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TRANSLATOR'S INTRODUCTION
If I wake in the middle of the night a nd think of something that merits recording, I just take from under my pillow a small box containing my Nictograph a nd I write a few lines without ever having to take my hands out from under the covers. Then I put the Nictograph back and retur n to sleep. Lewis Carroll wrote that, in a year and context unknown to me. Freud would have approved, for Carroll's little device evokes nothing more than those notebooks recomme nded in The Interpretation of Dreams. Utilitarian devices, these are, but like every tool they lend the mselves to every sort of fa ntasy, every perversion. Can't we imagine the nictograph as the "writing material" of a scene like this one? Having settled down in some spot most conducive to the mi nd's concentr ation upon itself, order writing material to be brought to you. Let your state of mind be as passive and receptive as possible.... Write quickly without any previously chosen subject, quickly enough not to dwell on, and not to be te mpted to read over, what you have written. Breton's surrealist artist, having ordered paper and pen (a little notebook, to continue with the present fa ntasy), would write as if in a trance, in a state between sleep and arousal (a state of arousal through sleep, as that photograph of Robert Desnos in Nadja is meant to convey). Writing quickl y, reaching for what Foucault calls the "raw being" of language, writing the ni ght, e mptiness and plenitude, a shattered mirror and an incandescent globe: for all this the nictograph might be useful. And if it is, this is because the night has become somethi ng other tha n the night. It's because the night has become a site of poetry, is "that empty Nothingness, which contains everything in its undivided simplicity: the wealth of an infinite number of representations, of images, not one of which comes precisely to mi nd, or which moreover are not there insofar as they are really present.... In phantasma gorical representations it is night on all sides: here suddenly sur ges up a blood-spattered head; there, another, white, apparition; and the y disappear just as abruptly. That is the night that one perceives if one looks a man i n the e yes; then one is delving into a ni ght which becomes terrible; it is the night of the world which the n presents itself to us." That is Hegel, quoted by Bataille: a Romantic Hegel, "funda mentally" Roma ntic, wrote Bataille. The night of the world, night on all sides, an empty nothi ngness punc tua ted by nothing less than bloody, severed heads (heads of aristocrats, heads that reappear, crowning crowns that once crowned the m, in Severo Sarduy's Big Bang): such is the night that might be written here.
A mess of quotes, all this, at once too academic and not rigorous at all. But a mess of quotes is perhaps fitting for a prologue to this long poem, which is "about" writing the night. After all, years later, some three decades after Escrito con un nictgrafo first appeared in Bue nos Aires, another book about night was published. And in it we find a refrain: "you said..." "he said..." The refrain leads us back into a mess of quotes, like this: You could say a mur mur doesnt capture the light but the s hadows trapped in every poem. You said: "The astronomers would say: black hole s, Freud: me lancholy, Leza ma Lima: tokonoma, and Bataille: petite mort." Mur murs like these capture shadows, the ghosts of Leza ma and Bataille and the rest. I hope some thi ng of the ghost of Arturo Carrera's nictograph is captured in the mur murs of this translation. --Craig Epplin
And the night is clad in like the black ink is clad in white paper.
--Cordoban secretary Ben Burd, the Nephew (d. 1053)
the
light
of
its
lamp
The ti me ' s ar rive d w he n de a th be gi ns to mol t I MOLT MY BODY I pr evail wi thi n your dea th I ADORN YOUR M OLT
The numb ne s s vibra tes the numb ne s s tol er a te s the ni ght s pr outs flow er s i n the mi ddl e of the ni ght mi ddl e of the pa ge over the pa unc h of de a th
U N F O L D S
or pha nhood is spell bound c omma nde d, hois ted up to the li fe boa t i nva de d, s unk by the de a d
