The winning entry has been announced in this pair.There were 25 entries submitted in this pair during the submission phase, 5 of which were selected by peers to advance to the finals round. The winning entry was determined based on finals round voting by peers.Competition in this pair is now closed. |
The thought has crossed my mind a thousand times. I’ve even ventured to say it out loud on one or two occasions. There is no reason to be afraid of uniformity and monotony. The amazing ease of communication, trams, the telegraph, the telephone, all these things which bring goods and people from one end of the earth to another, which transmit and communicate thoughts and words at the speed of light, they haven’t yet managed, and indeed never will, to identify us, discolor us or cause us to loose the stamp which marks us as who we are. The stamp which marks the lineage, the language, the nation and the same heritage that each and every one of us share. You might say that in order to guard ourselves against this wave of newness, which threatens to smooth over and polish away the differences between worlds, we arm ourselves instinctively with a conservative virtue that persists deep within us, even if it has already disappeared from the surface. We seem to perceive that the so called high-life, or in other words the richer, more elegant, snobbier part of our society, should be more cosmopolitan, but it isn’t. Men and women speak French just as well as or even sometimes better than they do Spanish. Some fumble their way through English and sometimes even German. When they read something, they read something foreign, because anything written at home has already begun to bore them (We should refrain from trying to ascertain here whether they are within reason or not). Gentlemen, who aren’t lacking in precious metals and symbols to represent themselves with, have suits, horses and cars shipped over from London and their wives order dresses and coiffures from Paris. Spanish cuisine has been cast aside or perverted in favour of the French. Summer vacations are rarely spent in the castles and villas of the Spanish coast, but rather in France, Switzerland, England or other even more hyperborean regions. When money is short and can’t be stretched, at the very least one should fly to Biarritz. Well, anyway, with all this, and in spite of all this, our high life continues to be just as Spanish as it always was. Comedians and authors, in their endeavors to preserve the local color and national identity of their characters, don’t need to look beneath the lowest layers of society or go on expeditions to the most faraway, remote and mountainous places in order to show it. | Entry #13457 — Discuss 0 Winner
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I’ve thought it a thousand times and occasionally even said it: we mustn’t fear uniformity and monotony. The breathtaking ease of communications, the railroads, telegraph and telephone systems, which promptly transport goods and people from one corner of the earth to another and which transmit and communicate thoughts and words at the speed of lightning, have not yet managed, and never will manage, to define us; to erase us, so to speak, and make us lose the singular traits conferred upon each of us by our caste, language, tribe and nation. It seems that, in order to guard against this close contact, which could blunt and dull our differences, we instinctively arm ourselves with the ability to preserve tradition, which may disappear from the limelight, yet endures in the shadows. We seem to think that what is now being called the high life, meaning the richest, most posh and most elegant part of society, must necessarily be cosmopolitan; yet it is not so. Yes, men and women speak French as well as and sometimes better than Spanish. Some also get by in broken English and German. Whenever they pick up a book to read, it is always something foreign, because they think the indigenous production boring – let us not set out to examine here whether they have reason to think so or not. Men, lacking neither in gold nor in its symbolic representation in currency, are having costumes, horses and cars delivered from London, while the ladies are ordering Paris dresses and headdresses. French cooking has perverted the Spanish cuisine or rendered it obsolete. And finally, the arrival of summer holidays rarely finds our elegant gentlemen or ladies heading to their castles and villas, but instead sees them heading to France, Switzerland, England, or more hyperborean regions. When these birds of passage are short on funds and cannot fully spread their wings, they must fly, at the very least, as far as Biarritz. Well then: even with all that, and in spite of all that, our high life remains as Spanish as in the olden days, and authors of comedies and novels have no reason, in order to preserve a local and national flavour in their characters, to seek it amongst the lowest social classes, or to go looking for it in Batuecas, or in the most elusive, mountainous and remote places. | Entry #13540 — Discuss 0 Finalist
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I have reflected on this a thousand times, and on occasion I have said it: there is no need to be afraid of uniformity and monotony. The astonishing ease with which we can communicate, the railways, the telegraph and the telephone, which bring goods and people from one end of the earth to the other, and which transmit and communicate words and thought with lightning speed, cannot, and never will be able to, affect or weaken our identities or, put another way, make us lose that characteristic stamp of race, language, nation or tribe which every person has. It could be said that in order to guard against too close a contact, which might result in the smoothing or ironing out of differences, we instinctively arm ourselves with a conservative impulse to retain the traditional and the authentic which remain deep within us, even if on the surface them seem to be disappearing. It seems to us that what is referred to nowadays as the “high-life”, namely the wealthiest, most elegant and most stuck-up parts of society, must be cosmopolitan, and yet it is not. Men and women speak in French as well as, and sometimes better than in Spanish. Others speak in broken English or even German. When they do read, they read foreign books because they find books written in their own country boring, but we will not go into the rights or wrongs of that here. The men, who are not short of precious metals or the trappings of wealth, arrange for outfits, horses and carriages to be brought over from London, while the women bring dresses and hair accessories from Paris. French cuisine is causing Spanish cooking to be ignored or changed. And finally the customary practice of the summer holiday rarely brings our elegant classes of both sexes to their castles or country homes, but instead takes them off to France, Switzerland or England, or to other more Hyperborean regions. When cash is short and it’s not possible to get far enough away, at the very least one must take oneself off to Biarritz. Well then, with all this, and in spite of all this, our high-life goes on being just as Spanish as it was before, and a dramatist or novelist looking to keep local and national colour in his characters has no need to have recourse to the lower social classes, or to go and look for them in Las Batuecas or in the most elusive, remote or mountainous locations. | Entry #12641 — Discuss 0 Finalist
