Again and again. Palimpseste cultivate the white space into the infinity whit new oevres. The ancient parchments roll out ideas, consign tragedies, conserve constructional drawings for half an eternity, or until a new author overwrites the precious parchment and old knowledge fades into the background. Carolina del Pilar does not overwrite, she overdraw. She adds, she erases. This results in a dynamic overlay of modern palimpsests, expansive manuscripts.
In these memoirs or collections there are gaps here and there, and sometimes they are also forgetful, because life is like that. Intervals of dreaming help us to stand up under days of work. Many of the things I remember have blurred as I recalled them, they have crumbled to dust, like irreparably shattered glass. Pablo Neruda, Memoirs, Trans. by Hardie St. Martin, Condor Books, 2004
The last of the magic countries, because of its age and its history, its music and its geography. Working my way like a tramp over those rocks forever scourged by blood, rocks crisscrossed by a wide ribbon of blood an moss, I felt mighty and ancient, worthy to walk among such timeless things. Abrupt valleys partitioned off by immense walls of rock; tall hills that looked as if cut lavel with a knife; immense tropical forests teeming whit timber and serpents, birds and legends. Pablo Neruda, Memoirs, Trans. by Hardie St. Martin, Condor Books, 2004, P.151
On either side of its bow, the ship leaves a wihte, blue, and sulphuric gash of water, foam, and churned-up depths. The portals of the ocean are trembling. Over them soar diminutive flying sh, silver and translucent. I am on my way back from exile.I gaze at the waters a long time. I am sailing over them to otherwaters: the tormented waves of my country. The sky of a long day covers all the ocean. Night will come once more to hide the huge green palace of mystery with its shadow. Pablo Neruda, Memoirs, Trans. by Hardie St. Martin, Condor Books, 2004, P.50
It was past midnight. Before going to bed, I opened the windows in my room. The sky dazzled me. The entire sky was alive, swarming with a lively multitude of strars. the night looked freshly washed and the Antartics stars were spreading out in formation over my head. I became star-drunk, celestially, cosmically drunk. Pablo Neruda, Memoirs, Trans. by Hardie St. Martin, Condor Books, 2004, P.50