"I say what I have to say, with no literature",
Clarice Lispector wrote in "The Relationship of the thing",
a beautiful and weird short story that investigates
he infernal, calm soul of an alarm clock.
That's the best definition I know for the act of writing,
or at least the most accurate one, as it highlights something that I believe to be essential:
in order to create literature, it's mandatory not to create literature.
Books say "no" to literature.
Some, others, most of them say "yes",
they follow the rule of the market, or the Holy Spirit, or the government,
or the placid idea of a generation,
or the even more placid idea of a tradition.
I prefer those books that say "no".
Sometimes, I even prefer those books that do not know what they are saying.
It would be very difficult for me to seek real affinities
with a style or a tendency, especially because I would rather not have a style
and not follow to any tendencies. I wouldn't know how to be consequent.
I wouldn't know how to subject myself to a common cause or prescription.
And it wouldn't be necessary, for sure.
I like to read.
It may sound weird,
but I'm not sure anymore that writers like reading.
I'm not sure if it was Sting or Bono who said that,
when listening to a really good song, he felt envy for not having writing it.
I'm not sure if it was Roberto Juarroz or Marcelo Pellegrini who wrote
this poem that shows to which extent Sting's or Bono's envy is absurd:
"To read what I want to read I would have to write it
But I don't know how to write it No one knows how to write it".
We write in order to read what we want to read.
You write when you don't want to read others.
But most of the time, we want to read others,
and that's why I can't understand Sting's (or Bono's) envy:
often, almost every time, we want to read what others wrote,
and you only write when others didn't write the book you wanted to read.
That's why we write ourselves – and we never get it as we wanted.
We say "no" to literature so that literature itself says "no".
We write so that the book is always a space we didn't expect;
an exit, but not the exit we waited for.
Clarice Lispector comes to a halt in the middle of a text;
she takes a deep breath and says:
"I'm writing too easily, it's flowing too much.
One has to be suspicious of that."
That's how we are in Chile:
we are suspicious of the flow, of easy words,
and that's why we stutter so much.
That's not a criticism: that's a description.
We are also suspicious of the written word.
We stutter also while writing.
There's a clear divorce between the spoken and the written language:
there are too much word and sentences that
we say to each other, but that we never write.
Gabriela Mistral, Nicanor Parra, Enrique Lihn or Gonzalo Millán fought against it;
they dared, each one in their own way,
to write, to seek for a Chilean language.
Violeta Parra dared to discover and create it and,
even more, to sing it.
The great secret subject of Chilean literature
is the abysm between what is said and what is written.
What Neruda created was actually
an elegant stutter, a literary phrasing
that favors subterfuges and eternal digression.
The anti-poetry saved us from instantaneous rhetoric.
The path that starts with Parra continues in Lihn and Juan Luis Martínez,
but those are only a few names in an endless list.
Chilean poets have forgotten Neruda long ago,
but the novelists didn't.
We Chilean novelists write to the inside,
as if our novels were actually a long echo from a repressed poem.
Maybe we should find that poem that has never been written,
but that is present in Chilean novels.
We should write this poem and something else;
something that denies it.
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