I frequently slowly wish for more of the sudden experience

But it might be that I'll be surprised at myself by myself,

i.e., abruptly dismayed
An impulse is something of a summation
An impulse is not a sudden nor an arbitrary act
I can't help but choose
In my jealousy I may take hold of the worl through you
and that doesn't bring me any conveniences
But it brings together a large but not infinite
accumulation of temporary panoramas
Shown light I could swing around a camera and never
hide an "original choice"

Subjectivity even if not of the curling sky is my

duration
All day subjectivity is an endurance awating objects
for a minute digressing
And it hopes for objects eager and unbaffled in spaces
somewhere near eye level to greet it with comprehension
during its waking hours
Everyone knows that in the dream called "Will My Sprit
Live On When I'm Dead" as in the dream called "Will I
Be Fired" and the dream called "Do You Only Pretend To
Love Me" there are no objects
In the dream called "One Who Is Poor Passes By Inch By
Inch" there is no object
Subjectivity at night must last hours with nothing to
judge but itself
The walls of the hemispheres face and this produces life
to closed admiring eyes

We regularly anticipate this moment at around this hour

underway gradually
Images are emitted which through fear I might gradually
miss wincing and blinking piecemeal bit by bit
Yet I know that now the day is running well and
paralleling yesterday inch by inch
But we'll never get to tomorrow this way
It is under other terms
The fists at the end of the hands strike already
Slowly there are bends in the bank to what happens
Between the two shores down comes a sound track
We get music which is time moving loudly
Frecuente, lentamente deseo más de la repentina experiencia
Pero puede ser que ello me sorprenda a mí misma por mí misma,
i.e., abruptamente consternada
Un impulso tiene que ver con una suma
Un impulso no es un acto repentino ni arbitrario
No puedo evitar el elegir
En mi celosía podría hacerme cargo de la palabra a través de ti
aunque eso no me convenga ni en lo más mínimo
Pero trae aparejada una enorme aunque no infinita
acumulación de panoramas temporales
Que vistos bajo la luz me permiten rodear la cámara
y no esconder nunca una “elección original”.

Mi duración incluso si no es la del cielo que se curva es

la subjetividad,
Un aguantar durante todo el día a la espera de ciertos objetos
para divagar por un minuto
Y espera objetos bien dispuestos y ubicados en espacios más o
menos cerca del nivel del ojo para saludarlo de manera comprensiva
mientras se despierta
Todo el mundo sabe que en el sueño llamado “Mi espíritu seguirá
viviendo cuando muera”, así como en el sueño llamado “Me van a
despedir” y en el sueño llamado “Sólo finges que me amas”
no hay objetos
En el sueño llamado “Uno que es pobre pulgada tras pulgada
pasa” no hay objeto
De noche la subjetividad debe pasar horas sin nada que
que juzgar salvo a sí
misma(s) las murallas de los hemisferios se enfrentan
y esto produce vida para unos ojos que se cierran admirados

Casi siempre preveíamos este momento más o menos a esta hora

paulatinamente en un principio
Hay imágenes emitidas a través de las cuales paulatinamente podría
perderse el miedo con una mueca o mirando pa’l lado, poco a poco
paso a paso
Pero sé que ahora el día no tiene contratiempos y
remeda el ayer centímetro a centímetro
Aunque así nunca vamos a llegar hasta el mañana
Tiene que hacerse bajo otros términos
 Los puños que coronan nuestras manos ya golpean
Lentamente hay desvíos en el banco para lo que pase
Entre las dos orillas allá viene una banda sonora
Nos conseguimos música, que no es otra cosa
Que el tiempo haciendo alardes.

Chapter 7

One person believes in nothing and another dislikes poetry

They don't present equal dangers to society
The lowness of the light stole the field from its shadows
An old babushka on the ice atop the ridge of snow packed
          beside the street
In deed and word
She was hissing
And a pedestrian screaming, what are you doing up there, you
          stupid old woman
The shouting samaritan jerked the granny to safety
She was hissing like a street cat, not snakily
An engine, an omen of weddings
An habitual association with daily aesthetic impressions
An omen of the love of art and its social functioning
An orb standing for an orbit
The old woman still standing in the street

Capítulo 7

Una persona no cree en nada y a la otra no le gusta la poesía

Ellos no representan el mismo tipo de peligros para la sociedad
La poca altura de la luz abstrajo al campo de su propia sombra
Y una vieja babushka encima de un montón de nieve amontonado
al lado de la calle
Literal y metafóricamente
Ella estaba chiflando
Y un peatón le grita qué está haciendo allá arriba, vieja
idiota
El samaritano que gritaba de un tirón puso a la agüelita en lugar seguro
Ella chiflaba como un gato callejero, pero sin tratar de ocultarlo
Un motor, un augurio de matrimonios
Una asociación habitual con impresiones estéticas cuotidianas
Un augurio del amor del arte y su funcionamiento social
Una órbita en lugar de una órbita
La vieja sigue parada allí en la calle

