In the Heart of the Country

If only we could eat our sunsets, I say, we would all be full.

Words are coin. Words alienate. Language is no medium for desire. Desire is rapture, not exchange. It is only by alienating the desired that language masters it. The frenzy of desire in the medium of words yields the mania of the catalogue. I struggle with the proverbs of hell.

The sun is setting, the sky is a tumult of oranges, reds and violets.

Deprived of human intercourse, I inevitably overvalue the imagination and expect it to make the mundane glow with an aura of self-transcendence.

Do you remember Vlek, who was such a good sheepdog that she and Jakob alone could drive a whole flock past you at the counting-post? Do you remember how Vlek grew old and sickly and could not hold down her food, and how there was no one to shoot her but you, and how you went for a walk afterwards because you did not want anyone to see you cry?

ya que la anatomía es el destino: un vacío, o una concha, una película sobre un vacío que ansía verse colmado en un mundo en el que nada se colma.

¿hasta qué punto es real nuestra posesión? Las flores se convierten en polvo, Hendrik desengancha y se va, la tierra nada sabe de cercas, las piedras seguirán en su sitio cuando yo no sea más que polvo, la propia comida que devoro solamente pasa a través de mí.

Hand in hand they stroke her womb, watching for it to flicker and blossom. p. 3

What solace are lapidary paradoxes for the loves of the body?

so serene, so fun of common purpose; I should have been a man, I·would. not have grown up so· sour, I would have spent my days in the sun doing whatever it. is that men do, digging holes, building fence.s, counting sheep. ·What is there for me in the. kitchen?