NOSTALGIA DE LA MUERTE XAVIER VILLAURRUTIA PDF

Love is an anguish, a question, a luminous doubt suspended; it is a desire to know the whole of you and a fear of finally knowing it. To love is to reconstruct, when you are away, your steps, your silences, your words, and to pretend to follow your thoughts when unmoving at last by me side, you fall silent. Love is a secret rage, an icy and diabolic pride. To love is not to sleep when in my bed you dream between my circling arms, and to hate the dream in which, beneath your brow, you abandon yourself, perhaps in other arms.

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Oigo su voz impaciente, miro su gesto y su estado amenazador y airado. Amar es provocar el dulce instante en que tu piel busca mi piel despierta; saciar a un tiempo la avidez nocturna y morir otra vez la misma muerte provisional, desgarradora, oscura. Magnificent brief work. The poet shows rigor, intelligence and sensuality in Nostalgia de la muerte, published for the first time in and which is unanimously considered his masterpiece.

Despite the title, it is not an elegiac song, but the poetry of sleep and insomnia, which explores the confused and magical territory of the night. The conflict between the dreamer and the dreamed I, between delirium and lucidity. Motionless asleep or awake sleepwalkers nothing we can against the secret anxiety. And it is not enough to close your eyes in the shade nor sink them in the dream to stop looking, because in the harsh shade and in the grotto of sleep the same night light reveals us again.

Then, with the passage of a sleeping awake, without direction and without object we start walking. The night pours over us its mystery, and something tells us that to die is to wake up.

And who among the shadows of a deserted street, on the wall, livid mirror of loneliness, he has not seen himself pass by or come to meet him and he has not felt fear, anguish, mortal doubt? The fear of being nothing but an empty body that someone, myself or anyone else, can occupy and the anguish of being outside of himself living and the doubt of being or not being a reality.

Will that shadow be mine? And mine the lost voice What is the street burning? What voice, what shadow, what dream, I wake up that I have not dreamed, they will be the voice and the shadow and the dream that I have been robbed? To hear the blood sprout of my closed heart, Will I put my ear in my chest like in the pulse the hand? My chest will be empty and I disheartened, and they will be my hard hands pulses of frozen marble.

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