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I have pondered it a thousand times, and have already spoken about it on occasion: there is no reason to fear uniformity and monotony. Despite the astounding ease with which the realms of communication, railways, telegraphs and telephones whisk goods and people alike from one corner of the earth to another, transmitting and communicating thoughts and words at the speed of light, they have not yet managed to categorize us, and never will. To put it another way, these phenomena have not made us lose our spark, forcing us to drop the characteristic traits of caste, language, nation or tribe that we each hold close. It could be said that in order to protect ourselves from anything that could smooth over or wear away at our differences, our instincts tell us to try to preserve the pure, undiluted soul we hold within, even if it cannot be seen on the surface. Although we think that those rich, elegant and haughty people who form today’s high society should be cosmopolitan, they are not. Men and women speak French just as well or even better than they speak Spanish. Some can also get by in English and even German. When they take it upon themselves to read they pick up a foreign book, as literature from their own country bores them, although it is not our place here to debate whether this is right or wrong. As the gentlemen have more than enough precious metals and wealth, they order suits, horses and motorcars from London, while the ladies opt for gowns and millinery from Paris. The popularity of French cuisine has meant that Spanish dishes are relegated to the past or altered beyond all recognition. Finally, the tradition of spending a relaxing summer away rarely sees our elegant ladies and gentlemen visit local castles and country estates; nowadays they are whisked off to France, Switzerland, England or other fanciful regions. When the purse strings are tight and cannot stretch very far, a flight to Biarritz is the absolute minimum. That said, in spite of all the above, the high life in Spain is still as Spanish as it ever was. There is no need to rely on the comic or literary words of authors to preserve the local and national flavor of the country’s people, hunt for them among the insignificant Spanish social strata, or search for them in the Batuecas valley or the most distant, mountainous or out-of-the-way places. | Entry #13076 — Discuss 0 Finalist
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A thousand times I have thought, and sometimes I have even said: one does not need to fear uniformity and monotony. The amazing facility of communications, the railways, the telegraph and the telephone, that carry people and merchandise from one end of the earth to the other, and that transmit and communicate thoughts and words at the speed of light, have not yet succeeded in, and never will succeed in, identifying us, fading us, shall we say, and making us lose the characteristic stamp of our caste, language, nation and tribe that each one has. One could say that in order to guard ourselves against the frequent contact, that could file down and polish away our differences, we instinctively arm ourselves with a conservative virtue from the purity that persists at heart, although superficially it may disappear. What they now call high-life, or as the richest part of society is called, elegant and posh, appears to us that it must be cosmopolitan, and yet it is not. Men and women speak in French so well and sometimes better than in Spanish. Some also speak a little English and even German. When they read something, they read foreign books because the native ones bore them, although we will not debate here whether they are right or not. The gentlemen, as they are not lacking in precious metals or the symbols that represent them, bring suits, horses and cars from London, and the women bring dresses and hats from Paris. French cuisine causes Spanish cuisine to be forgotten or perverted. And finally, the custom of summer holidays rarely takes our elegant members of both sexes to their castles or ranches, but to France, or Switzerland, to England or regions even further north. When one is short of cash and cannot spend lavishly, one must at least fly to Biarritz. Well, then: given all that, and in spite of it, our high-life continues to be as Spanish as in olden times, and it doesn't need a writer of comedies and novels to conserve the local and national style of its personalities, to search for them under the lowest social strata, or to go looking for them in the clouds or in the most distant, mountainous and hidden places. | Entry #13190 — Discuss 0 Finalist
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I've thought it over a thousand times, and I've even said it at times too. We shouldn't fear conformity and monotony. The incredible ease of communication, the railways, the telegraph and the telephone generate flows of merchandise and people from one end of the world to the other. While transmitting and communicating thoughts and words at the speed of light, they yet fail to, and indeed will never reveal us, wash away from us, so to speak, our distinctive identity of caste, language, nation, and tribe. It seems that in order to avoid close contact; which could smooth out and polish away differences, we instinctively arm ourselves with a virtuous conservatism, arising from a cultural heritage that endures deep inside us, and yet seems to have vanished on the surface. What we now call high-life; that is, the wealthiest portion of society, elegant and conceited, might appear cosmopolitan to us, however it is not. Men and women speak so well in French that at times it is even better than in Spanish. In addition, some speak a bit of broken English and even German.When reading, they choose foreign books as they tire of the native literature and we will not; however, attempt here to understand whether this stands to reason. Gentlemen do not lack precious metals or titles to represent them, yet they ask for suits, horses and carriages to be shipped from London, while ladies ask for dresses and headdresses from Paris. Spanish fare is forgotten or lessened in comparison with French cuisine. Finally, the customary summer holiday rarely sees our most elegant of both sexes at their castles or villas, taking them instead to France, Switzerland, and England, or to more Nordic regions. When the dough is short and the decoy can't move about, he must nevertheless fly at least up to Biarritz. So then, in spite of everything, our high-life is as Spanish as in the olden times, and does not need the author of comedies and novels in order to preserve the local and national color of its characters, seek them from the lowest of social classes, find them out in the Batuecas, or in the most remote, mountainous and hidden places. | Entry #12842 — Discuss 0
