Roberto Bolaño's LA UNIVERSIDAD DESCONOCIDA (THE UNKNOWN UNIVERSITY)

*

In lost cars, with two or three distant friends, we sawdeath up close.Drunk and dirty, upon awakening, in suburbs painted yellow,we saw la Pelona beneath the shadow of a stall.This is some kind of grief!, shouted my friend.We saw her disappear and appear like a Greek statue.We saw her stretch.But above all we saw her melt with the hills and the horizon.

*I saw her walking down the street. The wind passed above her: it movedthe leaves on the trees and the hanging clothes, but her hair seemedlike that of a statue. Down the street, with regular steps, in a straight linetowards the blue of the intersection. Later I didn’t see her. I closed my eyes and remembereda girl sprawled out on a mat in the corner of a darkroom, like a garage… Hello, I said, I just arrived and don’t know anyonein this lovely town… The wind banged the door, shook the windows:her shadow, like a spinning top, was lost in the intersection, imperturbable. Only thendid I realize that I had arrived at the Ghost City. Frozen, I shutmy eyes and saw her again… Queen of the reflections…. Queen of the descending streets…

*

Death is an automobile with two or three distant friends. FacesI can’t forget: cerulean, cold, at a pace that only belongs to dusk.Death is an automobile cruising the avenues of Mexico Cityuselessly searching for your house: a wake of carbon, a tail ofcarbon, some carbon fingers that sink in the darkness. Deathare the lips of R.B. and L.J. on the back seat of a minibus: now I knowthat no one escapes these avenues. I leave it for you like collateral:the end of my childhood.

*

IN SOME PLACE DRY AND ENORMOUS, 1949

You and me comfortably dressed observing the straight linewhile the clouds run in the sky like in the movieyou sometimes dream of making You and me without kids observingthe straight line between two yellows that werethe yellow mass before and that we’ll never know what the hell they’llbecome (nor does it matter!) You and me in a rented house

sitting together next to the window the truth you say is that I couldcry all afternoon the truth is that I’m not hungry and yesa little bit of fear of getting drunk again sitting togethernext to a straight window, no? while at our backsthe birds jump from branch to branch and the light from the kitchenblinks You and me in a bed, there we are! observingthe white walls –two profiles that continue– helpedby the light of the street and by the light of our cold heartsthat refuse to die.

*

Now you stroll alone along the wharfsof Barcelona.You smoke a black cigarette and fora moment think it would be goodif it rained.The gods don’t grant you moneybut yes strange whimsLook up:it’s raining.

*

YOUR DISTANT HEART

I don’t feel safeAnywhere.The adventure does not end.Your eyes shine in all the corners.I don’t feel safeIn wordsOr moneyOr mirrors.The adventure will never endAnd your eyes search for me.

He who loses a lover once, will always loseher again. Anyone in whose proximities

occurred a murder, should always beprepared for another murder.

HANS HENNY JAHNN

I said that I would never forget you.Now I’m in La Fronda againand the wind and the poplars and thelawn that grows andthe flowers between the grassonly remember a boywho spoke with No One.

TU LEJANO CORAZÓN

No me siento seguroEn ninguna parte.La aventura no termina.Tus ojos brillan en todos los rincones.No me siento seguroEn las palabrasNi en el dineroNi en los espejos.La aventura no termina jamásY tus ojos me buscan.

El que pierda una vez a su amada siemprevolverá a perderla. Aquel en cuyas proximidades

ocurrió una vez un asesinato, siempre deberíaestar preparado para un nuevo asesinato.

HANS HENNY JAHNN

Dije que jamás te olvidaría.Ahora estoy en La Fronda nuevamentey el viento y los álamos y elpasto que crece ylas flores entre la hierbasólo recuerdan a un muchachoque hablaba con Nadie.

*

No one sends you letters now Under the lighthouse at dusk Lips chapped by the windTowards the East they make the revolutionA cat sleeps in your armsSometimes you are immensely happy.

