Courtesy of Yoyo, who blogged first about the writings of Julio Cortázar.
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Horacio, the moralist, fearful of passions born without some deep-water reason, disconcerted and surly in the city where love is called by all the names of all the streets, all the buildings, all the flats, all the rooms, all the beds, all the dreams, all the things forgotten or remembered.
My love, I do not love you for you or for me or for the two of us together, I do not love you because my blood tells me to love you, I love you because you are not mine, because you are from the other side, from there where you invite me to jump and I cannot make the jump, because in the deepest moment of possession you are not in me, I cannot reach you, I cannot get beyond your body, your laugh, there are times when it torments me that you love me (how you like to use the verb to love, with that vulgarity you toss it around among plates and sheets and buses), I’m tormented by your love because I cannot use it as a bridge because a bridge can’t be supported by just one side, and don’t look at me with those bird’s eyes, for you the operation of love is so simple, you’ll be cured before me even if you love me as I do not love you. Of course you’ll be cured, because you are living in health, after me it’ll be someone else, you can change things the way you do a blouse. So sad to listen to Horacio the cynic who wants a passport-love, a mountain pass-love, a key-love, a revolver-love, a love that will give him the thousand eyes of Argos, ubiquity, the silence out of which music is possible, the root out of which language can be woven. And it’s foolish because all that is sleeping a little in you, all you would have to do is submerge yourself in a glass of water like a Japanese flower and little by little colored petals would begin to bloom, the bent forms would puff up, beauty would grow. Infinite giver, I do not know how to take, forgive me. You are offering me an apple and I’ve left my teeth on the night-table. Stop, it’s fine that way. I can also be rude, take note of that. But take good note because it’s not gratuitous.
Why stop? For fear of starting fabrications, they’re so easy. You get an idea from there, a feeling from the other shelf, you tie them together with the help of words, black bitches, and it turns out that I want you. Partial total: I want you. General total: I love you. That’s the way a lot of my friends live, not to mention an uncle and two cousins convinced of the love-they-feel-for-their-wives. From words to deeds, hey; in general without the verba there isn’t any res. What a lot of people call loving consists of picking out a woman and marrying her. They pick her out, I swear, I’ve seen them. As if you could pick in love, as if it were not a lightning bolt that splits your bones and leaves you stalked out in the middle of the courtyard. You’ll probably say that they pick her out because-they-love-her. I think it's just the siteoppo. Beatrice wasn’t picked out, Juliet wasn’t picked out. You don’t pick out the rain that soaks you to the skin when you come out of a concert. But I’m alone in my room now, I’m falling into tricks of writing, the black bitches get their vengeance any way they can, they’re biting me from underneath the table. Do you say underneath or under? They bite you just the same. Why, why, pour quoi, por que, warum, perche this horror of the words, those black bitches?
Horacio, Horacio.
Merde, alors. Why not? We looked at each other and I think we began to desire each other (but that was later on, on the Rue Reamur) and a memorable dialogue resulted, clothed from head to toe in misunderstandings, maladjustments that dissolved into vague moments of silence, until our hands began to chat, it was sweet stroking hands while we looked at each other’s mouth, we rubbed each other with our eyes as we smiled, we were so much in agreement of everything that it was shameful, Paris was dancing there outside waiting for us, we’d barely disembarked, we were barely alive, everything was there without a name and without a history. When we said goodbye we were like two children who have suddenly become friends at a birthday party and keep looking at one another while their parents take them by the hand and lead them off, and it’s a sweet pain and a hope, and you know the name of one is Tony and the other one Lulu, and that’s all that’s needed for the heart to become a little piece of fruit, and…
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Horacio, the moralist, fearful of passions born without some deep-water reason, disconcerted and surly in the city where love is called by all the names of all the streets, all the buildings, all the flats, all the rooms, all the beds, all the dreams, all the things forgotten or remembered.
My love, I do not love you for you or for me or for the two of us together, I do not love you because my blood tells me to love you, I love you because you are not mine, because you are from the other side, from there where you invite me to jump and I cannot make the jump, because in the deepest moment of possession you are not in me, I cannot reach you, I cannot get beyond your body, your laugh, there are times when it torments me that you love me (how you like to use the verb to love, with that vulgarity you toss it around among plates and sheets and buses), I’m tormented by your love because I cannot use it as a bridge because a bridge can’t be supported by just one side, and don’t look at me with those bird’s eyes, for you the operation of love is so simple, you’ll be cured before me even if you love me as I do not love you. Of course you’ll be cured, because you are living in health, after me it’ll be someone else, you can change things the way you do a blouse. So sad to listen to Horacio the cynic who wants a passport-love, a mountain pass-love, a key-love, a revolver-love, a love that will give him the thousand eyes of Argos, ubiquity, the silence out of which music is possible, the root out of which language can be woven. And it’s foolish because all that is sleeping a little in you, all you would have to do is submerge yourself in a glass of water like a Japanese flower and little by little colored petals would begin to bloom, the bent forms would puff up, beauty would grow. Infinite giver, I do not know how to take, forgive me. You are offering me an apple and I’ve left my teeth on the night-table. Stop, it’s fine that way. I can also be rude, take note of that. But take good note because it’s not gratuitous.
Why stop? For fear of starting fabrications, they’re so easy. You get an idea from there, a feeling from the other shelf, you tie them together with the help of words, black bitches, and it turns out that I want you. Partial total: I want you. General total: I love you. That’s the way a lot of my friends live, not to mention an uncle and two cousins convinced of the love-they-feel-for-their-wives. From words to deeds, hey; in general without the verba there isn’t any res. What a lot of people call loving consists of picking out a woman and marrying her. They pick her out, I swear, I’ve seen them. As if you could pick in love, as if it were not a lightning bolt that splits your bones and leaves you stalked out in the middle of the courtyard. You’ll probably say that they pick her out because-they-love-her. I think it's just the siteoppo. Beatrice wasn’t picked out, Juliet wasn’t picked out. You don’t pick out the rain that soaks you to the skin when you come out of a concert. But I’m alone in my room now, I’m falling into tricks of writing, the black bitches get their vengeance any way they can, they’re biting me from underneath the table. Do you say underneath or under? They bite you just the same. Why, why, pour quoi, por que, warum, perche this horror of the words, those black bitches?
Horacio, Horacio.
Merde, alors. Why not? We looked at each other and I think we began to desire each other (but that was later on, on the Rue Reamur) and a memorable dialogue resulted, clothed from head to toe in misunderstandings, maladjustments that dissolved into vague moments of silence, until our hands began to chat, it was sweet stroking hands while we looked at each other’s mouth, we rubbed each other with our eyes as we smiled, we were so much in agreement of everything that it was shameful, Paris was dancing there outside waiting for us, we’d barely disembarked, we were barely alive, everything was there without a name and without a history. When we said goodbye we were like two children who have suddenly become friends at a birthday party and keep looking at one another while their parents take them by the hand and lead them off, and it’s a sweet pain and a hope, and you know the name of one is Tony and the other one Lulu, and that’s all that’s needed for the heart to become a little piece of fruit, and…
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