Autobiography of Red

by Anne Carson

Words, if you let them, will do what they want to do and what they have to do.

Homer’s epithets are a fixed diction with which Homer fastens every substance in the world to its aptest attribute and holds them in place for epic consumption. There is a passion in it but what kind of passion? “Consumption is not a passion for substances but a passion for the code,” says Baudrillard.

Up against another human being one’s own procedures take on definition.

Love does not make me gentle or kind, thought Geryon as he and his mother eyed each other from opposite shores of the light.

“How does distance look?” is a simple direct question. It extends from a spaceless within to the edge of what can be loved.

Pretty good Freud would have called it unconscious metaphysics but at twelve I was not cynical I had a good time.

Like the terrestrial crust of the earth which is proportionately ten times thinner than an eggshell, the skin of the soul is a miracle of mutual pressures.

Sie sind das was betreiben

There are many Germans in Buenos Aires they are all psychoanalysts the weather is lovely wish you were here

Aufwarts abwarts ruckwarts vorwarts auswarts einwarts

So this is skepticism, thought Geryon. White is black. Black is white. Perhaps soon I will get some new information about red.