A figure whose poetry has surpassed both speech and silence. A woman who has made the verb flesh itself, seeking to understand something that was always above all. The silence and the word, in a poet who has been pure passion, until the descent. A woman who only wanted get to the bottom. Every action, every sentence, every word, in Alexandra Pizarnik he was looking for a meaning that was his own, although superior to the insignificant, to the earthly that was proposed as a formula for something that never seemed to be a complement, but only a remainder for the essential. Poetry as the essence of life. Poetry as Life.
And among all her passions, Alejandra crossed her love with that of Silvina Ocampo. Alejandra loved Silvina like no one else. Many may judge the relationship as lesbian. I just consider it pure, much higher than what the boundaries of sexual definition can determine. Alejandra was always beyond. And as a mark of that passion is that I leave this letter, written in 1972, addressed to the then wife of Bioy Casares. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do every time I read it again.
«BA 31/1/72
Ma tres chere,
A very sad day when I telephoned you to hear nothing but spurious, unworthy voices, originating from creatures that golem-makers made in front of mirrors (cf. von Arnim).
But you, my love, don't forget me. You know how much and above all I suffer. Maybe we both know that I'm looking for you. Be that as it may, here is a musical forest for two faithful girls: S. and A.
Write me, the dear one. I need the beautiful certainty of your being here, ici-bas pourtant [down here, however]. I reluctantly translate, my asthma is impressive (to celebrate I discovered that Martha is bothered by the noise of my sick breathing) Why, Silvina adored, does any shit breathe well and I stay locked up and I am Phaedra and I am Anne Frank?
On Saturday, in Bécquar, I raced on a motorcycle and crashed. Everything hurts (it wouldn't hurt if you touched me - and this is not a flattering phrase). As I did not want to alarm the people in the house, I said nothing. I lay in the sun. I passed out but luckily no one knew. I like to tell you these goosebumps because only you listen to me. And your book? Mine just came out. Lovely format. I send it to Posadas 1650, who, being Quintana's lover, will transmit it to him between disgust and choice.
I also sent you a Venezuelan notebook with an I don't know what degutante [unpleasant] (as they say). But let them edit you in 15 days (…) Mais oui, je suis une chienne dans le bois, je suis avide de jouir (mais jusqu'au péril extrême) [But yes, I am a bitch in the forest, eager to enjoy (but to extreme danger)]. Oh Sylvette, if you were. Of course I would kiss your hand and cry, but you are my lost paradise. Found again and lost. Fuck the Greco-Romans. I adore your face. And your legs and, soutout (bis 10) your hands that lead to the house of memory-dreams, woven into a beyond the true past.
Silvine, my life (in the literal sense) I wrote to Adolfito so that our friendship does not sleep. I dared to beg him to kiss you (a little: 5 or 6 times) for me and I think he realized that I love you WITHOUT BACKGROUND. I love him but he is different, you know, right? Plus I admire him and he's so sweet and aristocratic and simple. But it's not you, mon cher amour. I'll leave you: I'm dying of a fever and I'm cold. I wish you were naked, next to me, reading your poems aloud. Sylvette mon amour, I will write to you soon. Sylv., I know what this letter is. But I have mystical trust in you. Besides, death so close to me (so lush!) Oppresses me. (…) Sylvette, it is not a fever, it is an infinite re-knowledge that you are wonderful, great and adorable. Make me a little place in you, I won't bother you. But I love you, oh you can't imagine how I shudder when I remember your hands that I'll never touch again if you don't like it since you already see it, sexuality is a "third party" in addition. Anyway, I do not continue. I send you the 2 libraries of poemunculi meos - serious thing. I kiss you as I know the Russian (with French and Corsican variants).
Or I do not kiss you but I greet you, according to your tastes, as you want.
I submit. I always said no to one day say better yes.
Be careful: this letter your peut t'en foutgre and I will reply à propos des [you can put this letter up your ass and answer me about] big ass ants.
Sylvette, you are la seule, l'unique. Mais ça il faut I will tell him: Jamais tu ne rencontreras quelqu'un comme moi –Et tu le sais (tout) (Et maintenant je pleure.
[Sylvette, you are the only one, you are the only one. But it needs to be said: you will never find anyone like me. And that you know (everything). And now I'm crying]
Silvina heal me, help me, it is not possible to be such a torture-)
Silvina, heal me, don't make me have to die now. "
How do you know that it was a pure relationship and that it was overcoming, I don't know what and I don't know what. AP was an excellent poet, but also a human being and with quite a few problems by the way. Let's take care and keep the work. This romanticization of the accursed poet and his way of loving, it already happened.