translated by Tess O’Dwyer
Nostalgia is a fruit with the pain of distance in its seed.
Giannina Braschi, 1980. Translation Tess O’Dwyer, 2020
Giannina: I’m burying the sardine—the dead body I carry on my back.
Zarathustra: A little fish—in a little coffin. And for this—for this little stinky
thing—we came from so far?
Giannina: Look, it’s moving. It’s still alive.
Zarathustra: It’s so salty and ugly it itches and bites.
Banks are the temples of America.
This is a holy war.
Our economy is our religion.
I’m in exile from the mother tongue—in exile from the foreign tongue—in
exile from all the tongues that wag with the familiarity of knowing—with the
credibility and the certainty—and without any kind of doubt that this is their
town and country. I laugh out loud—and my laughter is as mother tongue
as any laughter in any foreign tongue—but the joke is on me—because my