i don't want to send second-hand notes to you, my friend, about the sea
There are no fantasists like the Latin American fantasists: Borges, Márquez, Paz, among others. This one is a very pretty allegory of the tides of love, and (hey, I didn't write it) the fickleness of women. Yeah, it's long (for an LJ post, you ADHD-riddled, MTV-addicted crack monkey), but how often do you get to read a new translation of gorgeous Mexican writing? Sit down with a cold jamaica (sweet hibiscus tea, pronounced ha-mike-ah) and get to work.
"My Life With The Wave"
Octavio Paz
When I left that sea, a wave rolled ahead of all the others. She was tall and light. In spite of the shouts of the others who grabbed her by her floating dress, she clutched my arm and went off leaping with me. I didn't want to say anything to her, because it hurt me to shame her in front of her friends. Besides, the infuriated stares of the elders paralyzed me. When we got to town, I explained to her that it was impossible, that life in the city was not what she had been able to imagine with the ingenuity of a wave that had never left the sea. She cried, screamed, caressed, and threatened. I had to apologize.
The next day my troubles began. How could we get on the train without being seen by the conductor, the passengers, the police? It is true that the rules say nothing in respect to the transport of waves on the railroad, but this very same fact was an indication of the severity with which our act would be judged. After much thought I arrived at the station an hour before departure, took my seat, and, when no one was looking, emptied the water tank for the passengers; then, carefully, poured in my friend.
The first incident came about when the children of a nearby couple declared their noisy thirst. I stopped them in their tracks and promised them refreshments and lemonade. They were about to accept when another thirsty passenger approached. I was about to invite her too, but the stare of her companion stopped me. The lady took a paper cup, approached the tank, and turned on the faucet. Her cup was barely half full when I leaped between the woman and my friend. She looked at me in astonishment. While I apologized, one of the children turned on the faucet again. I closed it violently. The lady brought the cup to her lips:
"This water is salty."
The boy echoed her. Other passengers got up. Her husband called the conductor:
"This man put salt in the water."
The conductor called the Inspector:
"So you put substances in the water?"
The Inspector in turn called the police:
"So you poisoned the water?"
The police in turn called the Captain:
"So you're the poisoner?"
The captain called three agents. The agents took me to an empty car amid the stares and whispers of the passengers. At the next station they took me off and dragged me to the jail. For days no one spoke to me, except during the long interrogations. When I explained my story no one believed me, not even the jailer, who shook his head, saying: "The case is grave, truly grave. You couldn't have possibly wanted to poison the children?" One day they brought me before the Magistrate.
"Your case is difficult," he repeated. "I will assign you to the Penal Judge."
A year passed. Finally they judged me. As there were no victims, my sentence was light. After a short time, my day of liberty arrived.
The Chief of the Prison called me in:
"Well, now you're free. You were lucky, lucky there were no victims. But don't do it again, because the next time it will cost you more than you can imagine..."
And he stared at me with the same grave stare with which everyone watched me.
The same afternoon I took the train and after hours of uncomfortable traveling arrived in Mexico City. I took a cab home. At the door of my apartment I heard laughter and singing. I felt a pain in my chest, like the pounding of a wave of surprise when surprise pounds us across the chest: my friend was there, singing and laughing as always.
"How did you get back?"
"Simple: in the train. Someone, after making sure that I was only salt water, poured me in the engine. It was a rough trip: suddenly I was white vapor, then I fell as a fine rain on the machine. I thinned out a lot. I lost many drops."
Her presence changed my life. The house, once of dark corridors and dusty furniture, was now filled with air, with sun, with sounds and green and blue reflections, a numerous and happy populace of reverberations and echoes. How many waves is one wave, and how it can make a beach or a rock or jetty out of a wall, a chest, a forehead that it crowns with foam! Even the abandoned corners, the abject corners of dust and debris were touched by her light hands. Everything began to laugh and everywhere shined with teeth. The sun entered the old rooms with pleasure and stayed in my house for hours, abandoning the other houses, the district, the city, the country. And some nights, into the morning hours, the scandalous stars watched it sneak out from my house.
Love was a game, a perpetual creation. All was beach, sand, sheets that were always fresh. If I embraced her, she swelled with pride, incredibly tall, like the liquid stalk of a poplar; and soon that thinness flowered into a fountain of white feathers, into laughter that fell over my head and back and covered me with whiteness. Or she stretched out in front of me, infinite as the horizon, until I too became horizon and silence. Full and sinuous, it enveloped me like music or some giant lips. Her present was a coming and going of caresses, of murmurs, of kisses. Entered in her waters, I was drenched to the socks and in a wink of an eye I found myself up above, at the height of vertigo, mysteriously suspended, to fall like a stone and feel myself gently deposited on the dryness, like a feather. Nothing is comparable to falling asleep in those waters, to wake pounded by a thousand light lashes, by a thousand assaults that withdrew in laughter.
