Site hosted by Build your free website today!
< - Voltar à página principal


An Avid One in Extremis

- by Hilda Hilst -
for Lygia and Paulo Emilio

(Translated by Dawn Jordan)


      Spit in your face, a slap, a punch, anything better than the word, KleinKu, I call you that, name with the sonority of the language of poets and beasts, the act always better and not like me myself the thought-leap to explain myself through minimal you. I'm not dying KleinKu. I tried to explain the same thing to another one, stupid like you, named Koyo and built stockades looking for my nail, stockades around nothing, because for all that you raise up, never, closed like I am in this braided mat, neither Koyo nor KleinKu would have the visor, the perforating eye for the smallest of me. I'm not dying. Perfection is death, one of you AH discovered and said Perfection is death, wouldn't this be the greatest proof of immortality? Koyo and KleinKu locked you up, insane asylum, in this AH up against the wall can't give speeches in the congresses, senates, it would be the same, madmen in the inside, on the outside, all KleinKus repeating that I am dead when this would be the inexpressible but the most significant of all my acts. I want to die, a single marble slab over the I whole, I'd rather the mat, that which never within your reach, not even with eyes closed, KleinKu understand, I'm in agony but I'm not going to die, deteriorated, shapeless, from here on pus and dust accumulating, I should live in silence, but the one of me in silence runs to you, expresses itself in acts, and what acts those of yours, savagery and arrogance in all of them, I must ask that you hurry, finish, you have the means, more powerful than Nagasaki and Hiroshima, and there's a hunger in you too marvelous for your name, and isn't it that all your hungers fit in your despicable hole? I don't know how one dies, and I didn't know that thinking me would expel concept and dunghill, I look at you in a sobbing separating of distances, I look at me and in the body I search for the tiniest point from where I can extract an all new, death, if I could remake myself in death, I kneel twisted down before myself, that the divine I find the road to Nothingness and on the way not try again to give form to appearances, the I full of emotion wanted to translate itself into works, thought Man to inhabit the Earth and it was as if one had thought sordidness fossilized feces, that Nothingness should meet me once again, thought me Nothingness, because for an instant it intended to give form to the Nothingness-Not Being, ah KleinKu, I say it again, I'd rather the spit the punch the slap, anything would be better that the word, and if I had cornets I could use them like this one of me, fortunate Mahler, if I had cornets, the ones post-riders use, oh if I only had them, I would extract the most painful sound for your impaired hearing, if I had words like those of me Jeshua had them some mine incendiary, but for KleinKu it was as if I had never committed them, if the many in me could hammer your substance, once again molded, a new metaplasm, two hearts-head for the man, acting in complete communion, KleinKu added on in some easts, torn from the south, it would have been better to have consumed the idea-man as soon as it was expelled, act the way I was taught by mine own, monks-cartridges volatilizing the word at its source, KleinKu thinking yes but incandescent in the same moment returning to its root. Now black elbows braced in my softnesses, I look at the absurd: you. Dear little mother, I GrosseKu, also baptized by men with esoteric names, Pneuma, the All-One, the No Name, dear little mother I want your hand in mine, and Gide in an endless to my ear: "I want to die in desperation." Maybe that way I'll be able, maybe that way I learn to die.

Translated by Dawn Jordan
Edited by Marjorie Agosin
Fredonia, New York: White Pine Press
1992 Second Edition