Following those unexpected visits, Ana de Peñalosa began to write a letter she called “Text Submitted to the Sun”; she wrote slowly, with a carefully drawn handwriting that was part of the square of writing. Of the text
bathed by the sun
because she dedicated herself to this work regularly, at the same time, in the same place, and in almost the same position, vocables and certain expressions began to stand out, which she questioned with her meditative thinking: “on the abandoned plain,” “blindly at the lost skies,” “only son.” She sounded out the text to herself, her mouth almost closed and, at times, lifted her head to the open window, believing that the beating of words and oars was approaching. She took a sip of water, returned to the vibration of her hushed murmur; and, as she felt an increasingly acute pain from not being able to accompany them into exile, she wrote to her interlocutor: “If I were to die now.” to Friedrich N. received the letter.
Place 16 —
Zarathustra was the place he inhabited and the cat he possessed. At the edge of the desk he had a book that loosed an anathema upon him, Friedrich N. He opened its pages and submerged his face. He also had Ana de Peñalosa’s writing and many more papers, among which it had been
said
that The Book of Communities
should include Nietzsche
but I believe that, in the future,
it will become difficult to write
because Nietzsche is a man
of the book. Black mustache,
hair. Those capillary adornments
stop me from proceeding.
I see his eyes smashed between
his mustache and his forehead.
I could only let myself be taken
by his eyes if they were
deep. Lewis Carroll.
I place my hand in his eye sockets.
My hand enters and floats:
it is the river that Saint John of
the Cross and Thomas Müntzer
descend in their boat.
N. calls them and they disappear,
meditative.
N. undresses, is nude, only
hair, mustache, pubic
hair. He receives a robe from
Ana de Peñalosa’s hands. He covers
himself with it. In front of the
mirror he submits to a
mustache trim and a haircut, they
pass a blade over his skull which
is now completely bald.
He looks at me and tells me
I may begin to write. I thank him for
his compassion and sit down in
front of him studying the
robe, the white of the book and
the boundless white. I cannot imagine
the tone of his voice, nor the character
of his writing. That stiff body
is impenetrable and it will
ultimately repel me. I walk
around him, I greet him, I hit him in
the face. He takes me by the hand
unangered, unshakeable in his
compassion. He opens one of his
books and the two of us copy what
is written there, as if it were a text
still unwritten. I practice,
the heat of his hand doesn’t distract
me from what we’re doing. I stare
into his eyes and know I won’t be
able to even utter their color. I feel
powerful and, at the same time, sleepy.
I fall asleep on his hand, but in that
sleep I still feel its impetus,
searching for the place where
it is going
a cave with stained glass windows in the depths from which different sounds emerged and spread out
silence could be heard in contrast with the lapping water, the skeleton of a bird had landed on the boat’s stern and had immediately grown feathers and become the body of a living bird.
We began to look at him intently and I remembered to call him Friedrich N. so he wouldn’t abandon my sons. He lifted his wings and I saw his haughty eyes, which occupied his entire head, where there was no longer forehead. His cat was nearby, fur bristling, and its aureole of greenery rose into the air toward the cave’s entrance. I gazed at the bird’s eyes. I smiled. John leapt into the boat, began rowing with his hand immersed in the water. The bird took flight and swooped down over the bow, reuniting us for the birth of exile.
Place 17 —
When Ana de Peñalosa heard that Friedrich N. had received her letter she thought again about Saint John of the Cross and Thomas Müntzer.
The cat had lain down on her lap for a few moments because,
soon,
the fire of the day
would be consumed.
In the caves where they were living, Saint John of the Cross and Thomas Müntzer had become unaffected by the persecutions: water circulated at the opening and the boat moored to the rock plunged its seasoned hull into the vibrations of thought.
The bird circled around John. He landed on his hand and an intense cold rose in the water, covered it with frozen particles — the thicknesses of the texts were looking at one another.
It is a glacial day. We haven’t given up:
we are still alive. I must make
an effort to write. What pleasure
in our hands; we warm our fingers
to write.
This cold day can only be compared
to one other day.
Place 18 —
I read a text and I cover it with my own text, which I sketch at the top of the page but which casts its written shadow over the entire printed surface. This textual overlap comes from my eyes, it seems to me as though a thin cloth floats between my eyes and my hand and ends up covering like a net, a cloud, what has already been written. My text is completely transparent and I perceive the topography of the first words. I concentrate on Saint John of the Cross when the text speaks of Friedrich N.
he left the prow of the boat; his small body walks here; he pierces them with his bright-sharp eyes; he roams freely in the garden; he settles on the plants that Ana de Peñalosa watered this morning.
They then sat down near each other, a text on their knees, the breeze descended and impelled the words to the next body. Ana de Peñalosa did not have a book, she had thrust the needle into the fabric and contemplated the wandering of the fish
I embroider and think I know how to embroider; I don’t know how I made this association but shortly thereafter I reflect. Knowing and seeing. I can choose the colors, I chose the colors of the threads which are reddish-pink and red, and