But I never found the center of her being. Never did I touch the nakedness of pain and of death. Perhaps it does not exist in waves, that secret site that renders a woman vulnerable and mortal, that electric button where all interlocks, twitches, and straightens out only to then disappear. Her sensibility, like that of women, spread in ripples, only they weren't concentric ripples, but rather eccentric, spreading each time farther, until they touched other galaxies. To love her was to extend to remote contacts, to vibrate with distant stars we never even thought to exist. But her center... no, she had no center, just an empty whirlwind that sucked me in and smothered me.
Stretched out side by side, we exchanged confidences, whispers, smiles. Curled up, she fell on my chest and there unfurled like a vegetation of murmurs. She sang in my ear, a little snail. She became humble and transparent, clutching my feet like a tiny animal, calm water. She was so clear I could read all of her thoughts. Certain nights her skin was covered with a glow and to embrace her was to embrace a piece of night tattooed with fire. But she also became black and bitter. At unexpected hours she roared, moaned, twisted. Her groans woke the neighbors. When hearing the sea wind, she would madly scratch at the door of the house or rave in a loud voice on the roof. Cloudy days irritated her; she broke furniture, said bad words, covered me with insults and green and gray foam. She spit, cried, swore, prophesied. Subject to the moon, to the stars, to the influence of the light of other worlds, she changed her moods and appearance in a way that I thought fantastic, but it was as fatal as the tide.
She began to complain of the solitude. The house was full of snails and conchs, of small sailboats that in her fury she had shipwrecked. How many little treasures were lost in that time! But my boats and the silent song of the snails was not enough. I had to bring into the house a colony of fish. I confess that it was not without jealousy that I watched them swimming in my friend, caressing her breasts, sleeping between her legs, adorning her hair with light flashes of color.
Among all those fish there were a few particularly repulsive and ferocious ones, little tigers from the aquarium, with large fixed eyes and jagged and bloodthirsty mouths. I don't know by what aberration my friend delighted in playing with them, shamelessly showing them a preference whose significance I preferred to ignore. She passed long hours confined with those horrible creatures. One day I couldn't stand it any more; I threw open the door and launched after them. Agile and ghostly they escaped my hands while she laughed and pounded me until I fell. I thought I was drowning. And when I was at the point of death, and purple, she deposited me on the bank and began to kiss me, saying I don't know what things. I felt very weak, fatigued, and humiliated. And at the same time her voluptuousness made me close my eyes, because her voice was sweet and she spoke to me of the delicious death of the drowned. When I recovered, I began to fear and hate her.
I had neglected my affairs. Now I began to visit friends and renew old and dear relations. I met an old girlfriend. Making her swear to keep my secret, I told her of my life with the wave. Nothing moves women so much as the possibility of saving a man. My redeemer employed all of her arts, but how could a woman, master of a limited number of souls and bodies, compare to my friend who was always changing... and always identical to herself in her incessant metamorphoses?
Winter came. The sky turned gray. Fog fell on the city. Frozen drizzle rained. My friend cried every night. During the day she isolated herself, quiet and sinister, stuttering a single syllable, like an old woman who grumbles in a corner. She became cold; to sleep with her was to shiver all night and to feel freeze my blood, my bones, my thoughts. She turned deep, impenetrable, and restless. I began to leave frequently and my absences were each time more prolonged. She, in her corner, howled and cried. With teeth like steel and a corrosive tongue she gnawed the walls, crumbled them. She passed the nights in mourning, blaming me. She had nightmares, deliriums of the sun, of warm beaches. She dreamt of the north pole and of changing into a great block of ice, sailing beneath black skies in nights long as months. She insulted me. She cursed and laughed; filled the house with guffaws and phantoms. She called up the monsters of the depths, blind ones, quick ones. Charged with electricity she vaporized all she touched; full of acid, she dissolved whatever she brushed against. Her sweet embraces became knotty cords that strangled me. And her body, greenish and elastic, was an implacable whip that lashed, lashed, lashed. I fled. The horrible fish laughed with ferocious smiles.
