I love that at least the second part of Tropic de Cancer steals a sigh to my yawns by almost 100 ruled papers… I love that attracts some attention until tieing my hands to my chair and covers my mouth drooling, just when I´ve just started to sleep with the book, whatever, I love everything that flows when finally it flows such as this prayer by Miller that changes my reading and it wakes me up:
(en ESPAÑOL, aquí: click, click. Amo todo lo que fluye)
Continues in English…
“I love everything that flows. Says the great blind Milton of our time. I was thinking of him this morning when I awoke, a great bloody shout of joy: I was thinking of these rivers and trees and all that world of night which he is exploring. Yes, I said to myself, I too love everything that flows: rivers, sewers, lava, semen, blood, bile, words, sentences. I love the amniotic fluid when it spills out of the bag.
I love the kidney with it’s painful gall-stones, it’s gravel and what-not; I love the urine that pours out scalding and the clap that runs endlessly; I love the words of hysterics and the sentences that flow on like dysentery and mirror all the sick images of the soul. I love the great rivers like the Amazon and the Orinoco, where crazy men like Moravagine float on through dream and legend in an open boat and drown in the blind mouths of the river.
I love everything that flows, everything that has time in it and becoming, that brings us back to the beginning where there is never end: the violence of the prophets, the obscenity that ecstasy, the wisdom of the fanatic, the priest with his rubber litany, the foul words of the whore, the spittle that floats away in the gutter, the milk of the breast and the bitter honey that pours from the womb, all that is fluid, melting, dissolute and dissolvent, all the pus and dirt that in flowing is purified, that loses its sense of origin, that makes the great circuit towards death and dissolution. The great incestuous wish is to flow on, one with time, to merge the great image of the beyond with the here and now. A fatuous, suicidal wish that is constipated by words and paralyzed by thought”.
I love this page from Tropic of Cancer by Miller that I´ve just read. Definitely.