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I have thought it a thousand times and I have already said it a few times: we should not be afraid of uniformity and monotony. The astonishing ease of communications, railways, telegraph and telephone, which allow for the movement of goods and people from one end of the earth to the other, and which transmit and communicate thoughts and words at the speed of light, have not yet managed, nor will they ever manage to identify us or dilute us, so to speak, and make us lose the characteristic stamp of caste, language, nation and tribe that everyone possesses. It would seem that in order to protect ourselves from contact, which might smooth and file away differences, we instinctively arm ourselves with a conservative virtue of authenticity which remains deep inside, although it disappears on the surface. What is now called the high-life, or that is to say the richest, most elegant and stuck-up part of society, seems like it must be cosmopolitan, and yet it is not. Men and women speak French so well, sometimes better than Spanish. Some also speak in broken English or even German. When they read something, they read foreign books because they have become bored of native ones, there is no need to get into whether that is justifiable or not here. Gentlemen, since they are not lacking in precious metals or symbols that represent them, become accustomed to bringing suits, horses and cars from London and ladies get used to bringing dresses and head-dresses from Paris. French cooking has led to Spanish cooking being forgotten or distorted. And lastly, the customary summer holiday hardly ever takes the beautiful people of both sexes to their castles and country houses, but rather takes them to France, Switzerland, England or more hyperborean climes. If cash is in short supply and cannot be flashed around, a flight to Biarritz is in order at the very least. And still, in spite of all that, our high-life continues to be as Spanish as it ever was, and it does not need a comedy or novel writer to preserve the local and national colour of its characters, look for them under the lowest social stratus, or in the Batuecas river or for the most evasive characters, look in alpine or unexplored places. | Entry #13840 — Discuss 0
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I have thought about it a thousand times and I have even said it aloud once or twice: there is no reason to fear uniformity and monotony. The astounding ease of communication, including railways, telegraphs and the telephone, taking goods and people from one end of the earth to the other, transmitting and communicating thoughts and words at the speed of lightning, has not yet managed (nor will it ever) to identify us, to make us fade away, in a manner of speaking, and cause us to lose our characteristic caste, language, nation and tribe that each of us possess. It could be said that in order to protect us from friction, which could smooth over our differences, we instinctively assume a conservative stance towards tradition, although it may disappear from the surface. What people now call the high life, meaning the richest, most elegant and haughtiest part of society, seems cosmopolitan to us, yet it is not. Men and women speak equally well in French as in Spanish, and sometimes better. Some venture a few words in English and even German. When they read, they read foreign books as their native literature bores them, though we will not debate here whether it should or not. Gentlemen, as long as they are not lacking in precious metals or the bills that represent them, order suits, horses and cars from London, while the ladies order dresses and hats from Paris. Spanish cooking is forgotten and perverted in the wake of French cuisine. Lastly, summer no longer brings our elegant society of both sexes to their castles and villas, but rather brings them to France, Switzerland, England or other paradisiacal regions. When money is tight but a decoy is needed to maintain their pride, they must fly at least as far as Biarritz. After all of this, and despite it, our high life is still as Spanish as it was before. It does not require an author for comedy and novels in order to conserve the local and national colors of its characters, to search for them among the infinite social strata, to retrieve them from Batuecas or, for the most elusive, from the furthest corners of their Alpine hideouts. | Entry #14023 — Discuss 0
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A hundred times I have thought it and sometimes said it too: there is no need to fear that uniformity and monotony will prevail. The astonishing ease of communications, railways, telegrams and the telephone, that rush goods and people from one side of the globe to the other, and transmit and communicate thoughts and words at lightning speed, do not yet and never will manage to make us all identical, to merge us all, as it were, or cause us to lose our own particular identity by group, language, nation or tribe. It could be said that in order to safeguard ourselves against any such impact that might even out and smooth away any differences, we instinctively arm ourselves with a self-preserving and deep-seated sense of our innate nature, although nothing can be seen outwardly. Those we know nowadays as the rich, that is to say the wealthiest, most stylish and highest-ranking sector of society, seem as though they must be cosmopolitan, and yet they are not. Men and women speak French as well as or sometimes better than Spanish. Some also speak broken English and even German. When they read they read foreign books because domestic literature bores them, if we are not mistaken, justifiably or otherwise. The gentlemen, as they are not short of precious metals or elements representing them, have suits, horses and cars shipped over from London, while the ladies have dresses and hair ornaments sent over from Paris. French cuisine takes precedence over Spanish cooking or else adulterates it. And finally, these refined men and women hardly ever spend the summer at their own castles and country houses, but go to France, Switzerland, England or regions further north. When times are hard and funds are limited, one has to go at least to Biarritz. And so, with all of this and in spite of it, the rich in this country continue to be as Spanish as ever, and no playwright or novelist ever needs, in order to preserve the local colour and nationality of his characters, to look for them in the thinnest of social strata, or go to the most remote or recondite mountain locations. | Entry #12821 — Discuss 0
