When Julio Cortázar died of cancer in February 1984 at the age of sixty-nine, the Madrid newspaper El Pais hailed him as one of Latin America’s greatest writers and over two days carried eleven full pages of tributes, reminiscences, and farewells. Such is the reputation he enjoyed as a giant of Latin American Literature .
I am a fetish of anything Cortazar has written and therefore have over the years accumulated virtually everything he has written and eagerly wait for untranslated works too. Cortazar was a tall man, 6'4". He had a broad chest, was handsome and had a charismatic personality too. People tended to take note of him wherever he went. Here is an endearing episode of an encounter narrated in his ‘Paris Review’ interview:
“Interviewer: Have fame and success been pleasurable?
Cortazar: Ah, listen, I’ll say something I shouldn’t say because no one will believe it, but success isn’t a pleasure for me. I’m glad to be able to live from what I write, so I have to put up with the popular and critical side of success. But I was happier as a man when I was unknown. Much happier. Now I can’t go to Latin America or to Spain without being recognized every ten yards, and the autographs, the embraces . . . It’s very moving, because they’re readers who are frequently quite young. I’m happy that they like what I do, but it’s terribly distressing for me on the level of privacy. I can’t go to a beach in Europe; in five minutes there’s a photographer. I have a physical appearance that I can’t disguise; if I were small I could shave and put on sunglasses, but with my height, my long arms and all that, they discover me from afar. On the other hand, there are very beautiful things: I was in Barcelona a month ago, walking around the Gothic Quarter one evening, and there was an American girl, very pretty, playing the guitar very well and singing. She was seated on the ground singing to earn her living. She sang a bit like Joan Baez, a very pure, clear voice. There was a group of young people from Barcelona listening. I stopped to listen to her, but I stayed in the shadows. At one point, one of these young men who was about twenty, very young, very handsome, approached me. He had a cake in his hand. He said, “Julio, take a piece.” So I took a piece and I ate it, and I told him, “Thanks a lot for coming up and giving that to me.” He said to me, “But, listen, I give you so little next to what you’ve given me.” I said, “Don’t say that, don’t say that,” and we embraced and he went away. Well, things like that, that’s the best recompense for my work as a writer. That a boy or a girl comes up to speak to you and to offer you a piece of cake, it’s wonderful. It’s worth the trouble of having written.”
So when I saw a small collection of his poetry titled “Save Twilight”, I ordered it though the price was exorbitant. Reading this poetry collection was an intensely moving experience . He writes with the ink of his heart and each poem tugs you so much that one rests a while and waft in the beauty of it before moving to the next. A lot of the endearing aspects of his persona as evinced in the above interview can be seen in these poems too. The poet more often converges with the man himself. I am reading it parsimoniously to save some of the poems of “Save Twilight” for my rainy days , afraid that the book would get finished too soon.
The power of eros, enduring beauty of art and bonds of friendship are some of the themes in this book. All the poems have been nimbly translated into English by the distinguished translator Stephen Kessler. Seldom has translated poetry acquired such coruscating brilliance as in this one.
The two poems I have posted below are sensitive, serene and sublime. They need no explanations. Just read it and close your eyes to immerse in it.
A LOVE LETTER
Everything I’d want from you
is finally so little
because finally it’s everything
like a dog going by, or a hill,
those meaningless things, mundane,
wheat ear and long hair and two lumps of sugar,
the smell of your body,
whatever you say about anything,
with or against me,
all that which is so little
I want from you because I love you.
May you look beyond me,
may you love me with violent disregard
for tomorrow, let the cry
of your coming explode
in the boss’s face in some office
and let the pleasure we invent together
be one more sign of freedom.
TO BE READ IN THE INTEROGATIVE
Have you seen
have you truly seen
the snow the stars the felt steps of the breeze
Have you touched
really have you touched
the plate the bread the face of that woman you love so much
Have you lived
like a blow to the head
the flash the gasp the fall the flight
Have you known
known in every pore of your skin
how your eyes your hands your sex your soft heart
must be thrown away
must be wept away
must be invented all over again
Can you imagine the poem if he didn't title it that way? It would have been such an unsightly poem with all the question marks in it:)). This is my favorite poem in the whole collection