There in the mountains, among the tall pines, I breathed the cold thin air at the thought of liberty. At the end of a month I returned. I had decided. It had gotten so cold over that time that over the marble of the chimney, next to the extinct fire, I found a statue of ice. I was unmoved by her weary beauty. I put her in a big canvas sack and went out to the streets with her on my shoulders. In a restaurant on the outskirts of town I sold her to a waiter who began to chop her into little pieces, which he carefully dropped into the buckets where bottles are chilled.
"My Life With The Wave"
Octavio Paz
When I left that sea, a wave rolled ahead of all the others. She was tall and light. In spite of the shouts of the others who grabbed her by her floating dress, she clutched my arm and went off leaping with me. I didn't want to say anything to her, because it hurt me to shame her in front of her friends. Besides, the infuriated stares of the elders paralyzed me. When we got to town, I explained to her that it was impossible, that life in the city was not what she had been able to imagine with the ingenuity of a wave that had never left the sea. She cried, screamed, caressed, and threatened. I had to apologize.
The next day my troubles began. How could we get on the train without being seen by the conductor, the passengers, the police? It is true that the rules say nothing in respect to the transport of waves on the railroad, but this very same fact was an indication of the severity with which our act would be judged. After much thought I arrived at the station an hour before departure, took my seat, and, when no one was looking, emptied the water tank for the passengers; then, carefully, poured in my friend.
The first incident came about when the children of a nearby couple declared their noisy thirst. I stopped them in their tracks and promised them refreshments and lemonade. They were about to accept when another thirsty passenger approached. I was about to invite her too, but the stare of her companion stopped me. The lady took a paper cup, approached the tank, and turned on the faucet. Her cup was barely half full when I leaped between the woman and my friend. She looked at me in astonishment. While I apologized, one of the children turned on the faucet again. I closed it violently. The lady brought the cup to her lips:
"This water is salty."
The boy echoed her. Other passengers got up. Her husband called the conductor:
"This man put salt in the water."
The conductor called the Inspector:
"So you put substances in the water?"
The Inspector in turn called the police:
"So you poisoned the water?"
The police in turn called the Captain:
"So you're the poisoner?"
The captain called three agents. The agents took me to an empty car amid the stares and whispers of the passengers. At the next station they took me off and dragged me to the jail. For days no one spoke to me, except during the long interrogations. When I explained my story no one believed me, not even the jailer, who shook his head, saying: "The case is grave, truly grave. You couldn't have possibly wanted to poison the children?" One day they brought me before the Magistrate.
"Your case is difficult," he repeated. "I will assign you to the Penal Judge."
A year passed. Finally they judged me. As there were no victims, my sentence was light. After a short time, my day of liberty arrived.
The Chief of the Prison called me in:
"Well, now you're free. You were lucky, lucky there were no victims. But don't do it again, because the next time it will cost you more than you can imagine..."
And he stared at me with the same grave stare with which everyone watched me.
The same afternoon I took the train and after hours of uncomfortable traveling arrived in Mexico City. I took a cab home. At the door of my apartment I heard laughter and singing. I felt a pain in my chest, like the pounding of a wave of surprise when surprise pounds us across the chest: my friend was there, singing and laughing as always.
"How did you get back?"
"Simple: in the train. Someone, after making sure that I was only salt water, poured me in the engine. It was a rough trip: suddenly I was white vapor, then I fell as a fine rain on the machine. I thinned out a lot. I lost many drops."
Her presence changed my life. The house, once of dark corridors and dusty furniture, was now filled with air, with sun, with sounds and green and blue reflections, a numerous and happy populace of reverberations and echoes. How many waves is one wave, and how it can make a beach or a rock or jetty out of a wall, a chest, a forehead that it crowns with foam! Even the abandoned corners, the abject corners of dust and debris were touched by her light hands. Everything began to laugh and everywhere shined with teeth. The sun entered the old rooms with pleasure and stayed in my house for hours, abandoning the other houses, the district, the city, the country. And some nights, into the morning hours, the scandalous stars watched it sneak out from my house.
Love was a game, a perpetual creation. All was beach, sand, sheets that were always fresh. If I embraced her, she swelled with pride, incredibly tall, like the liquid stalk of a poplar; and soon that thinness flowered into a fountain of white feathers, into laughter that fell over my head and back and covered me with whiteness. Or she stretched out in front of me, infinite as the horizon, until I too became horizon and silence. Full and sinuous, it enveloped me like music or some giant lips. Her present was a coming and going of caresses, of murmurs, of kisses. Entered in her waters, I was drenched to the socks and in a wink of an eye I found myself up above, at the height of vertigo, mysteriously suspended, to fall like a stone and feel myself gently deposited on the dryness, like a feather. Nothing is comparable to falling asleep in those waters, to wake pounded by a thousand light lashes, by a thousand assaults that withdrew in laughter.
