Love that lacerates the soul

Written in a state of reverie.

“The traveler recognizes the little that is his, discovering the much he has not had and will never have”

– Italo Calvino, “Invisible Cities”

I dream about you no more, but you are always in the backdrop, like a perpetual shadow, a figment of my imagination, a lachrymose. There remains no more conversation between us, neither do I break into a run amidst halls upon halls to see your face, neither do we retreat to a cottage in the mountains overlooking a valley, neither do I dream of you dying, or you as a last thought I have, neither do I seek your face in strangers, in passerby’s and if you listen to the stars, and if clouds were in fact mirrors you would find yourself buried deep in my memory, and in the depths of the faintest traces of memories, forever entwined in an embrace, and where no aspiration or inspiration adulterates, and no outside thought is welcome, there have we met, far removed from time and the ages and the distance, and where no concept is a concept but us, and where nothing exists except nothingness and in the golden abyss of that chaos, perpetuated by order and yearning shall you discover us in the ethereal arms of oblivion, a sweet oblivion that one comes upon naturally, the tranquil blue envelopes us in vast cloud of stellar dust, naked, rooted, seeped, drenched, with no injury of consciousness, with no circumstance of chance, bare of all extremities and worldly desires, a distant oeuvre is heard, the music from my dreams, the melody of your lips, resounding against the greener pastures underneath a brilliant blue sky overlooking the sea, I have only known how to send echoes like ripples of water through you, the wisps of your words form around my lips, in sweet utterance; there yes there you shall find yourself for an infinite eternity, and the organ melts into a melodious tune, and where the flute shall perpetually whistle its dulcet air in our backyard, where we fear not time nor age, nor are young or senile, but two souls suspended in the vastness of ancient antiquity, the cosmos hued, the stars sense us, the surreal dust, the dancing planets placed in orbits. Shall we let us, you and me, live, no not live, exist?

In darkness on my bed alone

   I seemed to see you in a vision,

   And hear you say: “Why this derision

Of one drawn to you, though unknown?

                                                                                                        -Thomas Hardy, “The Torn Letter”

Distant Star by Roberto Bolano

“In the current socio-political climate, he said to himself, committing suicide is absurd and redundant. Better to become an undercover poet.”

An esoteric read, no doubt, Distant Star was too didactic for me. I understand that the background is enveloped in the ruthless politics of Chile, and its subsequent impression on the literary culture and society, but the story lacked the surreal, dream-like element which marked Bolano’s 2666.  I’m assuming the disarray of the plot and the characters can be better understood by someone who has lived through the Pinochet regime, or is aware of the political atmosphere prevalent in South Americas, or is already acquainted with the literature that is an amalgam of political commentary and various literary movements of the era. From excessive violence to astute humor deeply infused with political and literary references, Distant Star can only be recommended to one who is an avid fan of literature shaped by political turmoil.

“So Lorenzo grew up in Chile without arms, an unfortunate situation for any child, but he also grew up in Pinochet’s Chile, which turned unfortunate situations into desperate ones, on top of which he soon discovered that he was homosexual, which made his already desperate situation inconceivable and indescribable. Given these circumstances, it is not surprising that Lorenzo became an artist. (What else could he do?)”