We edited the text at Carolina’s. She specialised in seventeenth-century literature at university and almost always has some surprise, some verse, some titbit of information or point of comparison that she offers up with a smile, as if she’s telling you the time or paying you a compliment. It comes naturally to her, it’s part of how her mind works. Last night she told me about Diego de Mexía’s translation of the letter Penelope wrote to Odysseus: ‘Since I used it in my thesis I know all the gossip. It’s from 1608, and I think it’s the best translation. The book has an incredible history. He was Peruvian and he did the translation for a project called Antarctic Parnassus, an anthology designed to present the best poets from his country in Spain. A kind of introduction of Peruvian literature to Spanish society. Translating Ovid for the motherland: a symbol of poetic validation. But the gossip, as always, is better. In the prologue, Diego de Mexía included a text called “Discourse in Praise of Poetry”, which is pretty bad and very boring. Really crap, actually. An anonymous text that for a long time people thought was written by a woman. One of the final theories about that prologue is that it was written by Diego de Mexía pretending to be a woman, which makes sense because all the letters in the book were written by women; his and the ones by heroines of classical mythology. He was feeling very Ovidian, I think. Anyway, the translation is wonderful. Penelope’s letter to Odysseus is a gem. Look, it’s up there, if you stand on the stool and get the book down, I’ll lend you a recent translation and the one by Diego de Mexía to compare.’
I found an interesting verse. I’m going to put pins through the two translations, although the second butterfly is the one that will decorate this living room. In the contemporary version: ‘Love is a matter filled with worries and fears.’ In Diego de Mexía’s version: ‘For love is ever filled with fear’.
The letters Greek heroines write to men who aren’t there. Ovid imagines what a woman would say to a man who wasn’t there. Ovid, mon amour. ‘These words your Penelope sends to you, O Ulysses, slow of return that you are; writing back is pointless: come yourself!’
It’s three fifty-two a.m. We went to a cantina, and then to Tania’s house. Did Penelope masturbate while she waited for Odysseus? Because I’ve just taken off my shirt.
How can I know if it’s love or the complication of love that attracts me?
The taxi’s here. The doorbell made me jump, and I’ve forgotten how I was going to answer that last question.