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)
El devenir no funciona en el otro sentido, y no se deviene Hombre, en tanto que el hombre se presenta como una forma de expresión dominante que pretende imponerse a cualquier materia, mientras que mujer, animal o molécula contienen siempre un componente de fuga que se sustrae a su
propia formalización. (Gilles Deleuze)
I walked out with Ted in the dense humid air. He stopped by a tree on the street. There on bare ground, on its back, scrawny wings at a desperate stretch, a baby bird, fallen from its nest, convulsed in what looked like a death-shudder. I was sick with its hurt, nauseous. Ted carried it home cradled in his hand, and it looked out with a bright dark eye. We put it in a small box of carboard, stuffed with a dishtowel & bits of soft paper to stimulate a nest. The bird shook & shook. It seemed to be out off balance, fell on its back. Every moment I expected the breath in its scrawny chest to stop. But no. We tried to feed it with bread soaked in milk on a toothpick, but it sneezed, didn’t swallow. Then we went downtown & bought fresh ground steak, very like worm shapes, I thought. As we came up the stairs the bird squawked piteously & opened its yellow froggish beak wide as itself, so its head wasn’t visible behing the fork-tongued opening. Without thinking, I shoved a sizeable piece of meat down the bird’s throat. The beak closed on my fingertip the tongue seemed to suck my finger, & the mouth, empty, opened again. Now I feed the bird fearlessly with meat & bread & it eats often & well, sleeping inbetween two-hourly feedings & looking a bit more like a proper bird. However small, it is an extension of life, of sensibility & identity. When I am ready for a baby it will be wonderful.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath. Anchor, 2000.