Chapter 80

Two rams, which ram redeemed

One ram wasted, one ram waiting
Maybe the same ram--in romance wandering
In descriptions crossing and saw things
Barges hardly higher than the surface of the water bore meat
          bones slipping under the bridges
At two a.m. the bridges rose for bigger boats, then fell at 4:55,
          and rose at five again
We sped across--the Lada rammed through the failing snow
The trees shook, atoning for momentum
Where we say "he's a crook" they say "he's a comer"
The notorious Russian soul, fulfilling our goal
We were laughing at the Russian novel
We will say, the slower you go the farther you'll get and plain
          water is glad to get a crow
We will be redeemed, we will be rescued
We will believe everything we say

Capítulo 80: redención

Dos carneros, cuál será redimido

Uno de ellos perdido, el otro esperando
Tal vez el mismo carnero—vagando enamorado a
Través de y cruzando ciertas descripciones y viendo cosas
Barcazas apenas más altas que la superficie del agua van cargadas de carne
huesos deslizándose debajo de los puentes
A las dos de la mañana los puentes se levantan para botes más grandes, a las 4:55
vuelven a su posición original y se levantan a las cinco nuevamente
Cruzamos apurados, el Lada arremetiendo a través de la nieve cayendo
Como si estuvieran expiando algún pecado los árboles se agitaban para agarrar impulso
Donde decimos “ese tipo es corrupto”, ellos dicen “es alguien que va a triunfar”
La sobresaliente alma rusa, cumpliendo a cabalidad con nuestros objetivos
Nos reíamos de la novela rusa
Y vamos a terminar diciendo que mientras más lento vayas, más lejos vas a llegar y
el agua en calma se complace de tener un cuervo
Nos van a rescatar, vamos a ser redimidos
Vamos a terminar creyendo en todo lo que digamos

Chapter 126: The Doubting Man

We had found a pretext for not going out--swarms of such

          pretexts are here every day to engulf us
Ellipses
Memories
These and similar outcries
The gloomy daylight was condensing like steam on the
          windows
Outside, below, in the patch of forest confined to the housing
          block a tattered cat howled as the cold tugged its fur
Nobody--Arkadii laughs as he coughs
Coffee is a savage consolation for waking up
And tea?
The same, but like a sun
Its savagery is only metaphysical
The strictness of the walls of the room had been lost--
          withdrawn or removed
Here, said Arkadii--a letter from Chekhov
One must always suspect the beginning and end, since it's
          there that the writer puts his lies

Chapter 172

Necessities are only links in the interlude

A person’s footsteps follow, themselves longing for sleep

Chapter 192

But to return to the theme of the novel and poetry

That is, one theme
The time comes when each individual poem reveals not only
          its own internal connections but also spreads them out
          externally, anticipating the integrity each poem requires
          in order to explain obscure points, arbitrary elements,
          etc., which, if they were kept within the limits of the given
          text, would seem otherwise to be mere examples of the
          freedom of expression
One can't be intimidated by the threat of subordination
Nor by petty attractions nor semantic conflicts
By poplar fluff and Chinese islands
And not even by compositional imperatives demanding new
          texts
But there are days--let's not forget real days--when
          language loses speed
Then it lags as the nights lag, brief and nonetheless long
And one submits to a sensation
It's something entirely meaningless and unexpected
It's devoid of interpretation, a perfect quiddity
The long awaited meeting of signifier and signified
And one begins to examine the construction of small
          resonating forms (this occurs most often in spring), to
          investigate their behavior, and to extract from that a set of
          --I couldn't say images--principles which seem to be
          the only ones adequate to the attempt to say nothing

Chapter 259

It's characteristic of a Russian novelist to reveal some lack

          of confidence in the relationship between words and their
          things
A chair but not sure what sits and what will match it
Noon freezing on the spot we don't remember
Each action hangs, inconsequentially, over objects
How many alternatives there must be
How many patient alternatives await fulfilling
Unextracted paradoxes, breathless empty icy streets,
          anticipated catastrophes with no one approaching, love
          not provided with intrigue
It was Zina who called it oxota
The hunt
The lack of confidence is as interminable as the converging
          smells of repetitious days of summer lingering in the
          corners of a room whose windows have been closed
          despite the heat because of a torrential rain that's buzzing
          like a nest of wasps furiously humming under the eaves, a
          smell of mint and mud, of warm slices of pepper and
          monotony and oily rags
Indefinable by definition and incomparably yellow, it spread,
          until one finds itself stuttering desperately, as if to
          evoke the gods of punctuation, begging them to partition
          the vastness, to ennumerate objects, to gather what's worthy
          of attention, and to separate this from that
Begging, in effect, for judgement
But this lack of confidence often culminates in a single instant
          of ignorance
And that instant, Arkadii said, might correspond to what you
          have called paradise