Alone - Edgar Allan Poe (c.1845)

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—

Anthem - Leonard Cohen

The birds they sang
At the break of day
Start again
I heard them say
Don't dwell on what has passed away
Or what is yet to be

Ah, the wars they will be fought again
The holy dove, she will be caught again
Bought and sold, and bought again
The dove is never free

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in

We asked for signs
The signs were sent
The birth betrayed
The marriage spent
Yeah, and the widowhood
Of every government
Signs for all to see

I can't run no more
With that lawless crowd
While the killers in high places
Say their prayers out loud
But they've summoned, they've summoned up
A thundercloud
They're going to hear from me

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in

You can add up the parts
But you won't have the sum
You can strike up the march
There is no drum
Every heart, every heart
To love will come
But like a refugee

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in
That's how the light gets in
That's how the light gets in

The Sick Rose - William Blake

O Rose thou art sick. 

The invisible worm, 

That flies in the night 

In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed 

Of crimson joy: 

And his dark secret love 

Does thy life destroy.  

In Songs of Innocence and of Experience (1789)

How to make a Maccarita : Paul and Mary McCartney Serve it Up (2022)

 

6. La casada infiel - Federico García Lorca (en Romancero gitano, 1928)

A Lydia Cabrera
y a su negrita

• Anterior
• Siguiente

   Y que yo me la llevé al río

creyendo que era mozuela,

pero tenía marido.

Fue la noche de Santiago

y casi por compromiso.

Se apagaron los faroles

y se encendieron los grillos.

En las últimas esquinas

toqué sus pechos dormidos,

y se me abrieron de pronto

como ramos de jacintos.

El almidón de su enagua

me sonaba en el oído,

como una pieza de seda

rasgada por diez cuchillos.

Sin luz de plata en sus copas

los árboles han crecido,

y un horizonte de perros

ladra muy lejos del río.

   Pasadas las zarzamoras,

los juncos y los espinos,

bajo su mata de pelo

hice un hoyo sobre el limo.

Yo me quité la corbata.

Ella se quitó el vestido.

Yo el cinturón con revólver.

Ella sus cuatro corpiños.

Ni nardos ni caracolas

tienen el cutis tan fino,

ni los cristales con luna

relumbran con ese brillo.

Sus muslos se me escapaban

como peces sorprendidos,

la mitad llenos de lumbre

la mitad llenos de frío.

Aquella noche corrí

el mejor de los caminos,

montado en potra de nácar

sin bridas y sin estribos.

No quiero decir, por hombre,

las cosas que ella me dijo.

La luz del entendimiento

me hace ser muy comedido.

Sucia de besos y arena,

yo me la llevé del río.

Con el aire se batían

las espadas de los lirios.

   Me porté como quien soy.

Como un gitano legítimo.

La regalé un costurero

grande de raso pajizo,

y no quise enamorarme

porque teniendo marido

me dijo que era mozuela

cuando la llevaba al río.

Buenas palabras - Irene Gruss

Por caridad
aquí se mueren todos
de amor,
por caridad.
Por piedad, aquí
se muere de amor,
se enloquece de amor,
por piedad.
Por fortuna, aquí
todo se mueve
como un magma
insólito, indescriptible
pero
vivo,
finalmente vivo.

Fuente

Franny and Zooey - J. D. SALINGER (New York, 1961)

“An artist's only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and on his own terms, not anyone else's." 

Franny and Zooey; inscribed by J.D. SALINGER
New York: Little, Brown, and Company, 1961.

Salinger's short story Franny and novella Zooey first appeared in The New Yorker in 1955 and 1957 respectively. Both stories center on the two youngest members of the Glass family of New York's Upper East Side, Franny takes place in an unnamed college town during Franny's weekend visit to her boyfriend. Set shortly after Franny, Zooey takes place in the Glass family Manhattan apartment where Franny is suffering from an existential breakdown. Both stories echo Salinger's own disillusionment with the inauthenticity he saw in contemporary society, which he himself attempted to escape through an ever-evolving roster of unconventional religious practices.

What Motherhood Cost Us | NYT Opinion (2025)

 

Darío Sztajnszrajber sobre el Amor - con Luis Novaresio (26/06/25)

 

Oro chaqueño - Nota en revista Lugares por Irupé Tentorio

 

La apicultura como fuente de trabajo, de las abejas chaqueñas al mundo:

https://www.lanacion.com.ar/revista-lugares/oro-chaqueno-la-miel-organica-argentina-que-se-exporta-como-producto-de-lujo-nid27062025/

Pasión y fatalidad - Anne Dufourmantelle en El salvajismo materno (2021)

