No Variations (Argentinian Literature Series) by Darren Koolman Luis Chitarroni Read Free Book Online

grown stale. Become old. I began to realize this in Rio about four years ago. I was on the beach one day and was suddenly overcome with boredom. The bodies I saw did nothing for me, they looked like barely distinguishable mannequins as they passed … and I remembered … The world is a grand, rickety monument erected by some mediocre architect, but the truth of the flesh was carved by none other than Phidias … That’s what my Catalan friend used to say, Mr. Rico, a man far more interested in the subject than either of us, these days. But in that vaunting statuary, that beacon of human flesh, there was no substance, no delight, no heat. How I would have preferred to lick, bite, and suck at those delicacies until I choked to death, turned blue. Drowning, asphyxiation, cyanosis, are triumphs in comparison with the slow apnea of mere survival. The sublime course of the shark—I say, très chic. But there’s nothing special about dying for love. Merely surviving as time goes by is the ‘done’ thing, these days. And, despite appearances, Mr. Rico, I followed suit. Swallowing my saliva, holding my breath, and heading to bed early.”
     
    We toasted again. She and I were drinking gin and vodka, respectively, and practically straight up—on a single rock each. We said all there was to be said in all those languages in which nothing need be said … But the clink of our glasses added little to these interjections. We might as well have been hoisting a couple of milk jugs in broad daylight.
     
    “Our sins, Mr. Rico, are only of concern [and only start to matter to us] once we’ve stopped sinning. Then we reap our so-called reward. The preacher who married my mother made that quite clear. And so I’m always vigilant, always alert. I ended up going to Brazil with Mr. Quint, Basil Quint, Hugo’s cousin—a businessman, among whose many deals during that time I’m afraid I would have to be counted [as] the least significant. Basil always went on his business trips weighted down by new theories regarding this and that: I used to call them his “carry-on baggage.” For instance, he used to say the highest aspiration of any decent and honest citizen is to be a tourist, and also …”
    Ignorance, license, laziness: who among them could so much as recognize it, who among them could take the hint? Not a single one of them: the gentleman of the jury! They knew all about what everyone was reading without ever bothering to read (let alone memorize) a single poem, a single line. The possibility that ordinary, quotidian language might ever be found in a poem didn’t amuse them in the least—or even make much of an impression. The gulf separating us wasn’t just a matter of passive consecration and active anonymity; it was in the view that the act of reading is an exercise in forgetting (the nuisance, the burden) all that doesn’t pertain to oneself. And the things that pertain to them are prizes, tributes, reviews—more incentives not to read. And they wouldn’t—they wouldn’t read my book; they’d read me , or rather my pseudonym : Atrius Umber. And boy, he’s sure racked up the points for me while I wait here in the dark; enough for them to hand me the prize. Moreover, I seem to remember having presciently, preemptively, commended the four of them—in reviews, in post-award speeches—with all the astuteness and patience of someone who foresees—is investing in—receiving a favor in return, someday. The conspiracy of gratitude would unfold in the Silvio Astier Amphitheater.
     
    In this sense, Accents , Répide Stupía’s book, was nothing more than the flimsiest pretext, but the best one possible, under the circumstances. Irreproachable on formal grounds, it had the virtue of going unnoticed initially due to the author’s misanthropy. But, likewise, thanks to his misanthropy and his wilful anachronisms, his work ended up becoming wholly acceptable, plausible, to contemporary tastes. And if he could be plausible,