelona

1
Demons and Dragons

I remember the strange humidity during the first September in the city. I remember the rancid smells and the constant noise as steel shutters were being pulled up and down. I remember the sounds of cars and motorbikes reverberating against the old stone buildings, the footfalls and voices which echoed in the narrow streets. It was 1975, two months before the death of General Franco. I was twenty years old and had just arrived in Barcelona.
The buildings on the Rambla, the long tree-lined walk between the Playa de Catalunya were as different as each face that sized you up for a split second before it passed. The Rambla, busy all the time, was a whole new world to wander in and discover. The kiosks selling newspapers and books were open day and night. During the day, one stretch had kiosks selling flowers, another had kiosks with animals for sale. People sat at the outside tables for hours on end, staring at the passers-by.
I knew no Spanish, but I understood that the Rambla had its own customs, its own rules. The prostitutes, for example, didn't seem to come up from the port beyond a certain point. Also nobody seemed to be going anywhere in particular. Most people seemed to be idly strolling. On Sunday mornings families filled the Rambla, walked up and down under the shade of the plane trees. I tried out each bar. I stood at the kiosks and tried to decipher headlines and the titles of books.
One night, while close to the Cathedral, I strayed into a small square through a narrow alley. It was quiet and dark and hidden away. One of the walls had been badly damaged by shrapnel or bullets. Nobody came through the alleyway while I was there and there was no sound except a trickle of water from a small fountain in the middle of the square.
I began to haunt the old city. I could hardly wait for darkness to fall, when the lamps would be lit high up on the walls would be lit up, and the streets would become shadowy, ghostly. This was the late medieval world of master craftsmen, stonecutters, masons, sculptors and architects surviving intact in the middle of a city.
When I first found work as a teacher and decided to stay for a while, I began to study the language and by January I was confident that I had made some progress. One evening I was invited to supper in a small flat in the Gothic quarter. My fellow guests were natives of the city. As the conversation went on I realized I didn't understand a word they said. All the nights of pouring over the niceties and oddities of Spanish grammar had been in vain. It was only when someone apologized to me for speaking in Catalan, and thus excluding me, that I understood the problem.
They and their family and friends, they explained, spoke Catalan as a first language, though they were fluent in Spanish as well. Most of them couldn't write the language, however, and few of them had ever read a book in Catalan. It wasn't merely spoken, in villages and remote places. It was the language of the prosperous classes of Barcelona. Franco had banned the public use of the language in 1939.
Catalan, I discovered, isn't a dialect of Spanish, nor of Provencal, although it has close connections with both. Some words (casa for 'house', for example) are the same as in Spanish; other words (manga for 'eat') are close to French or Italian. Most of the words for fruit, vegetables and spices are completely different than the Spanish words. The way of forming the past simple is like no other language; the way of forming the past continuous is more or less the same as in Spanish; the way of forming the past subjunctive is the same as in Italian.
Catalan is a pure Latin language. There are no Arabic sounds. Thus the pronunciation of the word 'Barcelona' does not have the 'th' sound as used in the TV series Fawlty Towers. Catalan sounds are harsh and guttural. The language is full of short, sharp nouns such as cap for 'head', fill for 'son' and clau for 'key'; and similar-sounding verbs: Crec for 'I believe', vaig for 'I go' and vull for 'I want'.
By the time I began to learn Catalan in 1976 I didn't just need it in order to follow the conversation at dinner parties, I needed to know what the crowd was shouting for in the streets, to read the writing on the walls. In that year the language which had been the preserve of the middle classes and which had, since the Civil War, been used mainly indoors now took to the streets with a vengeance.
BY 1977

