Los acercamientos heterogéneos que conforman este dossier dedicado a Mario Montalbetti (El Callao, Perú, 1953) coinciden al menos en dos sentidos: su proveniencia marcada por la permanente lectura de distintos soportes —ensayo, poema, ensayo/poema— que el autor ha entregado en distintas etapas de su vida, y la multiplicidad de posibilidades para construir, a partir de ellos, indagaciones en torno al lenguaje y su relación con la poesía
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“Imperceptible Anatomies,” by Mexican writer and academic Guillermo Jesús Fajardo Sotelo, is an essay that, from the trigger of a genetic condition, elaborates a penetrating discourse on personal health, the dimensions of an exceedingly rare pathology, and its links to literary creativity. This is an essay that shows extraordinary balance between the confessional, intellectual inquiry, the clinical aspect, and literary reference points. It likewise represents a minor epic on life and the questions surrounding the demands of the human body—a body, as Fajardo Sotelo calls it himself, that is “anatomically disobedient.”
But people live here, of course, and have lived here since time immemorial, despite the story of the state being mostly unassigned land that was available to be seized, first-come-first-served, by brave pioneers in the 1889 Land Run, Oklahoma City’s birthday.
Domestic Life is saturated with a theme I find eminently relatable, as I think many readers will agree: the imposter syndrome that plagues all of us who dedicate ourselves to creative endeavors. Here, Marcelo’s stand-in (Mauricio) is literally haunted by the ghost of Roberto Bolaño, who pops in every so often from the romantic deserts of poetic oblivion to poke fun at him for having fish filets for dinner and remind him of the wild, bohemian essence of pure literary impulse he is allowing to shrivel and wane as he lives the comfortable, (it must be said) domestic life of a poet-cum-professor at a U.S. university. After seven poetry books (and this one’s being recognized as the best of its pub year), Marcelo still cannot help but wonder: Do I write poems, or am I a poet? Does the former necessarily mean the latter? I can’t pretend to offer any answers here; I have translated a great deal over the past ten years, but I still find myself doubting whether or not I am a translator in much the same way. To use an appropriately homey idiom, I guess the proof of the pudding is in the eating. I invite anyone who has read this far to turn to the poems and decide for themselves.
Arthur Malcolm Dixon
The family house under the clouds,
the August morning, arbor,
grapes that hung from light,
I was a possession of presence,
the air plied the white room
and on the bed lay still the imprint of
that body born to lighted dawn.
And even the splendid moon
every evening
slides
entangles its rays
like a worm of fire
among your sweet hair of water.
University of Oklahoma
780 Van Vleet Oval
Kaufman Hall, Room 105
Norman, OK 73019-4037
