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628 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2004
If a woman shares my love
my verse will brush the tenth sphere of the concentric heavens;
if a woman spurns my love
I will turn my sadness into music,
into a high river that will continue to resound throughout the course of time.
It would be an exaggeration to say that our relations were hostile; I live, I allow myself to live, so that Borges may devise his literature, and that literature justifies me. I have no difficulty in admitting that I have achieved some worthwhile pages, but those pages cannot save me, perhaps because what is good no longer belongs to anybody, not even to the other, but to language or tradition....
Years ago I tried to break free of him and went into the mythologies of the arrabal [Buenos Aires slums] to playing games with time and the infinite, but those games belong to Borges now and I shall have to invent other things. And so, my life is a flight, and everything is lost to me and everything is claimed by oblivion, or by the other. I cannot tell which of us is writing this page.