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I have thought about it umpteen times, on occasion I have even come out and said it: there is nothing to fear from sameness and monotony. Communications, train travel, the telegraph and the telephone; they spirit away people and goods from one side of the world to the other, transmitting and communicating thoughts and words in the blink of an eye. They do it with frightening ease. Yet they are still not able to mark out, or dilute, our identity: they never will be. They cannot make us lose that characteristic hallmark of social class, language, nation and tribe that we all possess. You could say that in order to guard against this erosion, which could even out and smooth over our differences, we instinctively go out armed with a conservative righteousness that defends all that is authentic. It is a sentiment which, deep-down, persists within us, eventhough is has disappeared from all view. Nowadays, the high-life – the richest, most elegant and stuck-up section of society – seems, to us, as if it must be cosmopolitan; that it most certainly is not. Men and women speak French as well as, and sometimes better than, Spanish. Some people murded the English languge, even German. When they read, they go for foreign titles because this country’s offerings are a bore, let’s not even begin to discuss whether they are justified or not. Upper-class gentlemen, hardly lacking in the precious metals bearing the insignias that represent them, order in suits, horses and coaches from London, while the ladies go for clothes and head pieces. French cuisine forces that of the Spanish to be forgotten or changed. Finally, the habit of taking a summer break very seldom leads them to their castles or country houses. Instead, the toffs of both sexes head off to France, Switzerland or England, or more far-flung destinations. When the precious metals are in short supply and appearances can be kept up no more, they at least make a dash for Biarritz. That may all be so. In light of this and in spite of it, our high-life continues to be as Spanish as it was in days gone by. Novelists or comedy writers, with a view to protecting the local and national flavour of their characters, need not delve into the lowliest social groups. Nor should they go looking for it in cloud cuckooland, nor in the most elusive, roughest and out-of-view places. | Entry #13598 — Discuss 0
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I have thought of it a million times and I have said it a couple of times already: one should not fear uniformity and monotony. The astonishing ease of communications, railroads, telegraph and telephone, that quickly take merchandise and people from one side of the world to the other and that convey and communicate thought and word with lightning speed, have not achieved, nor will ever achieve, to identify us, to disappear us, so to speak, and make us lose the trademark of caste, language, nation and tribe that everyone has. It seems that to guard against friction, that could smooth over and polish the differences, we instinctively arm ourselves with a conservative virtue of the unmixed that persists in the fundamental, even if it disappears superficially. What is now called high-life, or in other words, the richest, most elegant and stuck up part of society, seems it should be cosmopolitan, yet it is not. Men and women speak French as well and sometimes even better than Spanish. Some also speak English and even the German language poorly. When they read something, they read foreign books because they get bored by the native ones, without trying hard to clarify here if there is reason or not. The Gentlemen, since they cannot lack of precious metals or of symbols that represent them, bring themselves suits, horses and cars from London and the Ladies bring themselves dresses and head-dresses from Paris. French cooking makes Spanish cooking be forgotten or become distorted. And finally, the habit of vacationing during summer rarely takes our elegant people of both sexes to their castles and villas; rather, they are taken to France, to Switzerland, to England or to more hyperborean regions. When one is short on cash and cannot scatter the decoy, one must fly at least to Biarritz. Therefore: with all that and despite all that, our high-life continues being as Spanish as in the old times and does not need authors of comedies and novels to preserve the local and national color of its characters, look for them under the miniscule social strata, or fetch them at the Batuecas or at the most elusive, alpine and remote places. | Entry #13828 — Discuss 0
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I have thought it many times and sometimes I have said it: there is no need to fear uniformity and blandness. The astonishing ability of communications, the railroads, telegraph and telephone, to shift goods and passengers from one end of the earth to the other and to transmit thought and word at the speed of light, has not yet nor ever will manage to define us, to fade us, one could say, and make us lose the characteristic stamp of lineage, language, nation and tribe which each person bears. It could be said that, to guard ourselves against any close contact which might smooth away the edges of difference, we instinctively possess the preserving power of the traditional which remains within us even when gone from the surface. What we call the upper-crust, in other words, the richest, most fashionable and toffee-nosed part of society, surely ought to be cosmopolitan, however, it is not. Men and women speak French as well as they speak Spanish, and sometimes even better. Some also stumble along in English or even in German. When they read they read foreign books because they are bored with the home-grown ones; let us not consider whether that is reasonable or not here. Since the gentlemen have no lack of precious metals or items thereof, they order suits and horses and coaches from London and the ladies send for gowns and hair-ornaments from Paris. The Spanish cuisine is forgotten or perverted in favour of the French. And, finally, the customary summer holiday rarely takes our fair of both sexes to their keeps and country-houses, but rather to France, Switzerland, England, or even more northerly climes. When cash is short and range restricted, one must fly at least to Biarritz. Well then, even so and despite all this, our upper-crust carries on being as Spanish as before, and the author of plays and novels has no need to look in the lowest social strata or go to Las Batuecas or the most remote, inaccessible and secluded places to preserve the local and national colour of his characters. | Entry #13789 — Discuss 0