i i n the PROwSE of your book on the Ve s s el of the De a d a mong hol l ow vol ume s my c or po/ gra phy to a nothe r wa s tela nd unl oa di ng le tte rs H O L L O W bone s
The poe m unfol ds tha t i s your s tre ngth The poe m ma ke s c onta c t gl i de s wi th ope n ar ms over both s hore s: tha t i s your s tre ngth
Yo u s po k e t o me of a rus e of l a ngua g e
S P R I N G
U P
the da r kne ss polar i zed, a nd da nc e s li ke the da nce s of the hone ybe e s unc ha ngi ng / the y dra w you i n the i r me tic ul ous move me nts to e xha us t s ome pl ac e
GOLDEN TREPHINE
to dri nk c i nna bar a nd pai nt mys e l f i n w hi te to fil l gr a ndmothe r 's gia nt ha t wi th Ka bba lis tic s i gns
- - Gr a ndmothe r of the Da y. Gr a ndmothe r of the Daw n Anc i e nt Sec re t Anc i e nt Conc e ale r
The y w er e c ons ume d by your s ong the i nk/ the bi tte n ta ble ts your hous e s of pre ci ous s tones my ho us e of books of ric he s tha t' s now be c ome your dwel li ng of the s ongs
ungr a s pa bl e/ sa br e/i za bl e
Doll s of gold a nd ja de a nd doll s tha t s mol de r a nd doll s of ba r k from tr e es ha mme r e d a nd bi tte n i nto c ove re d i n w ri ti ngs the y unve i l your home
now the w ri ti ng da nc e s now the a utoma ton s ta nds up now he be gi ns to w al k a r ound to r ouse the de ad girl
i n the s uc ce ssi on of s hadow the a ter the unc e a s i ng a ppar i ti on r ei gni ng a dve rsi ty / diver si ty the s un
HOMOSEMANTICS OF DEATH
i mpos si ble to hea r the song of s a me ne s s i mpos si ble to hea r the song of di ffer e nc e
WORDS a s the fi gur e s go on i ncr e asi ng i n the Whe e l of Ye ars / s low es t re cogni ti on EVEN THE FIGURE OF MID DAY
door s e ncl os e d w i th a ke y
thi s pl ac e lis te ns thi s pl ac e w ri tes i t c ha nge s the w or d the de coy, the pl ot thi s pl ac e c ons tr uc ts a tra p
- - Awa i ti ng you s ur r ounds the da y wi th que s tions about your dea th i de ogr a ms , ma ntr a s Wor ds tha t look li ke your dea th
- - As the ve ntr iloquis t spoke li ke Er ykl es unde r the w i nd the y s poke : dea th da nc e the wi nd
DEATH IS A VENTRILOQ UIST THIS IS AN EXPERIENCE OF VENTRI LOQ UY tr ibes of ve ntri loquis ts i nvade the pa ge
yo ur s l umb e r , dr e a m o f f a l c o ns
M o t i o nl e s s a t mi dd a y und e r r a i nb ow s bl a c k he s c r a tc he s i n t he a s he s o f a P H O E N I X bo o k
M I L LI O N S O F R A I N B O W S O F S TO N E O N F OO T M I L LI O N S O F R A I N B O W S O F S TO N E O N F OO T
i a w a i t my di s e nc r us t me nt
t he a t e r
the book/ da nc e fl oor of the de a d the poe m/ home of dis gui s es of the dea d
RAINBOW TENSED
Nothi ng / to w hom do you s pea k? no que s tions Your a tte nti on vis ibl y to e nc ounte r the r i nge d falc on vis iona r y-li ke / e ver yone
- - You dis se mi na te d a nd devel oped the l es s on of your ma s te r: to w ri te i s to or ga ni ze a nd not r e pre se nt r ea li ty. Di s order i rre ali ty. REPRESENT IT.
to the words/ car ni vor ous fl owe rs i dis tri bute my body Br ea ki ng the s tone s of bo die s a mong the hi be r na tor s i da nc e
r ea di ng the gr a phi s m of moti onl es s da nce s NO / the y'r e bar ome tri c fl owe rs c ons tel la ti ons of fr a gme nts
/ the hydr a uli c gi rls of Agdal Cha ha nc ha h i n the mummi fi e d dar kne s s
M USICA L TOTEM
no ma d i ma ge s s e de nta r y i ma ge s
ta c til e, c onta c t
Vi ol e nce contr a c te d i n the for ms i n the c ol ors , i n w ha t you l ove ve r y li ttle muc h l e ss
EVERYTHING
V o c a b u l a r y h a s d i s a p p e a r e d .
.......... an arm .......... the ha nd ............................ the he a r t s wel le d up li ke a bal loon ............................ bl ows up ............................
the c e nte r gone a s tr a y se e ks a nothe r c e nte r the or na me nte d c e nte r goe s to a nothe r fea s t
Mus i c dra gs you to fr ui tl es s s a fe ty. It fi nds a pla ce for you a mong the de a d. Mus i c ma ke s you a n obj ec t. Be c ome a n obje c t. The obj ec t of mus i c is to s a tura te dea th. The obj ec t of de a th i s to moder a te mus i c .
