ANATOMÍA DE LA INTIMIDAD literatura y espejos rotos

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)

An injured bird as an extension of the self (Sylvia Plath)

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.

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3 comentarios el “An injured bird as an extension of the self (Sylvia Plath)

  1. Enrique Clarós
    19/03/2014

    Tengo una extremada y sensitiva debilidad por la Plath, creo que ya es hora que lea sus diarios…

    • Anatomía de la Intimidad
      19/03/2014

      Valen mucho la pena. Son íntimos, intensos y (meta) literarios

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Esta entrada fue publicada en 19/03/2014 por en Diarios diaries journals, Sylvia Plath y etiquetada con , , , , , , .

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