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A thousand times I have thought it and occasionally already said it: there is no need to fear uniformity and monotony. The astonishing ease of communications, the railways, the telegraph and the telephone, that transport at great speed goods and people from one end of the globe to the other, and that transmit and communicate thoughts and words with the speed of light, do not succeed and never will succeed in classifying us, in depriving us of our colour, so to speak, and making us lose the characteristic stamp of breeding, language, nation and tribe that each of us has. It could be said that in order to guard ourselves against the kind of familiarity that could smooth out and erode the differences, we instinctively arm ourselves with a character that seeks to preserve the purity that still lies deep within, though superficially it has disappeared. What is currently called the high life, or let us say that richest, most elegant and pretentious strata of society, looks to us as if it must be cosmopolitan, and yet it is not. Men and women speak French as good if not sometimes better than Spanish. Some also speak broken English and German as well. When they read something they read foreign books because they are bored with ones by natives, yet we are at a loss to explain this, be it right or wrong. The gentlemen, as they are not lacking in precious metals or the symbols that represent them, get their suits, horses and carriages from London and the ladies get their clothes and headdresses from Paris. French cuisine has eclipsed Spanish cuisine or corrupted it. And finally, the customary summer vacation seldom prompts our elegant folk of either sex to visit their castles or country retreats, but they do visit France, Switzerland, England or cooler climes. When money is in short supply and one is unable to travel too far afield, one must at least visit Biarritz. So then: because of all this, and in spite of all this, our high life continues to be as Spanish as it ever was, and a writer of comedies and novels does not need, in order to preserve the national and local colour of its characters, to look for them in the lower rungs of society, or seek them out in the backwoods or in the most remote, mountainous, and far-flung places. | Entry #13582 — Discuss 0
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I have thought it a thousand times and said it a few times already: there's no need to fear uniformity and monotony. The wonderful convenience of communication - the railroads, the telegraph and the telephone - which allows people and merchandise to escape from one end of the Earth to the other, and which transmits and communicates thoughts and words at the speed of light, still cannot manage, nor will it ever manage, to identify to us, to fade to us, so to speak, or make us lose the characteristic stamp of caste, language, nation and tribe which everyone has. They say that to protect ourselves from friction, which could file away and polish our differences, we should instinctively arm ourselves with the capacity for self-preservation of the pure-blooded that will always exist deep down, though it may disappear on the surface. What they now call the high-life, or the richest, most elegant and most stuck-up sector of society, so to speak, appears cosmopolitan to us, but nevertheless it is not. Men and women speak French so well, sometimes better than Spanish. Some speak broken English and even German. When they read something, they read foreign books because native books bore them, though we're not arguing here whether that's right or wrong. The gentlemen, as they do not lack precious metals or the symbols that they represent, are forced to bring suits, horses and cars from London and the ladies are made to bring dresses and accessories from Paris. French cuisine is causing Spanish cuisine to be forgotten or corrupted. And finally, the summer holiday tradition rarely brings our elegant people of both sexes to Spain's castles and country houses, but rather to France, Switzerland, England, or more northerly regions. When the twine is short and the homing bird cannot stray far, it must fly at least as far as Biarritz. Well then: notwithstanding this, our high-life is still as Spanish as it was in the old days and, in order to preserve the local and national colour of his characters, the author of comedies and novels has no need to search for them beneath the deepest layers of society, in the clouds, or in the most elusive, mountainous and hidden places. | Entry #13444 — Discuss 0
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I've thought about it a thousand times and, on occasion, I've already said it: There is no reason to fear uniformity and monotony. The amazing ease of communications, the railroads, the telegraph, and the telephone, which rush out goods and people from one end of the Earth to the other, transmitting and communicating thoughts and words with the speed of lightning, have not yet been able nor will ever be able to identify us, to discolor us, if you will, and to make us lose the distinct hallmark of lineage, language, nation, and tribe that each one of us has. It would seem that, in order to guard ourselves against societal interaction, which may iron out and smooth our differences, we instinctively arm ourselves with a talent for preserving what is true and original, and which survives at the core, even though it may disappear on the surface. What is now referred to as the high life, or that so-called segment of society that is wealthier, elegant, and high and mighty, we think that it should be cosmopolitan and, yet, it is not. Men and women speak French as well and sometimes better than Spanish. Some of them also speak in broken English and even in German. When they read something, they read foreign books because domestic ones bore them, without attempting here to figure out whether they do it with good reason or not. Gentlemen, not lacking precious metals, or the symbols that represent them, have their suits, horses, and cars sent to them from London, and the ladies have gowns and headdresses sent to them from Paris. French cuisine results in Spanish food being forgotten or corrupted. And, finally, the custom of summer vacation rarely takes our elegant men and women to their castles and country homes, but, rather, takes them to France, to Switzerland, to England, or to the northernmost regions. When there is not enough money and they cannot fool around, they must at least fly to Biarritz. Well then, with all of this, and in spite of it all, our high life remains as Spanish as it ever was in the past, and playwrights and novelists, for the purpose of preserving the national and local colors of their characters, do not need to look for them in the lowest social stratum, or to find them in the Valley of Batuecas, or in the most elusive, mountainous, and out-of-the-way places. | Entry #12944 — Discuss 0
