Читать книгу All Love Letters Are Ridiculous - Diego Maenza, Diego Maenza - Страница 12

LETTER THREE

Does it suffer more who waits for the caress of its love, or that sadness that does not have anyone to wait for?

The poet

A Frenchman claimed that love letters are written starting without knowing what is going to be said and ending without knowing what has been said.

Whenever I write to you, I try to do it with a fixed idea that I am gradually developing. This is not something I invented, but I've extrapolated from a theory of the story, according to which the first three lines have almost the same importance that the last three. I have understood this formula as the definition of writing, in any field.

But let's get into the matter. An African philosopher has delved into the theme of love, and in her work which is entitled Depth of the amatory arts she draws us showing the passive side of the desire which reaches its climax when it is satisfied and the diligent character of love as source activity. She condensed it into one powerful phrase:Love is infinite dissatisfaction. There is no more irrefutable truth.

This is the thesis that she develops throughout her work, sometimes a little hyperbolic, it is true, but never without charm. The interesting part is that phrase. Desire, according to her, culminates when it is satisfied. We wish something and when we get it, it is the end of the story.

But when the desire is linked to love, it is difeent: It is possible that the desire can route to love; the beloved, irrefutably we wish it, adds the philosopher.

Today I want you to feel that through my words I can caress you, and not with the prosaic friction that the delights of modesty pay us, but, but with these indelible caresses.

As the bards immortalize their loved ones, this humble practitioner would wish to glorify yourself with songs that refresh your youthful thirst and with poems that lull your afternoon. Say how much I am in love with you, virginal goddess, almighty, the owner of my love, the slave of my love, as the slave women of the Old Testament, with a candor of cosmos as Proserpina, infernal queen, or some pagan goddess. You are the Musa of poetry. You: a thousand women in one. A thousand goddesses in one. My Pandora, my Eva, my Mary Magdalena so purified for the kisses of Jesus.

You, who knows how to dominate my spirit, are my owner. And you are at every moment. Because your affable memory cures me of my melancholy: your words whispered in the wind and your face illuminating the space that could be empty unless you love this crazy man who lives only for you.

Your being is more hypnotic than a fantastic tale, as shrouded in mystery as a thriller, but at the same time so real and deep as a novel of realistic rawness. And there is no contradiction because sometimes you seem to me to be accurate and paradoxical.

With a vision that goes beyond the everyday, I try to reach you and delve into the depths of your love. And I get to see through your eyes (which are infinite receptacles of clairvoyance, as a crystal ball would be for an old woman versed in crystalomancy, but as delicate and pure as the Delphic oracle) that depth of mature woman, that indomitable strength that you carry deep, and makes me think of the strength of a god. Sometimes you seem to be too divine to proceed from earthly transcendence. Your ancestors can only be the same as those of Ariadne, divine caste of goddesses.

And meanwhile, I only have a dark minotaur that spins and spins in a circular maze of my brain, hoping that Theseus (divine love that professes me) breaks with his thread this brutal loneliness.

That is why I ask, along with the poet: Does it suffer more who expects the caress of its love, or that sadness that does not have anyone to wait for? Although the answer is obvious, the pain, when it is the product of waiting for love, is not bitter, and my promise appears that even having you close I will never stop writing love letters to you. Because you love me and because I love you, because I wait for you, and because you wait for me too, but mostly because our love will always be an infinite dissatisfaction.

Yours, wherever.