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Memory Weaves And Traps Us At The Same Time According To A Scheme In Which We Do Not Participate: We Should Never Speak Of Our Memory, For It Is Anything But Ours; It Works On Its Own Terms, It Assists Us While Deceiving Us Or Perhaps Deceives Up To Assist Us.

-Julio Cortazar

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Memory Weaves And Traps

Julio Cortazar

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Memory Weaves And Traps Us At The Same Time According To A Scheme In Which We Do Not Participate: We Should Never Speak Of Our Memory, For It Is Anything But Ours; It Works On Its Own Terms, It Assists Us While Deceiving Us Or Perhaps Deceives Up To Assist Us.

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I Sometimes Longed For Someone Who, Like Me, Had Not Adjusted Perfectly With His Age, And Such A Person Was Hard To Find; But I Soon Discovered Cats, In Which I Could Imagine A Condition Like Mine, And Books, Where I Found It Quite Often.

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I Have Never Described This To You Before, Not So Much, I Don't Think, From Lack Of Truthfulness As That, Just Naturally, One Is Not Going To Explain To People At Large That From Time To Time One Vomits Up A Small Rabbit.

I Raised The Camera, Pretended To Study A Focus Which Did Not Include Them, And Waited And Watched Closely, Sure That I Would Finally Catch The Revealing Expression, One That Would Sum It All Up, Life That Is Rhythmed By Movement But Which A Stiff Image Destroys, Taking Time In Cross Section, If We Do Not Choose The Essential Imperceptible Fraction Of It.

The Mysterious Does Not Spell Itself Out In Capital Letters, As Many Writers Believe, But Is Always Between, An Interstice.

The Short-story Writer Knows That He Can't Proceed Cumulatively, That Time Is Not His Ally. His Only Solution Is To Work Vertically, Heading Up Or Down In Literary Space.

The Novel Wins By Points, The Short Story By Knockout.

In Quoting Others, We Cite Ourselves.

Skill Alone Cannot Teach Or Produce A Great Short Story, Which Condenses The Obsession Of The Creature; It Is A Hallucinatory Presence Manifest From The First Sentence To Fascinate The Reader, To Make Him Lose Contact With The Dull Reality That Surrounds Him, Submerging Him In Another That Is More Intense And Compelling.

Everything Can Be Killed Except Nostalgia For The Kingdom, We Carry It In The Color Of Our Eyes, In Every Love Affair, In Everything That Deeply Torments And Unties And Tricks.

Only By Living Absurdly Is It Possible To Break Out Of This Infinite Absurdity.

Salt And The Center Of The World Have To Be There, In That Spot On The Tablecloth.

You're Like A Witness. You're The One Who Goes To The Museum And Looks At The Paintings. I Mean The Paintings Are There And You're In The Museum Too, Near And Far Away At The Same Time. I'm A Painting. Rocamadour Is A Painting. Etienne Is A Painting, This Room Is A Painting. You Think That You're In The Room But You're Not. You're Looking At The Room, You're Not In The Room.

Why Have We Had To Invent Eden, To Live Submerged In The Nostalgia Of A Lost Paradise, To Make Up Utopias, Propose A Future For Ourselves?

For Me The Thing That Signals A Great Story Is What We Might Call Its Autonomy, The Fact That It Detaches Itself From Its Author Like A Soap Bubble Blown From A Clay Pipe.

I Think It Is Vanity To Want To Put Into A Story Anything But The Story Itself.

Come Sleep With Me: We Won't Make Love,love Will Make Us.

Before Going Back To Sleep I Imagined (i Saw) A Plastic Universe, Changeable, Full Of Wondrous Chance, An Elastic Sky, A Sun That Suddenly Is Missing Or Remains Fixed Or Changes Its Shape.

But What Is Memory If Not The Language Of Feeling, A Dictionary Of Faces And Days And Smells Which Repeat Themselves Like The Verbs And Adjectives In A Speech, Sneaking In Behind The Thing Itself,into The Pure Present, Making Us Sad Or Teaching Us Vicariously.

Where Are The Beginnings, The Endings, And Most Important, The Middles?

The Evolution From Happiness To Habit Is One Of Death's Best Weapons.

I Can't Think Of Another Writer Who Can Move Me As Surreptitiously As Vian Does

After The Age Of 50 We Begin To Die Little By Little In The Deaths Of Others.

The Modern Story Begun, One Might Say, With Edgar Allan Poe, Which Proceeds Inexorably, Like A Machine Destined To Accomplish Its Mission With The Maximum Economy Of Means.

She Would Smile And Show No Surprise, Convinced As She Was, The Same As I, That Casual Meetings Are Apt To Be Just The Opposite, And That People Who Make Dates Are The Same Kind Who Need Lines On Their Writing Paper, Or Who Always Squeeze Up From The Bottom On A Tube Of Toothpaste.

A Short Story Relies On Those Values That Make Poetry And Jazz What They Are: Tension, Rhythms, Inner Beat, Into Unforeseen Within Foreseen Parameters

As If You Could Pick In Love, As If It Were Not A Lightning Bolt That Splits Your Bones And Leaves You Staked Out In The Middle Of The Courtyard. (...) You Don't Pick Out The Rain That Soaks You To The Skin When You Come Out Of A Concert.