Nadie te manda cartas ahora Debajo del faro en el atardecer Los labios partidos por el vientoHacia el Este hacen la revolución Un gato duerme entre tus brazosA veces eres inmensamente feliz.

Death is an automobilewith two or three distant friends

La muerte es un automóvilcon dos o tres amigos lejanos

*Shady hills beyond your dreams.The castles that the vagabond dreams.To die at the end of any day.Impossible to escape the violence.Impossible to think about another thing.Skinny gentlemen praise poetry and weapons.Castles and birds from another imagination.That which is still unformed will protect me.

Colinas sombreadas más allá de tus sueñosLos castillos que sueña el vagabundo.Morir al final de un día cualquiera.Imposible escapar la violencia.Imposible pensar en otra cosa.Flacos señores alaban poesía y armas.Castillos y pájaros de otra imaginación.Lo que aún no tiene forma me protegerá.

*Don’t listen to the voices of dead friends, Gaspar.Don’t listen to the voices of the unknown who diedDuring the fast dusks of foreign cities.

No escuches las voces de los amigos muertos, Gaspar.No escuches las voces de los desconocidos que murieronEn veloces atardeceres de ciudades extranjeras

*

it’s nice to be able to grasp somethingsimple and real

like missing someone

FRANK O’HARA

I listen to Barney Kesseland smoke smoke smoke and drink teaand try to prepare some toastwith butter and jambut I discover I don’t have bread andit’s already twelve thirty at nightand the only thing there is to eatis a bottle half fullwith chicken stock bought in themorning and five eggs and a littlemuscatel and Barney Kessel playsthe guitar cornered between thesword and an open socketI think I’ll make consommé andafter I’ll get in bedto reread The Invention of Moreland think about a blond girluntil I fall asleep andbegin to dream.

*

THE ROBOT

I remember that Plato was warning meand I didn’t pay attention.Now I’m in the discotheque of deathand there’s nothing I can do:the space is a paradox.Nothing can happen hereand yet here I am.Barely a robotwith an unspecified mission.A work of eternal art.

EL ROBOT

Recuerdo que Platón me lo decíay no presté atención.Ahora estoy en la discoteca de la muertey no hay nada que pueda hacer:el espacio es una paradoja.Aquí no puede pasar naday sin embargo estoy yo.

Apenas un robotcon una misión sin especificar.Una obra de arte eternal.

SPRING OF 1980. FOR RANDY WESTON

The mystery of love is alwaysthe mystery of loveand now it’s twelve in the afternoon andI’m having a glass of tea for breakfastas the rain slides downthe white pillarsof the bridge.

PRIMAVERA DE 1980. PARA RANDY WESTON

El misterio del amor siempre esel misterio del amory ahora son las doce del día yestoy desayunando un vaso de témientras la lluvia se deslizapor los pilares blancosdel puente.

*

A FLY EMBEDDED IN A FLYA THOUGHT EMBEDDED IN A THOUGHT

AND MARIO SANTIAGO EMBEDDED IN MARIO SANTIAGO

How does it feel, tell me how does it feelwhen the birds are lost in redand you’re leaning on a wall, unstitchedpants and messy hair as if you hadjust killed a president.How does it feel in the almost red hour,in the hour of agit-prop, boots that sinkin the snow of an avenuewhere no one knows you.Forked tongue of knowing how to be alone and imagesthat destiny (so pleasant) dragsbeyond the hills.Tell me how it feels and what coloryour remarkable eyes have acquired.

*CHINESE POET IN BARCELONA

A Chinese poet thinks abouta word without coming to touch it,without coming to observe it, withoutcoming to represent it.Behind the poet there are yellowand dry mountains swept by

the wind,occasional rains,cheap restaurants,white clouds that fragment.