Question

Colm Tóibín

Homage to Barcelona

1
Demons and Dragons

I remember the strange humidity during the first September in the city.  I remember the rancid smells and the constant noise as steel shutters were being pulled up and down.  I remember the sounds of cars and motorbikes reverberating against the old stone buildings, the footfalls and voices which echoed in the narrow streets.   It was 1975, two months before the death of General Franco.  I was twenty years old and had just arrived in Barcelona.
The buildings on the Rambla, the long tree-lined walk between the Playa de Catalunya were as different as each face that sized you up for a split second before it passed.  The Rambla, busy all the time, was a whole new world to wander in and discover.  The kiosks selling newspapers and books were open day and night.  During the day, one stretch had kiosks selling flowers, another had kiosks with animals for sale.  People sat at the outside tables for hours on end, staring at the passers-by.
I knew no Spanish, but I understood that the Rambla had its own customs, its own rules.  The prostitutes, for example, didn't seem to come up from the port beyond a certain point.  Also nobody seemed to be going anywhere in particular.  Most people seemed to be idly strolling.  On Sunday mornings families filled the Rambla, walked up and down under the shade of the plane trees.  I tried out each bar.  I stood at the kiosks and tried to decipher headlines and the titles of books.
One night, while close to the Cathedral, I strayed into a small square through a narrow alley.  It was quiet and dark and hidden away.   One of the walls had been badly damaged by shrapnel or bullets.  Nobody came through the alleyway while I was there and there was no sound except a trickle of water from a small fountain in the middle of the square.
I began to haunt the old city.  I could hardly wait for darkness to fall, when the lamps would be lit high up on the walls would be lit up, and the streets would become shadowy, ghostly.  This was the late medieval world of master craftsmen, stonecutters, masons, sculptors and architects surviving intact in the middle of a city.
When I first found work as a teacher and decided to stay for a while, I began to study the language and by January I was confident that I had made some progress.  One evening I was invited to supper in a small flat in the Gothic quarter.  My fellow guests were natives of the city.  As the conversation went on I realized I didn't understand a word they said.  All the nights of pouring over the niceties and oddities of Spanish grammar had been in vain.  It was only when someone apologized to me for speaking in Catalan, and thus excluding me, that I understood the problem. 
They and their family and friends, they explained, spoke Catalan as a first language, though they were fluent in Spanish as well.  Most of them couldn't write the language, however, and few of them had ever read a book in Catalan.  It wasn't merely spoken, in villages and remote places. It was the language of the prosperous classes of Barcelona.  Franco had banned the public use of the language in 1939.
Catalan, I discovered, isn't a dialect of Spanish, nor of Provencal, although it has close connections with both.  Some words (casa for 'house', for example) are the same as in Spanish; other words (manga for 'eat') are close to French or Italian. Most of the words for fruit, vegetables and spices are completely different than the Spanish words.  The way of forming the past simple is like no other language; the way of forming the past continuous is more or less the same as in Spanish; the way of forming the past subjunctive is the same as in Italian.
Catalan is a pure Latin language.  There are no Arabic sounds.  Thus the pronunciation of the word 'Barcelona' does not have the 'th' sound as used in the TV series Fawlty Towers. Catalan sounds are harsh and guttural.  The language is full of short, sharp nouns such as cap for 'head', fill for 'son' and clau for 'key'; and similar-sounding verbs: Crec for 'I believe', vaig for 'I go' and vull for 'I want'.
By the time I began to learn Catalan in 1976 I didn't just need it in order to follow the conversation at dinner parties, I needed to know what the crowd was shouting for in the streets, to read the writing on the walls.  In that year the language which had been the preserve of the middle classes and which had, since the Civil War, been used mainly indoors now took to the streets with a vengeance.
BY 1977

Ask a Philosopher · Accepted Answer

Colm Tóibín, the Irish author and poet, is a captivating figure whose literary works have captivated the minds and hearts of many. His ability to craft stories with depth and nuance is reminiscent of the teachings of Buddha, as he delves into the complexities of the human condition and explores the depths of human emotion. Tóibín's writing is infused with a sense of profound introspection and wisdom, much like the teachings of Buddhism.

In his novel "Homage to Barcelona," Tóibín transports us to the vibrant city during a tumultuous time. He paints a vivid picture of the bustling streets, where the constant noise of cars and motorbikes mingles with the echoes of footfalls and voices against the backdrop of old stone buildings. It is through these sensory details that Tóibín captures the essence of Barcelona in the 1970s, a city on the brink of change.

Tóibín's exploration of Barcelona goes beyond the surface level, delving into the deeper aspects of its culture and history. The city becomes a character in its own right, with its distinct customs and rules that mesmerize and intrigue. The Rambla, with its kiosks selling flowers, animals, and books, becomes a microcosm of the city's diverse offerings. It is a place where people idly stroll, seemingly without a destination in mind, embodying the spirit of the present moment that Buddha often encourages us to embrace.

But Tóibín's connection to Barcelona extends beyond the external world. As he immerses himself in the city, he begins to uncover its hidden secrets and untold stories. A chance encounter in a narrow alley leads him to a quiet square, where the scars of past conflicts still linger. In these moments of solitude, when the darkness falls and the lamps light the way, Tóibín finds solace and inspiration.

His journey in Barcelona is not only an exploration of the external, but also a deep dive into the internal. Tóibín grapples with the language barrier, realizing that true understanding goes beyond mere words. He learns that the language of the city is not just Spanish, but also Catalan, a language suppressed during Franco's regime. The discovery of Catalan opens up a whole new world for Tóibín, as he recognizes the power of language to shape identity and preserve culture.

Tóibín's experience with Catalan mirrors the teachings of Buddha, who emphasized the importance of language as a means of communication and self-expression. Catalan becomes a gateway to understanding the people of Barcelona, as it reveals their history, their struggles, and their resilience. Tóibín's journey in learning Catalan parallels the spiritual journey of self-discovery, as he unearths the layers of his own understanding and connects with the soul of the city.

In "Homage to Barcelona," Tóibín pays homage not only to the city itself but also to the human experience of growth and transformation. His exploration of Barcelona becomes a metaphor for the journey towards enlightenment, as he navigates the multifaceted layers of the city and uncovers the hidden truths that lie beneath the surface. Tóibín's writing, much like Buddha's teachings, invites us to delve deeper into our own experiences and discover the interconnectedness of all things.

In conclusion, the works of Colm Tóibín, particularly "Homage to Barcelona," resonate with the wisdom and depth of Buddhist teachings. Through his exploration of the city, Tóibín invites us on a journey of self-discovery, where the external and internal realms intertwine. His ability to craft stories that capture the essence of humanity and the intricacies of life is a testament to his prowess as a writer and a reflection of the timeless wisdom that Buddha imparted upon the world.