I should like it to resemble some deep old desk, or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through. (Virginia Woolf) We become ourselves through others, and the self is a porous thing, not a sealed container (Siri Hustvedt) En vez de mirarme en mi espejo quiero que mi espejo se mire en mí (Alejandra Pizarnik)
– I am the one that goes to work every morning and takes the bus or the subway, or perhaps simply walks on high heels, in a narrow skirt. I am the one that goes round gloomy corners and eats three times a day and sleeps unwell or perhaps too long and wakes up to the noise of the neighbours, a violent chair or the smell of a cup of tea.
– And who are you then?
– I do not know, I only know that I am not me when I write or feel the air or listen to the world outside or to the thousand and ten voices in me. I only know that whoever is in me wears long skirts and mens’ trousers, laughs out loud or cries like a baby. I am the one behind the gun, overlapped faces, loose laces, a million hearts, split courtains, blind eyes.