Agua Viva Read Online Free PDF Page B

impersonal of the dry and germinative pit
of a fruit. My personal is humus in the earth and lives from rotting. My “it” is
hard like a pebble.
    The transcendence inside me is the living and soft “it”
and has the thought that an oyster has. Could the oyster when torn from its root
feel anxiety? It is disturbed in its life without eyes. I used to drip lemon
juice onto the living oyster and watched in horror and fascination as it
contorted all over. And I was eating the living
it
. The living
it
is the God.
    I’ll stop for a bit because I know that the God is the
world. He is whatever exists. I pray to whatever exists? It’s not dangerous to
approach whatever exists. Profound prayer is a meditation upon the nothing. It’s
the dry and electrical contact with oneself, an impersonal oneself.
    I don’t like when they drip lemon upon my depths and make
me contort all over. Are the facts of life lemon on the oyster? Does the oyster
sleep?
    What is the first element? immediately there must have
been two to have the secret intimate movement from which milk gushes.
    I have been told that the cat after giving birth eats her
own placenta and for four days eats nothing else. Only then does she drink milk.
Let me speak strictly of breast-feeding. People talk about the milk rising. How?
And it wouldn’t help to explain because the explanation demands another
explanation which would demand another explanation and which would open again
onto the mystery. But I know
it
things about breast-feeding a
child.
    I am breathing. Up and down. Up and down. How does the
naked oyster breathe? If it breathes I can’t see it. Does what I cannot see not
exist? What moves me the most is that what I cannot see nonetheless exists. For
then I have at my feet a whole unknown world that exists entire and full of rich
saliva. The truth is somewhere: but no use thinking. I shall not discover it and
yet I live from it.
    What I write to you does not come gently, slowly rising
to a peak before dying away gently. No: what I write you is aflame like fiery
eyes.
    Tonight the moon is full. Through the window the moon
covers my bed and turns everything a milky bluish white. The moon is gauche.
It’s to your left as you go in. So I escape by closing my eyes. Because the full
moon is light insomnia: numb and drowsy like after love. And I had decided to go
to sleep so I could dream, I was missing the news that comes in the dream.
    So I dreamed something I’ll try to reproduce. It was
about a film I was watching. There was a man imitating a movie star. And
everything this man did was in turn imitated by others and others. The slightest
gesture. And there was the advert for a drink called Zerbino. The man took the
bottle of Zerbino and lifted it to his lips. So everyone took a bottle of
Zerbino and lifted it to their lips. In the centre the man who was imitating a
movie star said: this is a film advertising Zerbino and Zerbino is actually
rubbish. But that wasn’t the end. The man picked up the drink again and drank.
And so did the others: it was inevitable. Zerbino was an institution stronger
than the man. The women at this point looked like stewardesses. Stewardesses are
dehydrated—a lot of water needs to be added to their powder to turn them into
milk. It’s a film about automatic people who are acutely and gravely aware that
they are automatic and that there’s no escape. The God is not automatic: for Him
every instant is. He is
it
.
    But there are questions I asked myself as a child and
that were never answered, they still echo mournfully: did the world make itself?
But where did it make itself? in what place? And if it was by the energy of God
—how did it begin? could it be like now when I am being and at the same time
making myself? It’s because of the absence of an answer that I get so
bothered.
    But 9 and 7 and 8 are my secret numbers. I am an
initiate without a sect. Avid for the mystery. My passion for the crux of
numbers, in which I divine the