DAWN

Believe me, I’m in the center of my roomwaiting for it to rain. I’m alone. I don’t careif I finish my poem or not. I wait for the rain,drinking coffee and watching through the window a beautiful landscapeof backyards, with quiet and hanging clothes,silent marble clothes in the city, where the winddoesn’t exist and in the distance only the buzzingof a color television can be heard, observed by a familywho also, at this hour, drinks coffee gathered arounda table: believe me: the yellow plastic tablesunfold until the horizon and even further:towards the suburbs where they construct apartmentbuildings, and a 16 year old boy sitting onred bricks contemplates the movement of the machines.The sky in the hour of the boy is an enormoushollow screw that the breeze plays with. And the boyplays with ideas. With ideas and with arrested scenes.The immobility is a transparent and hard mistthat comes out of his eyes.Believe me: it is not love that will come,but beauty with its cloak of dead daybreaks.

AMANECER

Créeme, estoy en el centro de mi habitaciónesperando que llueva. Estoy solo. No me importaterminar o no mi poema. Espero la lluvia,tomando café y mirando por la ventana un bello paisajede patios interiores, con ropas colgadas y quietas,silenciosas ropas de mármol en la ciudad, donde no existeel viento y a lo lejos sólo se escucha el zumbidode una televisión de colores, observada por una familiaque también, a esta hora, toma café reunida alrededorde una mesa: créeme: las mesas de plástico amarillose desdoblan hasta la línea del horizonte y más allá:hacia los suburbios donde construyen edificiosde departamentos, y un muchacho de 16 sentado sobreladrillos rojos contempla el movimiento de las máquinas.El cielo en la hora del muchacho es un enormetornillo hueco con el que la brisa juega. Y el muchachojuega con ideas. Con ideas y con escenas detenidas.La inmovilidad es una neblina transparente y duraque sale de sus ojos.Créeme: no es el amor el que va a venir,sino la belleza con su estola de albas muertas.

THE YEARS

I think I still see him, his face written in stoneon the horizonA beautiful and valiant guyA Latin American poetA loser unconcerned with moneyA son of the middle classesA reader of Rimbaud and Oquendo de AmatA reader of Cardenal and Nicanor ParraA reader of Enrique LihnA guy who falls madly in loveand after two years is alonebut thinks that it cannot bethat it’s impossible to not end up reunitingwith her againA vagabondA wrinkled and well-thumbed passport and a dreamthat crosses border postssunk in the slime of its own nightmareA seasonal workerA jungle saintA Latin American poet far fromLatin American poetsA guy that screws and loves and lives pleasant and unpleasantadventures that are increasingly farfrom the point of departureA body beaten by the windA short story or a history that almost everyone has forgottenAn obstinate guy most likely of IndianCreole and Galician bloodA statue that sometimes dreams of returning to findlove at an unexpected and terrible hourA reader of poetryA foreigner in EuropeA man who loses his hair and teethbut not valorAs if valor were valuableAs if valor would give him backthose distant Mexican dayslost youth and love(Well, he said, let’s say that I accept losing Mexico and youthbut never love)A guy with a strange predispositionto surviveA Latin American poet that when night arriveslies down on a straw mattress and dreamsA marvelous dreamthat crosses countries and yearsA marvelous dreamthat crosses sicknesses and absences.

