Because of your love, the air hurts me,
my heart
and my hat.
Who would buy from me
this headband I have
and this sadness of white thread
to make handkerchiefs?
Federico García Lorca: “It’s true,” 1921.
“Are you talking about expressive intensity, about conveying a state of mind without fading, about preserving the verbal force, the emotional thrill you wanted to communicate? The answer is simple: read poets like this Andalusian, from whom I have just quoted seven verses—written when he was 22 or 23 years old—where love is transfigured thanks to the magic of enumeration, which has the brilliant idea of mixing air, heart, and hat; thanks to the thread that barely suggests tears on the handkerchief.”
“But as you know, I don’t think I have the talent of Federico García Lorca.”
“Of course.”
“So?”
“Don’t write, don’t contribute to the terrible flood of trivialities we suffer from, which are so distracting. Or do it for yourself, keep those texts, strip them of the vanity that any interlocutor implies.” Perhaps it is best to feel like a reader, enjoy the true poets and not make a fool of yourself, return to silence.”
“Don’t joke… The blank page has always been like an abyss from which one must flee as quickly as possible. What do you want to turn me into?”
“I want to spare you the mockery out of the corner of my eye, the disguised yawns. Glances at the clock or the ceiling, not among the captivated but among the captive.”
“I know very well, apparently nothing comparable to those geniuses, but I do know how to occupy a place where I can show my artistic sensibility.”
“A sum of trifles? Forgive the emphasis, don’t be another laughing stock for those attending the endless recital, where the toast is awaited.”
“Cruel, killjoy, mind your own business and let others enjoy themselves as best they can. No one has appointed you judge. This is not a contest but a personal achievement, a way of surviving amid so much spiritual poverty, pragmatism, repression. You don’t humiliate me, you know, you just make me hesitate.”
“It was like taking away the mirrors in the bathroom and dining room from old people who were once beautiful.”
“You are as kind as I am a carpenter.”
“Well, since you mention it, carpenters tend to have a quality that is not very common among poets. They know how to observe wood, its grain and knots. They examine it calmly before they begin, and then they slowly saw, fit, sand… And if they are really good carpenters, they don’t hesitate to throw away the imperfect chest.”
“What if I’m one of those carpenters who manages to make an attractive chest? Neither you nor anyone else knows how it will be appreciated in the future. Tastes are relative; they change from generation to generation.”
“As my grandmother used to say: The future can handle anything you throw at it. And when you resort to relativism, it’s because you’ve run out of arguments.”
“My poetic vocation is unstoppable, unrelenting.”
“Allow me to make a confession. I am bringing this up for the first time in my life. I beg your discretion. In my adolescence, I fell in love with Margarita, a classmate with chestnut curls, almond-shaped eyes, and round, succulent breasts. Her smile in response to my compliments, far from appeasing me, further inflamed our courtship, which she always postponed. And to make matters worse, Margarita had heard a velvety-voiced reciter intone love poems on a radio program that extolled, between popular songs, the sweetness of the night. So I told her that I wrote. She, as they say, without hesitation, opened her green-black almond-shaped eyes wide and told me that she had never had a poet lover. If I wrote her a poem… We would meet in the park two blocks from her house that Sunday. And nothing. No sleep. At dawn, I tore up about ten sheets of paper. Until the brilliant idea: to put together what could be mistaken for an exquisite corpse. Five or six poets served me for the monstrosity: Bécquer and Amado Nervo, Luis Cernuda, Vicente Aleixandre… The mistake was Pablo Neruda. Before giving it to her with a Romeo face, I asked to read it. But Margarita wanted to be herself. She scowled and stood up. She yelled at me that the last verses were from Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair by Pablo Neruda. She ran away enraged. That was the end of it. I have never written a verse again.”
“What are you trying to tell me?”
“I don’t want to say anything, my dear friend, I’m simply telling you: become the master of the best addiction in the world, reading! And today with more enjoyable forms, when Artificial Intelligence opens up a new world of possibilities: dialoguing with any work or author, playing at being Catullus, Rilke… Conversing with Pedro Páramo or adding another Endless Death to José Gorostiza. Stop humiliating yourself, entertain yourself with the variations and roulettes of Artificial Intelligence. Let the matter fade away!”
“Idiot! I have three publishers and two magazines waiting for my poems, which I will present at the next book fair, at two poetry conferences. A friend promised me a review… You’re nothing but a killjoy, you cheapskate.”
“What if I hadn’t mentioned Artificial Intelligence? What if I praised your poems?”
“Ah, well, I would appreciate your good taste.”
“I’m sorry, sincerely… It’s just that the air hurts me.”