Nothing Is More Comical Than Seriousness Understood As A Virtue That Has To Precede All Important Literature

The Fantastic Breaks The Crust Of Appearance … Something Grabs Us By The Shoulders To Throw Us Outside Ourselves. I Have Always Known That The Big Surprises Await Us Where We Have Learned To Be Surprised By Nothing, That Is, Where We Are Not Shocked By Ruptures In The Order.

What Most People Call Loving Consists Of Picking Out A Woman And Marrying Her. They Pick Her Out, I Swear, I’ve Seen Them. As If You Could Pick In Love, As If It Were Not A Lightning Bolt That Splits Your Bones And Leaves You Staked Out In The Middle Of The Courtyard. They Probably Say That They Pick Her Out Because-they-love-her, I Think It’s Just The Siteoppo. Beatrice Wasn’t Picked Out, Juliet Wasn’t Picked Out. You Don’t Pick Out The Rain That Soaks You To A Skin When You Come Out Of A Concert.

La Maga Did Not Know That My Kisses Were Like Eyes Which Began To Open Up Beyond Her, And That I Went Along Outside As If I Saw A Different Concept Of The World, The Dizzy Pilot Of A Black Prow Which Cut The Water Of Time And Negated It.

What Good Is A Writer If He Can't Destroy Literature? And Us... What Good Are We If We Don't Help As Much As We Can In That Destruction?

Now That I Think About It, It Seems To Me That’s What Idiocy Is: The Ability To Be Enthusiastic All The Time About Anything You Like, So That A Drawing On The Wall Does Not Have To Be Diminished By The Memory Of The Frescoes Of Giotto In Padua.

All Profound Distraction Opens Certain Doors. You Have To Allow Yourself To Be Distracted When You Are Unable To Concentrate.

There Was A Time When I Thought A Great Deal About The Axolotls. I Went To See Them At The Aquarium At The Jardin Des Plantes And Stayed For Hours Watching Them, Observing Their Immobility; Their Faint Movements. Now I Am An Axolotl.

Human History Is The Sad Result Of Each One Looking Out For Himself.

[heaven Is] That Moment In Which Something Attains Its Maximum Depth, Its Maximum Reach, Its Maximum Sense, And Becomes Completely Uninteresting.

We No Longer Believe Because It Is Absurd: It Is Absurd Because We Must Believe.

One Of The Many Ways Of Contesting Level-zero, And One Of The Best, Is To Take Photographs, An Activity In Which One Should Start Becoming Adept Very Early In Life, Teach It To Children Since It Requires Discipline, Aesthetic Education, A Good Eye And Steady Fingers.

Memory Weaves And Traps Us At The Same Time According To A Scheme In Which We Do Not Participate: We Should Never Speak Of Our Memory, For It Is Anything But Ours; It Works On Its Own Terms, It Assists Us While Deceiving Us Or Perhaps Deceives Up To Assist Us.

We Know That Attention Acts As A Lightning Rod. Merely By Concentrating On Something One Causes Endless Analogies To Collect Around It, Even Penetrate The Boundaries Of The Subject Itself: An Experience That We Call Coincidence, Serendipity – The Terminology Is Extensive. My Experience Has Been That In These Circular Travels What Is Really Significant Surrounds A Central Absence, An Absence That, Paradoxically, Is The Text Being Written Or To Be Written.

(memory Is) A Strange Echo, Which Stores Its Replicas According To Some Other Acoustic Than Consciousness Or Expectation.

The More A Book Is Like An Opium Pipe, The More The Chinaman Reader Is Satisfied With It And Tends To Discuss The Quality Of The Drug Rather Than Its Lethargic Effects.

Only In Dreams, In Poetry, In Play Do We Sometimes Arrive At What We Were Before We Were This Thing That, Who Knows, We Are.

When One Wants To Write, One Writes. If One Is Condemned To Write, One Writes.

Wordplay Hides A Key To Reality That The Dictionary Tries In Vain To Lock Inside Every Free Word.

Happy Was She Who Could Believe Without Seeing, Who Was At One With The Duration And Continuity Of Life.

Continuity Of Life

I'm Such A Jerk; It Had Never Occurred To Me That When We Look At A Photo From The Front, The Eyes Reproduce Exactly The Position And The Vision Of The Lens; It's These Things That Are Taken For Granted And It Never Occurs To Anyone To Think About Them.

I Think We All Have A Little Bit Of That Beautiful Madness That Keeps Us Walking When Everything Around Us Is So Insanely Sane.

I Realized That Searching Was My Symbol, The Emblem Of Those Who Go Out At Night With Nothing In Mind, The Motives Of A Destroyer Of Compasses.

Literature Is ... A Game, But It's A Game One Can Put One's Life Into.

The Unusual Is Only Found In A Very Small Percentage, Except In Literary Creations, And That Is Exactly What Makes Literature.

Memory Is A Mirror That Scandalously Lies.

Of All Our Feelings The Only One Which Really Doesn't Belong To Us Is Hope. Hope Belongs To Life, It's Life Itself Defending Itself. Etcetera.

Time Is Born In The Eyes, Everybody Knows That.

The Best Literature Is Always A Take [in The Musical Sense]; There Is An Implicit Risk In Its Execution, A Margin Of Danger That Is The Pleasure Of The Flight, Of The Love, Carrying With It A Tangible Loss But Also A Total Engagement That, On Another Level, Lends The Theater Its Unparalleled Imperfection Faced With The Perfection Of Film. I Don’t Want To Write Anything But Takes.

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