Reunion/ Reencuentro

REUNION

Tonight looks likea dwarf that grows

DE ORY

Two poets 20 and 23 years of age,Naked in bed with the curtains closedIntertwine, suck each others’ nipples and erectCocks, between vaguely Literary moansAs one of their older sisters, slumped in the T.V. armchair,Eyes enormous and scared,Observes the great metallic wave of the Pacific,The one measured in capricious fragments and discontinuous wakes,And screams: fascism, fascism, but only IHear her, IThe writer shut up in the guestroomUselessly trying to dreamAn ideal letterFull of adventures and meaningless scenesThat mask the true letter,The terrifying letter of goodbyeAnd of a certain kind of unusualAmnesia,As the sister of the poet hits the doors to the empty roomsLike someone hits the successive doors of ThoughtAnd screams or whispers fascism,At the same time that the 20 year old poet ass fucks The 23 year old poet with two dry pounds and goes ugh ugh,A 23 centimeter cock like a steel wormIn the rectum of the 23 year old poet,And the mouth of the 20 year old poet sticks like a cotton swabTo the neckOf the 23 year old poetAnd the 20 year old poet’s small pearly white teethSearch for the muscles, the joints, the bones in the neck,In the nape, smell the cerebellumOf the 23 year old poet.And the sister screamsFascism, fascism, a strange fascism, certainly, an almost translucent fascismLike a butterfly from the deep forests,Even though what prevails on her retinas is the Great Metallic WaveOf the PacificAnd the poets screamFed up with so much hysteria:End right fucking now your fucking reading Of Raul Zurita!And right in the moment of saying ZuritaThey come,

In such a way that the name of our national poetIs exclaimed almost agonizinglyLike a free fall into the boiling alphabet soupOf poetryAnd after silence is established among the playthingsAnd the wind, a wind coming from another continent and maybe evenAnother time, travels through The wood house, sweepsUnder the doors, under the Beds, under the armchairs,And the young poets get dressed and go out to eatAt the restaurant, “The Meanderings”, also called“The Cultured Sevillana”In homage to the ownerA specialist or maybe only a hackIn Bocángel and Juan Del EncinaAnd the older sister criesCurled up in the armchair that is touched by the moonAnd her hiccups travel through the wood houseLike a platoon of phantoms,Like a platoon of leaden soldiers,Until they uproot me from my dream, full of candidness and mutations,My vapor dreamThat I emerge from in a flashWarned by an angel of dangerAnd then I smooth my hair and flowered shirtBefore going out to the hall to investigate what is happening,But only the nocturnal breeze and the sound of the seaAnswer my questions.And what is it that grows like hair on the heads of corpses?And what is it that grows like nails on the paws that DestinySaw to bury and mourn –just because— In the sides of a mountain of ash?Life, I suppose, or this inertia governed by the stars,The epiphany in the double mouth of the decapitated.And I saw the young poets walking hand in handThrough the Paseo Marítimo, drifting off like magic reeds of the Club de YatesHeading to the Roca de las Palomas,The one that cuts the bay in two.And I saw the older sister hidden Beneath the bedAnd I said get out from there, stop crying, no one will hurt anyone, it’s me,The one that rents the room above from you all.In her eyes, in the condensation that were her eyes,I saw the night navigate at 30 knots per hourThrough the sea of jolts, and I saw dawn,There, in the bladder of the moon, turn on the persecution At 35 knots per hour.And I saw the women coming out of “Trianon”, of “Eva”, of “Ulises”With wrinkled skirts and insecure necklines: a coffee with milkAnd donuts in the “Pitu Colomer” that would later returnTo the great current. And I said: let’s go, dawn is breaking, let morning undo the remains of the nightmare.And the poets ascended to the lookout point of the Roca de las PalomasAnd later descended, but through the wall of the sea,To the accommodation of a ledgeLike a nest of Pájaro Roc

Where at the mercy of the winds, but protected by stone,They kissed, and caressed their messy hair,Sunk their faces in each others’ necksLaughing and gasping.And the older sister left with me: we followedThe route of the water trucks until the town’s geometric delimitation,until the place where The houses, flowers, and pits opened yesterday by forgotten workersAnd today converted into pots of broth More enduring than usExploded. And in a bar next to the cliffs we pronouncedOur namesAnd I understood that the void could be The size of a nut.She had just arrived from Madrid and in her wearinessThere grew nightmares and ghosts. HowOld are you?, she said laughing. 39, I responded.So old! I’m 25, she said.And your name begins with an L, I thought,An L like a boomerang that returns again and againEven though it’s thrown towards Hell.