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I've thought it a thousand times and even said it a few times: uniformity and monotony should not be feared. The astonishing ease of communication, railways that carry goods and people fleeing from one end of the earth to the other, telegraph and telephone transmitting and communicating thoughts and words with the speed of light, they haven't yet and will never manage to fix us, fade us, let's put it that way, and make us lose the characteristic stamp of caste, tongue, nation and clan that each one of us possesses. One could say that in shielding ourselves from rubbing others up the wrong way, which would smooth and polish differences, we arm ourselves instinctively with a quality that maintains our buried origins, though no trace of them persists on the surface. These days, we believe what they call high-life, in other words society's wealthiest, most elegant and highest strata, should be cosmopolitan, and yet it isn't. Men and women talk French as well as they talk Spanish and sometimes better. Some speak broken English and even German. When they read, some read foreign books because they're bored of homegrown ones; we won't bother to go into the rights and wrongs of that here. The gentlemen, since they apparently don't lack for precious metal or the symbols representing it, send to London for suits, horses and cars and the ladies send to Paris for dresses and millinery. French cuisine means that Spanish cooking is forgotten or perverted and finally, the tradtional summer holiday rarely takes our beautiful people of both sexes to their castles and estates, but rather to France, Switzerland, England or more hyperborean regions. When money is tight and a ruse is needed, they have to fly to Biarritz at least. Well then, due to all this and in spite of all this, our high-life continues being as Spanish as it was in olden days and doesn't need a writer of comedy or soaps to keep the local and national colour of its characters, seeking them under infinite social layers or journeying to the Batuecas or the most elusive, alpine and remote places to find them. | Entry #12709 — Discuss 0
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I have said this already and I have thought it many more times: uniformity and monotony need not be feared. The staggering ease of communication; the trains, the telegraph and telephone, that give merchandise and people the freedom to travel from one end of the earth to the other, and that transmit and communicate thoughts and words at lightning speed, have not yet managed (nor will they ever) to identify us, discolour us let's say, and make us lose the hallmark of caste, language, nation, and tribe that each of us possesses. It could be said that to shield against the rubbing of shoulders that could smooth out our differences, we instinctively arm ourselves with the virtue of preserving the authentic that persists deep down, even though on the surface it disappears. It appears to us that those who are now referred to as living the high life - or the segment of society that is the richest, most elegant and snobbish - should also be cosmopolitan, and nevertheless they are not. Men and women speak French as well as they do Spanish, and sometimes even better. Some also give English - and even German - a try. When they read, they read foreign books because autochthonous ones bore them; whether rightly or wrongly we will not attempt to ascertain here. Gentlemen - when they are not lacking in precious metals or the signs that represent them - have suits, horses, and cars brought over from London, and the ladies have dresses and hats brought over from Paris. French cuisine either infiltrates Spanish cuisine or banishes it from the memory entirely. And finally, the custom of summer holidaying rarely takes the most elegant of both sexes to Spanish castles and country estates, but rather to France, Switzerland, England, or to more hyperborean regions. When money is tight and wings cannot be spread very far, then at the very least they have to fly to Biarritz. However, all of this said, our high life continues to be as Spanish as ever and does not require the author of comedies and novels to preserve the local and national colour of its people, to scratch beneath the surface of the thin social layers to find them, or search for them in Las Batuecas or in the most elusive, mountainous, and furthermost places. | Entry #12779 — Discuss 0
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I've thought it a thousand times and said it already: there is no reason to fear uniformity and monotony. The ease with which communications - railroads, telegraphs and telephones - can carry goods and connect people from one end of the Earth to the other is astonishing, transmitting and communicating thought and word at lightning speed. Yet it fails, and never will achieve, to make us seem as one, so to speak, and enable us to lose the trademark of caste, language, tribe and nation that everyone has. It seems that to guard against friction, which could grind and polish the differences, we instinctively use a pure bred conservative virtue that lingers in the background, although superficially it disappears. What we now call high-life, or tell ourselves that a part of society is richer, more elegant and privileged even snob, seems to be cosmopolitan, yet it is not. Men and women speak French as well as, and sometimes better than, Spanish. In addition, some also speak English and German. When they read something, they read foreign books because they are bored, there is no need for us to strive to understand whether they are right or wrong. When gentlemen do not lack gold and wealth, they have clothes, horses and carriages delivered from London and ladies buy dresses and wigs from Paris. French cuisine makes Spanish become forgotten or perverted. And finally, the custom in summer rarely leads to their castles and villas but the elegant of both sexes go to France, Switzerland, England or more green regions. When money is short and one cannot use a decoy, one must at least fly to Biarritz. Well, with all that and despite all that, our high-life is as Spanish as in the old days and in order to preserve the local color and national characters, the author of comedies and novels does not need to search under tiny social layers or go to Las Batuecas or remote alpine places. | Entry #13613 — Discuss 0
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Many times I have thought it and I have even said it once or twice: we must not fear uniformity and monotony. Lightning-like communications, railways, telegraphs and telephones-transporting goods and people from one edge of the earth to the other and transmitting and communicating thoughts and words at the speed of light-have never and shall never provide our identity or weaken us, might we say, stripping us of the characteristic seal of caste, language, nation and tribe each of us bears. It would seem that to guard ourselves against contact-which might erode and polish our differences-instinctively we arm ourselves with the conservative virtue of authenticity, persisting at the heart of things, whilst disappearing on the surface. That richest, most elegant and haughty sector of society-nowadays known as living the high life-is believed to be cosmopolitan, which is anything but the case. These men and women speak French so well that it is sometimes outperforms their Spanish. Some even speak broken English and German. Whenever they read, they read foreign fiction because they are bored of their own, without the need for us to elucidate here whether rightly or wrongly. As the gentleman lack precious metals or their representative trappings, they return from London bearing suits, horses and cars, while the ladies import dresses and headwear from Paris. French cuisine makes its Spanish neighbour forget or betray itself. Finally, neither sex of this elegant crowd frequently summers in its castles or estates, instead opting for France, Switzerland, England or other Hyperborean regions. When funds are short and skies are limited, they must fly at least as far as Biarritz. With all that said, and in spite of it, our high life is still just as Spanish as in the past. An author of comedies and fiction need not search for such figures underneath endless social strata, or travel in their name to the country’s deepest interiors, or the most elusive, mountainous and remote of places, in order to preserve the local and national colour of his characters. | Entry #13559 — Discuss 0
