I am (unfortunately) familiar with the works of Pablo Neruda.
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I am (unfortunately) familiar with the works of Pablo Neruda.

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Jorge Luis Borges
The Ghetto in Prague
Taken by hand through the alleyways that stubbornly cease and bifurcate, alleyways carved into blocks of houses built upon each other, stacked and hiding the skies of Prague with balconies of studious eyes
you are taken by hand through corridors, through the mended kitchens wafted in and out with scraps thrown in a pot of dented iron exuding vapors of stew; the boiled and scavenged cabbage, boiled flour and boiled bone stripped.
Your guide waits at the threshold speaking to another smaller soul; the cat that roamed the narrow streets and asked for nothing in return but condescended to a hand upon its back once in a while; keepers of the plague.
You lose the hand that led you down the alleys, your Virgil now a voice in some corner not far off. You turn your head; above, a silent choir of faces point towards the shack within a shack ahead.
You enter and your guide stops you, gently, and gently does his hand envelop yours, a bare room of mold and brick is all you see; nearby, contiguous, the room is waiting, yawning.
The rabbi’s hand lets go and you are alone.
In the vague light, at the hour of anguish, the murmur of Yiddish far off and diffused, a candle ahead distorts your view, but the light is stark yet, and clear, when you witness him, emaciated, half dead but yet resigned to life, an abstract body sitting at the table austere, at the center of that centerless maze (he makes the secret center by his presence) of babies wailing and yawps of hunger and red dust and dreams and typhoid, there sits, muted, speechless, the Minotaur.
His bovine head turns with the weight of centuries; the centuries of human sorrow; one eye, small, oblique, cloudly gazes through you; his wide lip trembles as he turns back; he turns his monstrous head, back to nothing.
Who is he waiting for, I ask the rabbi who, with insolent despondency, lifts a finger and chastises me into silence, and whispers: It is not yet clay.
The book is the shadow of something that resides in the mind of the author which the author cannot see clearly; this shadow comes into being, and the rest disappears. The work achieves reality and the original idea stays behind as a vestige of the work, progressively more unreal. When reading Yeats' earlier poems (poems that were only good after many years, after many corrections), I have thought that he must have written them then in order to reach their present form now: they are poems that necessitated the poet's entire life to reach their perfect form. Perhaps, in the mind of the poet, there are no bad poems; perhaps, in every bad poem, there is a good poem, the one that moved the poet to write it. Yeats wrote his because he confusedly glimpsed them as they are now, after his final corrections; bad poems may merely be unfinished poems.
Jorge Luis Borges
Maybe you have to know anybody awful well to love them but when you have hated somebody for forty-three years you will know them awful well so maybe it’s better then, maybe it’s fine then because after forty-three years they cant any longer surprise you or make you either very contented or very mad.
William Faulkner, Absalom, Absalom!

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Remorse for any Death - Jorge Luis Borges
Free of death and hope, unlimited, abstract, almost future, the dead is not the dead: he is death. Like the God of the mystics, of Whom all predicates must be denied, the ubiquitously external corpse is naught but the doom and absence of the world. Everything we have stolen from him, he is left without a color or a syllable; there is the yard his eyes cannot share, there the sidewalk his hope once stalked. Even all we think, he could be thinking also; we have divided among ourselves, like thieves, the bounty of nights and days.
Spune-mi, dacă te-aş prinde-ntr-o zi şi ţi-aş săruta talpa piciorului, nu-i aşa că ai şchiopăta puţin, după aceea, de teamă să nu-mi striveşti sărutul?
Returning to an old sweetheart of mine, A Brief History of Portable Literature
Martha Argerich, Prokofiev, Piano Concerto No 3 Op 26

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Can't find a single copy of it in this godforsaken country.
Jorge Luis Borges, "I Am Not Even Dust"