Yo-Yo Boing!

— Like the thieving pimp he was.

— You want me to be grateful for withered stubs when I was set on velvety blossoms. Cariharta had the money. Repolido depended on her. That’s why he was so riled, he was depending, and she made him conscious of that by sending him less than he expected.

— That does not excuse his beating or your insults in front of Makiko. You should thank him. He did you a favor.

— Thank him because he broke my spirit.

— Your spirit is not broken.

— It’s crushed.

— Be grateful, you would have been bored always analyzing other people’s work without creating your own.

— I would have been a great critic.

— I would have been a great poet if you didn’t break my spirit.

— Whadaya think?

— You write like me, but you have nothing to say. Not now anyway. Maybe, if you start living vital experiences, maybe later, you’ll become a novelist, but definitely not a poet.

I couldn’t believe you tattled to your father.

— He said:

— She must see a tidy sum of talent or else she wouldn’t try to bury a beginner. Keep your eye on her and back away from her, ever so slowly.

— Why didn’t you?

— I was mature enough to give you the benefit of the doubt. Although it’s true, I never wrote another verse.

— Then your desire was not genuine.

— Then you were not going to be a critic. Nobody breaks what people are. They can hurt your feelings, yes. Verlaine broke Rimbaud’s heart, but nurtured his poetry by unleashing his emotions.

— He made him despise poetry.

— He broke his heart, not his art.

— And this is why a rose is a rose is a rose. Because there are roses that are not roses. You know when you meet a rose. You know it by its scent. But people don’t know. And that’s the problem. But what bothers me, and this is my dilemma, if I didn’t have an editor picking apart my poems, I would have already finished my book. Because it’s true, you refine the language, but when I have an idea that is not fully developed, you say:

— It doesn’t work, but it’s a great idea.

That’s how you kill my idea, I won’t continue working with it, if it doesn’t already work. If it were a great idea, it would work.

— If you work with it, you can make it work.

— Yo sólo quiero saber si funciona o no funciona.

— Sólo funciona este párrafo que yo he tenido que rescribir entero. Esto se llama palimpsesto. Yo no sé qué te harías sin mí. Lo que escribes es inmaduro. Yo lo hago serio.

— Lo que madura se pudre. Prefiero ser verde. Todavía tengo esperanzas de llegar a ser.

— Si tú dices: Nunca. Oíste. No estoy enamorada. Yo soy un eco. Y el eco responde: Estoy enamorada. Estoy enamorada. Te amo. Te amo.

— It’s torture to have to hear the opposite of what I negate. I say: I don’t love you.

— I say: Love you. Love you.

— It breaks a person spirit. Don’t you think?

— You think. You think.

— So I always have to hear your back-talk.

— It’s your own voice contradicting you.

— No estoy enamorada.

— Estoy enamorada. Estoy enamorada. Te amo. Te amo.

— It’s true. Eco is an original. She copies Narcissus’ last words but projects a new meaning. Imagine. Once he emerged from a cold black cloud, arm in arm with another woman, and called my name. Yo no sabía de dónde venía la voz, desconcertada, miré azorada, de una a otra parte, sola, como me encontraba, y desgarrada, me puse los dedos en la frente, para que el reflejo del sol envuelto en una niebla agónica no sacara aún más mi angustia, busqué por ambos lados. Y de repente, entre la niebla, la multitud y el sol, vi que se acercaba a mí, con una sonrisa, los ojos con bolsas dilatadas por debajo, trasnochamiento, y bebidas, pero dentro de sus bolas, un comején, un rayo de sol, rodeado de líneas, como un mapamundo, los sufrimientos cruzando los trapecios de unas agudas y crispantes, salpicadas agujas dilatadas, como carámbanos de agua, y venía hacía mí, para saludarme. Me dijo:

—¡Hola! ¿Cómo estás?

El muy petardo ruptured my eardrums. Cómo se atreve preguntarme cómo estoy una semana después de la ruptura. Él, desde luego, estaba muy bien.

— Yo estoy muy bien, gracias. ¿Y usted?

— Divinamente.

Me le quedé mirando fíjamente a los ojos. Divinamente, quién es esa macha, bizca y gorda que a su lado se encuentra. Por qué me mira tan altanera, parecía que él le hubiera dicho cuando hacia mí se encaminaban:

— Es ella. Sigue caminando de lado. Ignórala.