Saturday, January 7, 2017

The Blue Bouquet, excerpt





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I thought that the world was a vast system of signs,
a conversation between giant beings.

My actions, the cricket's saw, the star's blink, were nothing but pauses and syllables, scattered phrases from that dialogue. 

What word could it be, of which I was only a syllable? 

Who speaks the word? 

To whom is it spoken?


–Octavio Paz
Eliot Weinberger translation



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