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I have thought it countless times and have said it a few times: there's no need to be afraid of uniformity and monotony. We have yet to realize, and we never will realize the outstanding potential of communications, the railroad, the telegraph, and the telephone, which carry goods and people from one end of the earth to the other, and which transmit and communicate thoughts and words at the speed of light, to identify us, to blur us, so to speak, and to make us lose the distinguishing features of ancestry, language, nation, and tribe that everyone has. It would seem that, to avoid confrontation, which could work through and reconcile our differences, we instinctively arm ourselves with a conservative virtue of the pure that perseveres deep down, although it disappears from the surface. These days, what we call the high life, or let's say the richest, most elegant, and most upper class part of society, seems to us like it should be cosmopolitan, and yet it is not. Men and women speak French very well, and sometimes better than Spanish. Some also speak broken English, and even German. When they read something, they read foreign books, because they get bored with domestic books, but we don't make an effort to clarify whether that is justified or not in the relevant instance. The gentlemen, who have no lack of precious metals or the symbols that they represent, have to get suits, horses, and cars from London, and the ladies have to get dresses and headwear from Paris. French cuisine leaves Spanish cuisine forgotten or perverted. And finally, the tradition of summer vacations rarely brings our elegant people of both sexes to their castles and cottages. Instead, they wind up in France, Switzerland, England, or more hyperborean regions. When you're low on cash and unable to get a kick out of diversions, you have to at least fly to Biarritz. Thus, given all of this, and in spite of all of this, our high life continues to be just as Spanish as in the past, and it has no need of authors of comedies and novels, whereas, to preserve the local and national color of their characters, we search for them beneath the lowest layers of society, or follow them to "las Batuecas", or the most elusive, mountainous, and remote of places. | Entry #13003 — Discuss 0
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I've thought about it a thousand times and I've already said it a few times: there is no reason to be afraid of uniformity and monotony. The astonishingly easy communications, the railways, the telegraph and telephone, which help escape goods and people from one end of the Earth to the other, and which transmit and communicate thoughts and words at the speed of lightning, cannot yet manage, nor will ever be able, to identify us, fade us out, so to say, and make us lose the hallmark of the caste, language, nation, and tribe that each of us has. It would seem that, in order to guard ourselves against the friction that could file away and polish differences, we instinctively arm ourselves with the conservative power of our heart-remaining authenticity, although it might superficially disappear. What they now call high-life, or let’s say that richer, more elegant, and stuck-up part of society, seems to us to be cosmopolitan, and yet it isn’t. Men and women speak French just as well, and sometimes better, than Spanish. Some speak a little bit of English as well, and even German. When they read something they read foreign books because they are bored of the indigenous ones, although we are not going to endeavor here in clearing up whether rightly or wrongly. The gentlemen, if they are not lacking precious metals or the emblems that represent them, have suits, horses, and carriages brought over from London, and the ladies have gowns and head-dresses brought over from Paris. French cuisine causes the Spanish cuisine to be forgotten or corrupted. And finally, the habit of taking a summer vacation rarely leads our stylish gents of both sexes to their castles and villas, but rather takes them to France, Switzerland, England, or even more Northern regions. When they are short on dough and the deception cannot be stretched out, they must at least fly to Biarritz. Well then: even with all that, and despite all that, our high-life remains as Spanish as in the olden days, and does not need an author of comedies and novels for preserving the national and local tone of its characters, for searching for them under the insignificant social layers, or to go get them from the Batuecas or more elusive, Alpine, and remote places. | Entry #14009 — Discuss 0
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I've thought about it a thousand times and I've already said it a few times: there's no need to fear uniformity and monotony. The staggering ease of communications, trains, telegraphs and telephones, that hastily take goods and people from one corner of the Earth to another, and that transmit and communicate thoughts and words at lightning speeds, still haven't managed, nor will they ever manage, to identify us, to fade us, if you will, and make us lose the characteristic seal of a caste, a language, a nation or a tribe in each of us. It could be said that, to protect ourselves from bonding, which could file away and polish our differences, we instinctively arm ourselves of the conservative virtue of the chasteness that lies beneath, even though it disappears from the surface. What people now call "the high-life", meaning the richer, more elegant and snobbier part of society, we think must be cosmopolitan but, nevertheless, isn't. Men and women speak French equally well as, and sometimes better than, Spanish. Some also speak broken English and even German. When they read something, they read foreign books, since they are bored of the indigenous ones, even though we will not presently attempt to delve into determining whether they're right. Gentlemen, unless they have precious metals or the symbols that represent them, have costumes, horses and carriages brought over from London and ladies have dresses and hats brought over from Paris. French cuisine makes people forget or pervert the Spanish. And, lastly, the custom of summer holidaying rarely brings our elegant people of both sexes to our castles and cottages. Rather, it takes them to France, to Switzerland, to England or to more hyperborean regions. When they are short on cash and the straps cannot be loosened, they must at least fly as far as Biarritz. | Entry #12743 — Discuss 0
