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Pablo Neruda's Nobel Lecture, 1971 (English Translation)

Pablo Neruda's Nobel Lecture, 1971 (English Translation)

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Published by Pablo Manriquez
Pablo Neruda's Nobel Lecture, "Toward the Splendid City", was given by the poet on 13 December 1971 in Stockholm, Sweden.
Pablo Neruda's Nobel Lecture, "Toward the Splendid City", was given by the poet on 13 December 1971 in Stockholm, Sweden.

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Categories:Types, Speeches
Published by: Pablo Manriquez on Dec 30, 2010
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02/19/2011

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 Towards the Splendid City 
My speech is going to be a long journey, a trip that I have taken through regions that aredistant and antipodean, but not for that reason any less similar to the landscape and thesolitude in Scandinavia. I refer to the way in which my country stretches down to theextreme South. So remote are we Chileans that our boundaries almost touch the SouthPole, recalling the geography of Sweden, whose head reaches the snowy northernregion of this planet.Down there on those vast expanses in my native country, where I was taken by eventswhich have already fallen into oblivion, one has to cross, and I was compelled to cross,the Andes to find the frontier of my country with Argentina. Great forests make theseinaccessible areas like a tunnel through which our journey was secret and forbidden,with only the faintest signs to show us the way. There were no tracks and no paths, andI and my four companions, riding on horseback, pressed forward on our tortuous way,avoiding the obstacles set by huge trees, impassable rivers, immense cliffs and desolateexpanses of snow, blindly seeking the quarter in which my own liberty lay. Those whowere with me knew how to make their way forward between the dense leaves of theforest, but to feel safer they marked their route by slashing with their machetes here andthere in the bark of the great trees, leaving tracks which they would follow back whenthey had left me alone with my destiny.Each of us made his way forward filled with this limitless solitude, with the green andwhite silence of trees and huge trailing plants and layers of soil laid down overcenturies, among half-fallen tree trunks which suddenly appeared as fresh obstacles to bar our progress. We were in a dazzling and secret world of nature which at the sametime was a growing menace of cold, snow and persecution. Everything became one: thesolitude, the danger, the silence, and the urgency of my mission.Sometimes we followed a very faint trail, perhaps left by smugglers or ordinarycriminals in flight, and we did not know whether many of them had perished, surprised by the icy hands of winter, by the fearful snowstorms which suddenly rage in the Andesand engulf the traveller, burying him under a whiteness seven storeys high.On either side of the trail I could observe in the wild desolation something which betrayed human activity. There were piled up branches which had lasted out manywinters, offerings made by hundreds who had journeyed there, crude burial mounds inmemory of the fallen, so that the passer should think of those who had not been able to
 
struggle on but had remained there under the snow for ever. My comrades, too, hackedoff with their machetes branches which brushed our heads and bent down over us fromthe colossal trees, from oaks whose last leaves were scattering before the winter storms.And I too left a tribute at every mound, a visiting card of wood, a branch from the forestto deck one or other of the graves of these unknown travellers.We had to cross a river. Up on the Andean summits there run small streams which castthemselves down with dizzy and insane force, forming waterfalls that stir up earth andstones with the violence they bring with them from the heights. But this time we foundcalm water, a wide mirrorlike expanse which could be forded. The horses splashed in,lost their foothold and began to swim towards the other bank. Soon my horse wasalmost completely covered by the water, I began to plunge up and down withoutsupport, my feet fighting desperately while the horse struggled to keep its head abovewater. Then we got across. And hardly we reached the further bank when the seasonedcountryfolk with me asked me with scarce-concealed smiles:"Were you frightened?""Very. I thought my last hour had come", I said."We were behind you with our lassoes in our hands", they answered."Just there", added one of them, "my father fell and was swept away by the current.That didn't happen to you."We continued till we came to a natural tunnel which perhaps had been bored throughthe imposing rocks by some mighty vanished river or created by some tremor of theearth when these heights had been formed, a channel that we entered where it had beencarved out in the rock in granite. After only a few steps our horses began to slip whenthey sought for a foothold in the uneven surfaces of the stone and their legs were bent,sparks flying from beneath their iron shoes - several times I expected to find myself thrown off and lying there on the rock. My horse was bleeding from its muzzle andfrom its legs, but we persevered and continued on the long and difficult but magnificentpath.There was something awaiting us in the midst of this wild primeval forest. Suddenly, asif in a strange vision, we came to a beautiful little meadow huddled among the rocks:clear water, green grass, wild flowers, the purling of brooks and the blue heaven above,a generous stream of light unimpeded by leaves.
 
 
There we stopped as if within a magic circle, as if guests within some hallowed place,and the ceremony I now took part in had still more the air of something sacred. Thecowherds dismounted from their horses. In the midst of the space, set up as if in a rite,was the skull of an ox. In silence the men approached it one after the other and putcoins and food in the eyesockets of the skull. I joined them in this sacrifice intended forstray travellers, all kinds of refugees who would find bread and succour in the dead ox'seye sockets.But the unforgettable ceremony did not end there. My country friends took off theirhats and began a strange dance, hopping on one foot around the abandoned skull,moving in the ring of footprints left behind by the many others who had passed there before them. Dimly I understood, there by the side of my inscrutable companions, thatthere was a kind of link between unknown people, a care, an appeal and an answereven in the most distant and isolated solitude of this world.Further on, just before we reached the frontier which was to divide me from my nativeland for many years, we came at night to the last pass between the mountains.Suddenly we saw the glow of a fire as a sure sign of a human presence, and when wecame nearer we found some half-ruined buildings, poor hovels which seemed to have been abandoned. We went into one of them and saw the glow of fire from tree trunks burning in the middle of the floor, carcasses of huge trees, which burnt there day andnight and from which came smoke that made its way up through the cracks in the roof and rose up like a deep-blue veil in the midst of the darkness. We saw mountains of stacked cheeses, which are made by the people in these high regions. Near the fire lay anumber of men grouped like sacks. In the silence we could distinguish the notes of aguitar and words in a song which was born of the embers and the darkness, and whichcarried with it the first human voice we had encountered during our journey. It was asong of love and distance, a cry of love and longing for the distant spring, from thetowns we were coming away from, for life in its limitless extent. These men did notknow who we were, they knew nothing about our flight, they had never heard eithermy name or my poetry; or perhaps they did, perhaps they knew us? What actuallyhappened was that at this fire we sang and we ate, and then in the darkness we wentinto some primitive rooms. Through them flowed a warm stream, volcanic water inwhich we bathed, warmth which welled out from the mountain chain and received usin its bosom.Happily we splashed about, dug ourselves out, as it were, liberated ourselves from the

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