The ha nd tha t e r as es i s the sa me one tha t plow s tha t c ha nge s tha t c opi es tha t doe s n' t i nnova te tha t r e pe a ts tha t s te al s
b e l o w
a l l
t h a t
i s
t h a t
s p e a k s
Your fa ce r ec e de s
poe m of long- dra w n li fe li ke the ma r ri a ge of the Tar tar dea d c hil dr e n poe m tha t c opi es my l i fe
de ad / omni me tonymy
br oke n off from s i gni fi ca tions i a m fr a gme nts c ol le c te d by my fr a gme nts r ai se d, gone , r un over by fr a gme nts
Wha t' s le ft is the word scr a tc he d by your fi nge r nai ls dur i ng a c all i ng the w or d li ke pla s te r the w or d not the w all the w or d
on the w all of the ni ght your i ns is te nce / you ca lle d not to be al one or w he n you w ere n' t al one not to be
Us a ba ndone d to the mol t i n the mos t da nge r ous ni ght of the mol t In t he mi ddle of the wa i t
i ns ta nta ne ous vi bra ti ng ta pes tr y the i ns ta nta ne ous de a d the s e na ve monotonous doubl es the te ns e d pa ge the pr e gna nt pa ge the mo unta i n pa ge the gong pa ge
Sa v ed a ga i n a dopte d by a nothe r r hythm i n a mi na re t ma de of my bone s a nd of your bone s/ looki ng a t w ha t I don' t know a l ooki ng no longe r toge the r wi th w ha t i t s e es nor w i th w ha t pe ne tr a tes nor w i th w ha t pi er ce s
w ebs a nd viole nc es
/l i nes of re s urr ec tions : cr ea tur e s opa que / al pha be ts, new alpha be ts
Subj ec t to i ns tr uc ti ons fr om the da r k: a ) wal k over bl a c k s a nd wi th a sei s mogr a ph i n ha nd l ooki ng for ra ttle s
i ts doubl e sl ee ps i n my be d
Ar re s te d i n dune s of gol d
IN THE HOUSES OF GOLD OF THE SONG IN THE HOUSES OF J ADE OF THE SONG
Li fe wi thout a n a c ce nt
Afte r the puppe te er s of the mys ti fi ers of the fa ir goer s by me a ns of/ re cei vi ng e ver yone
Now the body i s ma de of w hi te a s h the y' r e s pi nni ng t he one w ho fa ns the w or ds over the gar de n unc over ed by da nc es over your body/ the book/ the pa ge
s me l l of i nc e ns e risi ng fr om t he ni c togr aph tr e mbli ng, the fr a gme nte r of the me c ha ni ca l ni ght
NOTES
My nictograph has little in common with the apparatus invented by Lewis Carroll for "writing" insomnia. It only expropriated from it the signifyi ng force of the na me, forcing, through use, that e mptying-out of me aning, end and beginning of language, which is the practice of writing... ...writing the dark, "blindly," in the crevices of a cube -shaped box--that primary space also seeking the emptyi ng-out of mea ning--I piled up fragme nts, infinitesimal, plane-like temple-texts tha t inform--the scribe having disappeared-that e mpty place where the words rejoice: preeminence of langua ge over all. Monotony--of the poem--and dcoupage: these are the exte nuated for ms of my little re ports. Reports whose nuclei of meaning would be: I--: Death, how it hides within langua ge. The recent disappearance of my grandmother and the ceremony of death's unveiling--verbal, vocal. Her devotion to dolls and automatons. The shroud-page, mour ning. II--: Closed eyes. The panic provoked in me by vast white surfaces. The "use" of ink as night and vice versa. Ink as semen. The poem by African Pygmies that I often reread: the gre at cold of the night has come , blackne ss... The periodic blindness in certain animals that's caused by their molt. --Orphanhood is a constant molt. III--: Like that Melanesian tribe that with every death supresses various words from their lexicon, I wanted to s uppress, after a rereading, certain fragme nts. I've crossed out (a gesture more indecisive than elimination). My attitude is theatrical: "dramatico-comical," I know. But someone motivates me: Barthes. When he writes this: What is it to the atricalize? It is to limit language .
IV--: Finally, like Jean Marie Straub in his Chronicle of Anna Magdale na Bach, I've tried continuously to e liminate all inte ntion--the will to e xpre ss. Which is how Straub defines dcoupage . I know quite well--Stravinsky said it about music, Straud about film--that the poe m is incapable of expressing anything. Monotony, c utti ng, nonsense: the y'd be for the poem a plurality of meanings --and vice versa--the search for meaning and the meaning of that une nding search. Explanation a mounts to a broken mirror: myriad reflecting surfaces emerge, they annull The Great Surface. Darkne ss bre aks the mirror. De ath clouds up t he mirror. Let he r be . --Arturo Carrera