A Poem from Pastoral; or, the Inquisition of Memories (I make the affirmation.)

^{translated by Tess O’Dwyer}

I make the affirmation. I make the exclamation. I am the inquisition of

memories. And I am bored by semicolons. I am bored by doubt. And above

all, by memory. I am bored by memories and have reached the top of the

world to burn them. My memories are in this book. Listen to me, ladies and

gentlemen. This is the funeral of memories. This is their cemetery. This is

their funeral service. I don’t adore them or respect them at all. They belong

to no one. They don’t belong to the grave. They don’t even belong to

memory. You’ve all seen red chimeras and black chimeras. And you’ve

seen drunkenness and banquets. And afterwards the hangover of memory

came and swept away life. Death is called memory. And so is time. And so

are the damned garbage collectors. I mean the shepherds of memory. And

memories are shadows. And memories are death. I am not a memory. I am

not an arsenal of epithets or metaphors. I am the star, and the star shines. I

am affirmation. And I do not want concepts. I do not want abstractions. No,

no, no, and no. I am not a semicolon. I want a new paragraph. I want to

end it all, once and for all. Without any regrets. Without memories.