But I never found the center of her being. Never did I touch the nakedness of pain and of death. Perhaps it does not exist in waves, that secret site that renders a woman vulnerable and mortal, that electric button where all interlocks, twitches, and straightens out only to then disappear. Her sensibility, like that of women, spread in ripples, only they weren't concentric ripples, but rather eccentric, spreading each time farther, until they touched other galaxies. To love her was to extend to remote contacts, to vibrate with distant stars we never even thought to exist. But her center... no, she had no center, just an empty whirlwind that sucked me in and smothered me.
Stretched out side by side, we exchanged confidences, whispers, smiles. Curled up, she fell on my chest and there unfurled like a vegetation of murmurs. She sang in my ear, a little snail. She became humble and transparent, clutching my feet like a tiny animal, calm water. She was so clear I could read all of her thoughts. Certain nights her skin was covered with a glow and to embrace her was to embrace a piece of night tattooed with fire. But she also became black and bitter. At unexpected hours she roared, moaned, twisted. Her groans woke the neighbors. When hearing the sea wind, she would madly scratch at the door of the house or rave in a loud voice on the roof. Cloudy days irritated her; she broke furniture, said bad words, covered me with insults and green and gray foam. She spit, cried, swore, prophesied. Subject to the moon, to the stars, to the influence of the light of other worlds, she changed her moods and appearance in a way that I thought fantastic, but it was as fatal as the tide.
She began to complain of the solitude. The house was full of snails and conchs, of small sailboats that in her fury she had shipwrecked. How many little treasures were lost in that time! But my boats and the silent song of the snails was not enough. I had to bring into the house a colony of fish. I confess that it was not without jealousy that I watched them swimming in my friend, caressing her breasts, sleeping between her legs, adorning her hair with light flashes of color.
Among all those fish there were a few particularly repulsive and ferocious ones, little tigers from the aquarium, with large fixed eyes and jagged and bloodthirsty mouths. I don't know by what aberration my friend delighted in playing with them, shamelessly showing them a preference whose significance I preferred to ignore. She passed long hours confined with those horrible creatures. One day I couldn't stand it any more; I threw open the door and launched after them. Agile and ghostly they escaped my hands while she laughed and pounded me until I fell. I thought I was drowning. And when I was at the point of death, and purple, she deposited me on the bank and began to kiss me, saying I don't know what things. I felt very weak, fatigued, and humiliated. And at the same time her voluptuousness made me close my eyes, because her voice was sweet and she spoke to me of the delicious death of the drowned. When I recovered, I began to fear and hate her.
I had neglected my affairs. Now I began to visit friends and renew old and dear relations. I met an old girlfriend. Making her swear to keep my secret, I told her of my life with the wave. Nothing moves women so much as the possibility of saving a man. My redeemer employed all of her arts, but how could a woman, master of a limited number of souls and bodies, compare to my friend who was always changing... and always identical to herself in her incessant metamorphoses?
Winter came. The sky turned gray. Fog fell on the city. Frozen drizzle rained. My friend cried every night. During the day she isolated herself, quiet and sinister, stuttering a single syllable, like an old woman who grumbles in a corner. She became cold; to sleep with her was to shiver all night and to feel freeze my blood, my bones, my thoughts. She turned deep, impenetrable, and restless. I began to leave frequently and my absences were each time more prolonged. She, in her corner, howled and cried. With teeth like steel and a corrosive tongue she gnawed the walls, crumbled them. She passed the nights in mourning, blaming me. She had nightmares, deliriums of the sun, of warm beaches. She dreamt of the north pole and of changing into a great block of ice, sailing beneath black skies in nights long as months. She insulted me. She cursed and laughed; filled the house with guffaws and phantoms. She called up the monsters of the depths, blind ones, quick ones. Charged with electricity she vaporized all she touched; full of acid, she dissolved whatever she brushed against. Her sweet embraces became knotty cords that strangled me. And her body, greenish and elastic, was an implacable whip that lashed, lashed, lashed. I fled. The horrible fish laughed with ferocious smiles.
There in the mountains, among the tall pines, I breathed the cold thin air at the thought of liberty. At the end of a month I returned. I had decided. It had gotten so cold over that time that over the marble of the chimney, next to the extinct fire, I found a statue of ice. I was unmoved by her weary beauty. I put her in a big canvas sack and went out to the streets with her on my shoulders. In a restaurant on the outskirts of town I sold her to a waiter who began to chop her into little pieces, which he carefully dropped into the buckets where bottles are chilled.