That trip was marked by two accidents. In just three days of stay I found myself in any corner, the only person who knew (that know who deserves an encounter) throughout Santiago de Chile, and who had written an e-mail was just ten minutes after three years without doing it. The second person I met was a stranger. But how to find a stranger or, in any case, what is in a stranger? The man had just arrived to the cozy Hotel Opry and was assisted by a young man who seemed to have him more affection than respect. We separated the inner window glass that divides the restaurant and lobby for his small stature, could not even see the whole body. Only the neck, one chin in the neck, could be heard also the sound of a hoarse voice and jovial running through the glass hard. It was noticeable, moreover, certain parsimony in their movements.
did not recognize at once, but bit by bit, and while with his poet-old steps at that time perhaps the most important living poet in Latin America, was on his way to the elevator, an emotion like that could raise the reading "Lighting" or that passage from "Letter to turn to ver "(" Do not forgive, understand, because I do not forgive, because the sea / beautiful-for-it does not spare the corpse and throws it rejects as useless manure. ") prevented me from reacting in time. When I finally said I looked for confirmation from occasional neighbors: "Look who's" I shaky voice, as if he were a ghost. I answered a voice jokingly: "Sartre"?! ". Could be, yes, but no.
Now, some days after his death on Monday because of a stroke, I discover, was the sailor's cap - "the limit of my conscience," say the Cervantes Literature Prize 2003 - so I decided to ask Gonzalo Rojas and propose an interview. It was he, however, he called and suggested to find the next day morning. Tasteful sat down to breakfast and talk loud to all that only the poetic word, which not lose the song "runaway can name: the very door of that trip, due to the impossibility or Kabbalah, returned to tell anyone. Thus, as speaking from the wilderness, like standing and on the other side to go through life backwards, looking for that child, that the poet as a symbol representing the horses, "this man who at more than 90 years living a "green", whipped up the talk to the voice of "breaking the game!".
How long have you screamed again?
live there. "Living" is a way of saying, but I live in south central. There are mountains. There is a river that passes by my house where I bath. I live there about 10 years since my last wife died, very pretty and intelligent.
But then you have not chosen by chance the same fate as that of their "characters" or "motives" poetic, as in "do you love when you love": I'm dying in this, oh God, this war / to go back and forth between them in the streets can not love / three hundred at a time, because I'm always condemned a, / to that one, that one you gave me in the old paradise.
No, this "one" has more of a symbolic and mythic buzz, but not sentimental about anything (not that my dance). What I have said is that the dead lived not love has to leave the planet by boredom and the burden that this occurs. People also believe, mistakenly, that I am a poet porn, but no. I like women and, of course, took off a couple of lines.
Have you worked with different materials and ideas poetic over his life?
I do not know. Maybe it's monotonous and obsessive I do not believe in the great development but also in the metamorphosis of the same. But a great poet whose name was [Caesar] Vallejo said, "there is no God or son of God, without development." Poetry is air and ventilation, but also human death, is open to any subject and, while limited.
Rojas calls for a stop for lunch, and eat with joy, with enthusiasm, without trouble. He is interested in the verses of this reporter, asks for his country and his stay in Santiago. The conversation leads, then, to philosophy.
From Nietzsche to Benjamin (great reader of Baudelaire) through Adorno and Heidegger (both "partners" by Paul Celan) have turned to poetry for answers to some fundamental questions ...
At least in the West, which is the world that we breathe, the reciprocal is also true. These Greek immortals, those who lived on the right side of the Mediterranean, have shown that the great thinkers and philosophers, poets were born at a time. Plato laughs and is angry with the poets, but in the end, he is a poet.
That means that poetry, like philosophy, has something to say also on the "materiality" that is indeed the world.
You know too well the answer is in your question. The philosophy and poetry keep the store, I would say Heidegger, who has made precious few notes on the musical genius called Hölderlin. A madman who died insane. Although madness is a controversial word. He lived on the banks of the Neckar River after writing all these wonders. And he was scorned by Goethe (what fun it all Right?).
What licenses, if any, are allowed after such a career?
I write "breathable." That is, you do not do with the air-not the gale, which is something completely different, "not dealing with anything in the world. The crying baby leaves the womb because of that virginal encounter with the air, in the same way that the creature dies, the young or the old man draws his last breath and the body and becomes dry.
Is the air, unlike other "elements" would be something that opens and cancels both a life as a poem?
I tell a story. When I returned home, after receiving Cervantes, while I was sleeping in my bed, single man, a bed of sticks that I love (it was July and it rained) occurred suddenly a greater setback: I came a kind of arponazo; the air was, and went in or out. I was dry docked in myself. I knew it was dangerous, was entering the realm of suffocation, which is a final kingdom. I jumped up and went to the bathroom cold water to throw me in the face. Had no effect. I did not think much, because you do not think at that moment reflectively. Then, back in the episode, which lasted as long as not to die, but almost, I rediscovered the wonder and the miracle of air. Poetry, as I like to say, is that discovery: air, air, air, a new air to breathe is less than to live it. That's the game of poetic language and living.
Mao How did you meet?
In 1949, when Mao took power, gave the most beautiful political will hear ever. Humbled by his soldiers, said: "The world must know that China, that is, a quarter of humanity, has set up and do not plan to prostrate to anyone anymore." Then, in the year 53, while in France, I remembered there was a Chilean painter living in China, Venturelli, and I sent a cable to get me a ticket. In Shanghai I discussed with local writers, without agreeing on whether literary thought the artist was born or was a social construction. For this discussion the night before my departure, I was permitted to see Mao.
How does the new poetry contemporary Latin American?
I see little but the smell better. From Mexico to Buenos Aires I see that poetry is alive. It is true that poetic thought is canceled. The boys have their light and are betting the game to breathe poetry.
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