On Writing?

The Argentine poet Alejandra Pizarnik wrote this in the middle of one of her poems in 1965 (when she was 29) and it made me think of the writing process:

“And there is, in this waiting,

a rumor of breaking lilac.

And there is, when the day arrives,

a division of the sun into smaller black suns.

And at night, always,

a tribe of mutilated words

looks for refuge in my throat…”

In Spanish, it’s a little different, but the same idea (for example, “espera” could mean “waiting” or “hoping” in this context, etc.):

“Hay, en la espera,
un rumor a lila rompiéndose.
Y hay, cuando viene el día,
una partición del sol en pequeños soles negros.
Y cuando es de noche, siempre,
una tribu de palabras mutiladas
busca asilo en mi garganta…”

On Books and Sadness

I just started reading Roberto Bolano’s The Savage Detectives, and I love it.  But it got me thinking and comparing it to the things I’ve hated reading lately.

My simple point:

I do not hate poor structure in a novel because structure is a choice.  And the motives of an author are difficult to determine. But I hate poor writing since that is the result of laziness or ignorance.  Either the author does not care, or the author does not know.  And both are sad.