    "Poco se habla de esa herida que los amantes intentan reparar imaginariamente en la pasión. Amor fusional mediante el cual la pasión produce el desplazamiento hacia otra escena, una especie de revolución. Ya no se trata del juramento de la maternidad "serás como yo, y no te abandonaré", sino "serás mío, nunca serás suficientemente mío, tú eres yo". El amante pasa a ser el hijo (pero en este carácter es también el padre y el hermano, ocupando sucesivamente todos los lugares), y en esa condición cura en su amante a la pequeña hija no amada, no reconocida por la madre. El amante restaura, en el sentido propio del término, lo que no fue visto, tocado, acariciado, envuelto primitivamente en ella. Eso que en el cuerpo mismo quedó desheredado. Esta es la razón por la que a menudo el amante viene a rivalizar con los hijos de la mujer. Porque un hijo quiere reparar a su madre por lo que la había herido en su infancia. Lo cual muchas veces resulta muy pesado de llevar, sobre todo si la herida de la madre es cuidadosamente camuflada o portada como una vergüenza, pues entonces esta madre reprochará al niño por haber hecho resurgir esa parte de ella misma que hubiese preferido olvidar o rechazar por completo. El amante viene también él a conectarse con una parte secreta del sí mismo amado, vulnerable, oculto. La sexualidad que entonces se descubre refleja ese cuerpo rendido a sí mismo en la reparación de una herida antigua. Este "retorno a sí mismo" es al mismo tiempo un descubrimiento prodigioso, una apertura a la alteridad que el amor ha hecho posible. Cuando hay una alteridad...

    Ana Karenina se arroja bajo las ruedas de un tren carguero. (...) La pasión condujo a los amantes al inevitable desenlace."

En El salvajismo materno (2021), editado por Nocturna editora (Bs As, 2024)

In the Bleak Midwinter - Christina Rossetti (1872)

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.

God, heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to reign.
In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.

Angels and archangels may have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air;
But His mother only, in her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the beloved with a kiss.

What can I give Him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;
Yet what can I give Him: give my heart.

Poem recited in Peaky Blinders (series 2013-2022), by Tommy Shelby (Cillian Murphy).

You Don't Know What Love Is (an evening with Charles Bukowski) - Ramond Carver

You don't know what love is Bukowski said
I'm 51 years old look at me
I'm in love with this young broad
I got it bad but she's hung up too
so it's all right man that's the way it should be
I get in their blood and they can't get me out
They try everything to get away from me
but they all come back in the end
They all came back to me except
the one I planted
I cried over that one
but I cried easy in those days
Don't let me get onto the hard stuff man
I get mean then
I could sit here and drink beer
with you hippies all night
I could drink ten quarts of this beer
and nothing it's like water
But let me get onto the hard stuff
and I'll start throwing people out windows
I'll throw anybody out the window
I've done it
But you don't know what love is
You don't know because you've never
been in love it's that simple
I got this young broad see she's beautiful
She calls me Bukowski
Bukowski she says in this little voice
and I say What
But you don't know what love is
I'm telling you what it is
but you aren't listening
There isn't one of you in this room
would recognize love if it stepped up
and buggered you in the ass
I used to think poetry readings were a copout
Look I'm 51 years old and I've been around
I know they're a copout
but I said to myself Bukowski
starving is even more of a copout
So there you are and nothing is like it should be
That fellow what's his name Galway Kinnell
I saw his picture in a magazine
He has a handsome mug on him
but he's a teacher
Christ can you imagine
But then you're teachers too
here I am insulting you already
No I haven't heard of him
or him either
They're all termites
Maybe it's ego I don't read much anymore
but these people who build
reputations on five or six books
termites
Bukowski she says
Why do you listen to classical music all day
Can't you hear her saying that
Bukowski why do you listen to classical music all day
That surprises you doesn't it
You wouldn't think a crude bastard like me
could listen to classical music all day
Brahms Rachmaninoff Bartok Telemann
Shit I couldn't write up here
Too quiet up here too many trees
I like the city that's the place for me
I put on my classical music each morning
and sit down in front of my typewriter
I light a cigar and I smoke it like this see
and I say Bukowski you're a lucky man
Bukowski you've gone through it all
and you're a lucky man
and the blue smoke drifts across the table
and I look out the window onto Delongpre Avenue
and I see people walking up and down the sidewalk
and I puff on the cigar like this
and then I lay the cigar in the ashtray like this and take a deep breath
and I begin to write
Bukowski this is the life I say
it's good to be poor it's good to have hemorrhoids
it's good to be in love
But you don't know what it's like
You don't know what it's like to be in love
If you could see her you'd know what I mean
She thought I'd come up here and get laid
She just knew it
She told me she knew it
Shit I'm 51 years old and she's 25
and we're in love and she's jealous
Jesus it's beautiful
she said she'd claw my eyes out if I came up here
and got laid
Now that's love for you
What do any of you know about it
Let me tell you something
I've met men in jail who had more style
than the people who hang around colleges
and go to poetry readings
They're bloodsuckers who come to see
if the poet's socks are dirty
or if he smells under the arms
Believe me I won't disappoint em
But I want you to remember this
there's only one poet in this room tonight
only one poet in this town tonight
maybe only one real poet in this country tonight
and that's me
What do any of you know about life
What do any of you know about anything
Which of you here has been fired from a job
or else has beaten up your broad
or else has been beaten up by your broad
I was fired from Sears and Roebuck five times
They'd fire me then hire me back again
I was a stockboy for them when I was 35
and then got canned for stealing cookies
I know what's it like I've been there
I'm 51 years old now and I'm in love
This little broad she says
Bukowski
and I say What and she says
I think you're full of shit
and I say baby you understand me
She's the only broad in the world
man or woman
I'd take that from
But you don't know what love is
They all came back to me in the end too
every one of em came back
except that one I told you about
the one I planted We were together seven years
We used to drink a lot
I see a couple of typers in this room but
I don't see any poets
I'm not surprised
You have to have been in love to write poetry
and you don't know what it is to be in love
that's your trouble
Give me some of that stuff
That's right no ice good
That's good that's just fine
So let's get this show on the road
I know what I said but I'll have just one
That tastes good
Okay then let's go let's get this over with
only afterwards don't anyone stand close
to an open window