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I have thought it a thousand times, and have sometimes even said it: there is no need to dread uniformity and monotony. The staggering ease of communication, railroads and telecommunication which allow goods and people to escape from one end of the earth or another, and that transmit and communicate a thought or a word at lightning speed, have not yet managed – nor will they ever – to identify us, discolour us – shall we say– and make us lose sight of the distinctive stamp of caste, language, nationality and tribe that every man has. It would seem that in order to guard against brushing alongside those elements that could polish up and iron out our differences, we instinctively arm ourselves with a conservative pure-bred virtue that is rooted in our very core, yet which also, superficially, disappears. What they now call ‘high-life’, or the richest, most elegant, toffee-nosed part of society, seems to us, that it should be cosmopolitan, yet nevertheless, it isn’t. Both men and women speak very good French, sometimes even better than Spanish; some speak broken English or even German. When they read something, they’ll read a foreign book, as they are tired of their own home-grown books – without us endeavouring to elucidate here whether rightly or wrongly so. The gentleman, not short of precious metals and the signs which they represent, bring suits, horses and cars from London; the ladies bring dresses and toiletries from France. French cuisine leads the Spanish woman astray from (or makes her forget) her own cooking. Finally, the customary summer holiday is rarely spent by both sexes in their castles or villas, but in France, Switzerland, England, or more northward regions. Alas, when you’re short of cash, but can’t resist the lure of the North, you should fly yourself off to Biarritz at least. Well, with and despite all that, our high-life remains as Spanish as it was in the old days, and it doesn’t need an author of novels or comedy in order to preserve the local and national colour of its characters: just look for them under the tiny social layers, or go right through them in Las Batuecas, or the more elusive, alpine and out-of-the-way places. | Entry #12818 — Discuss 0 CAROLINE GUTIERREZ (X)
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From "The Superhuman and Other Novelties" by Juan Valera I thought it a thousand times, and said it sometimes: one does not have to be afraid of uniformity and monotony.The astonishing opportunities of communication, the train,the telegraph and the telephone, which make it possible to transport merchandise and people in no time from one end of the earth to another and which transmit and communicate consideration and word with the speed of lightning, is not able, and will not be able in the future, to make us equal. Nor will our individual coloring fade,or let's say it differently, make us lose the characteristics that caste, language, nation and tribe exhibit. One could say that we arm ourselves to protect us from the friction which could file and polish the differences with a competence of preserving the traditional which still persists in our deepest layers, even if it seems to disappear superficially . What nowadays is called "high life", that means the most affluent, elegant and elevated part of society, appears to us as if it must be cosmopolitan,though it is not. Men and women speak French very well, and sometimes better than Spanish. Some also speak broken English or even German. When they read something, they read foreign books because they get bored with the indigenous, but we don't want to make the effort to clarify whether this is true or not. The gentlemen who do not lack jewelry and status symbols have suits,horses and carriages delivered from London, and their ladies, dresses and hats from Paris. French cuisine makes them forget or spoil the Spanish cuisine. And, after all,the custom of spending summer holidays rarely lead the elegant of both genders to their castles and cottages, but rather to France,Switzerland,England or other regions high in the north. If money is short, one can not withstand the temptation to disappear to Biarritz at least. Enough:with all that, and in spite all of that, our "high life" still remains as Spanish as in the past. The author of comedies and novels does not have to preserve the local and national coloring of his characters, nor look for them in the lowest social layers, or because of them, travel to the Batuecas, or to the most remote, mountinous and most unknown places. | Entry #13409 — Discuss 0
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I must have thought it a million times, and even said it out loud once or twice: there is nothing wrong with monotony and conformity. Communication is now mind-bogglingly easy, with railways, telegraphs and telephones, all standing by to whisk away goods and people from one side of the country to another, to transmit and communicate our thoughts and ideas at lightning speed. Yet forever in perpetuity they shall be wanting the ability to define us, to succeed us, in a manner of speaking, and to strip away the ingrained characteristics of status, language, nation and creed possessed by each of us. Then to keep the monster at bay, and perhaps to keep the peace a bit, one might say we instinctively embrace a conservatism towards the typically Spanish aspects that persist deep down, even as they disappear from the surface. Members of the so-called “high-life,” or elegant, pompous upper echelons of society, are so famous for being cosmopolitan, and yet they are in fact anything but. Men and women alike speak French as well or better than they speak Spanish. Some so much as muddle their way through English, even German. They read only foreign books, finding domestic ones rather drab, and whether or not they may indeed have a point in that is neither here nor there. The gentlemen, who with no shortage of precious stones and emblems to sport, order their suits, horses and carriages to be brought from London, while the women have their dresses and accessories brought in straight from Paris. French cuisine supplants or distorts Spanish dishes entirely. And moreover, the custom our most fashionable gentlemen and ladies have of summering seldom takes them to our castles and country houses, venturing instead to those in France, Switzerland, England or other more northerly climes. When the bankroll is lean and no excuse is handy, they can usually make it at least as far as Biarritz. Right: yet nevertheless, and in spite of it all, our “high-life” is still as Spanish as ever, and a novelist or a playwright in search of local flavor and authenticity to give to his characters need not seek out the wretched and poor, his imagination or the most elusive, mountainous regions or deepest, darkest corners. | Entry #13742 — Discuss 0
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