Me parece que el traducir de una lengua a otra es como quien mira los tapices flamencos por el revés, que aunque se ven las figuras, están llenas de hilos que las oscurecen, y no se ven con la lisura y tez del haz; y el traducir de lenguas fáciles, ni arguye ingenio ni elocución, como no le arguye el que traslada ni el que copia un papel de otro papel––dijo don Quijote.
Y aún así le dije a Enrique Fierro, simpatizante de los rinocerontes––Tomemos prestada la pelota de ping-pong de nuestros amigos Lorenzo y Margarita, y aquí escribámonos y traduzcámonos el uno al otro. Pero, tejamos reversos, traducciones traidoras, como falsos amigos, des faux amis que se miran, pero no se reconocen.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Sirens and cows, a bestiary that would leave an organ grinder penniless cranking out melodies beside a stairwell in New York City. Since he lacks an animal ballet to make the sounds seeable, nobody ever stops to listen. A class dedicated to poetry alone? Craziness. So the swirling Colorado waters cackled at the tentativeness of one finally forced to refer to oneself; tantalized by the red and studious apple, he ate it and then invited her out for a couple of drinks, bracing himself to be sundered and then subsequently reassembled once he found the right rocks to run into.

Decoding? I've heard commented mental masturbation. Such self-assured assertions are always astounding – no droplet of shame that the vulgarity may also be theirs. In general, I say sidereal particularity masks bad eyes, in which case privacy's not so necessary after all.

Yes, they found the Higgs boson, but when placed beside Fierro's bosón de Higgs it's the long sought de particle that is seemingly revealed – that expression of ownership rendered invisible in English by word order. As long as we believe de exists we aren't quite rid of God, Nietzsche might say; or of Delaware, Woody Allen might say. Word overpopulation has caused an excess of wisdom and a shortage of souls.

There are many who inhabit our grammatical pantheon built from a faith in language and a distrust of words, lending structures to the void. Lorenzo the Magnificent is now amongst them, a tent spike holding down the tarp. We thank him for his inscriptions upon the materials within this world of whirling nonsense.

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