Piedras, llegando a Chile - Santiago N. Enriquez (junio 2025)

Por aquí pasé pocas veces.

Signo en una línea del poema

luego se bifurcaron las calles 

como se van 

las muchedumbres a sus casas

en esta noche que nadie quiere

que todos necesitan pasar

para llegar al fin de mes.

Será por eso que la parrilla

está vacía, y solo el olor a grasa vieja

llega al poema, como dejando pobre

todo símbolo y toda exaltación.

Y, en la otra esquina, alguien pasa

y se demora para prender un cigarro

o revisar un mensaje, pero no para 

admirar lo que yo admiro

en Piedras, llegando a Chile.

Anne Dufourmantelle (1964 - 2017)

 

Obras

• De l'hospitalité, con Jacques Derrida, París, Calmann-Lévy, 1997 ISBN 978-2-7021-2795-7
• La Vocation prophétique de la philosophie, Éditions du Cerf, 1998
• La Sauvagerie maternelle, París, Calmann-Lévy, 2001, édition poche 2016 ISBN 978-2743636579
• Le Livre de Jonas, con Marc-Alain Ouaknin, Bayard, 2001
• Parcours : entretiens avec Anne Dufourmantelle, con Miguel Benasayag, Paris, Amazon Media, 2001
• Une question d'enfant, París, Bayard, 2002 ISBN 978-2-2270-1103-8
• Blind Date : sexe et philosophie, París, Calmann-Lévy, 2003 ISBN 978-2-7021-3402-3
• Du retour : abécédaire biopolitique, A.Pandolfi, 2003
• Negri on Negri : in conversation, Taylor & Francis, 2004 ISBN 978-0-4159-6895-9
• Procès Dutroux : penser l'émotion, París, ministère de la Communauté française, 2004
• American Philo, con Avital Ronell, Paris, éditions Stock, 2006 ISBN 2-234-05840-6 BnF 40227131g
• La Femme et le Sacrifice : d'Antigone à la femme d'à côté, París, Denoël, 2007 ISBN 978-2-2072-5412-7
• Fighting theory, con Avital Ronell, Université de l'Illinois Press, 2010 ISBN 978-0-2520-7623-7
• Éloge du risque, París, Payot, 2011 ISBN 978-2-2289-0642-5
• Dieu, l'amour et la psychanalyse, con Jean-Pierre Winter, París, Bayard Jeunesse, 2011 ISBN 978-2-2274-7232-7
• Intelligence du rêve, París, Payot, 2012 ISBN 978-2-2289-0736-1
• En cas d'amour : psychopathologie de la vie amoureuse, París, Rivages, 2012 ISBN 978-2-7436-2305-0;
• Puissance de la douceur, París, Payot, 2013 ISBN 978-2-2289-0964-8
• Se trouver, with Laure Leter, París, Jean-Claude Lattès, 2014 ISBN 978-2-7096-3690-2^[9]​
• L'Envers du feu, París, Éditions Albin Michel, 2015 ISBN 978-2-226-31807-7
• Défense du secret, Éditions Payot, 2015

Piedras y Chile - Jorge Luis Borges (1984)

Por aquí habré pasado tantas veces.

No puedo recordarlas. Más lejana
que el Ganges me parece la mañana
o la tarde en que fueron. Los reveses
de la suerte no cuentan. Ya son parte
de esa dócil arcilla, mi pasado,
que borra el tiempo o que maneja el arte
y que ningún augur ha descifrado.
Tal vez en la tiniebla hubo una espada,
acaso hubo una rosa. Entretejidas
sombras las guardan hoy en sus guaridas.
Sólo me queda la ceniza. Nada.
Absuelto de las máscaras que he sido,
seré en la muerte mi total olvido.








En Atlas (1984), luego en Los Conjurados (1985)