Gangly Sunflower [Haiku]

in an open field,
one sunflower towers,
its head drooping.

DAILY PHOTO: Chua Phat Tich Temple, Vientiane

BOOKS: “Letters from a Seducer” by Hilda Hilst

Letters from a SeducerLetters from a Seducer by Hilda Hilst
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Publisher Site – Pushkin Press Classics

Release Date: May 27, 2025

This is an upcoming English translation of a 1991 novella from Brazilian author, Hilda Hilst, from what has been called her “obscene cycle.” It is mostly an epistolary novella in which a man, Karl, writes his sister, Cordelia, informing her about his recent sexual adventures and attempting to coax a confession out of her about her own activities long in the past. We never see any replies from Cordelia. (And that is part of what makes the book fascinating.) The only indication of her responses that we get are Karl’s references to Cordelia’s comments from her last letter in his present letter. However, we can’t necessarily be certain that even those occasional suggestions of dialog represent the truth.

To understand why one might have doubt, one must be aware of what else is going on in this book. There is one other narrative voice, and that is of Stamatius. Stamatius is in socio-economic terms the opposite of Karl. Karl being of the gentlemanly class — his behavior and letters to his sister notwithstanding — and Stamatius is a starving artist (a writer, to be precise.) The two men speak of each other, though always in deprecating terms. However, there’s reason to think the two men might be one. Stamatius, while condemning Karl’s sex obsession, also mostly engages in tales of his own sexual adventures as well as presenting those of others. In fact, the end of this novella is a collection of short vignettes of the nature one might see in a smutty letter magazine, only better (and sometimes poetically) written.

By the author’s own description, this novella is intentionally pornographic. While the same thing is said of Hilst’s The Obscene Madame D I did not find that book particularly graphic or sex-centric. This book, however, is quite graphic and if one took away references to sexual activities
nothing of substance would remain. (Not true of The Obscene Madame D.)

I found this book to be intriguing, despite the fact that it is quite sloppily arranged (presumably on purpose,) but it does present some splendid use of language (at least in this translation — the original is in Brazilian Portuguese) and character psychology.

I’d recommend this book for readers of literary fiction who don’t mind plotlessness and pornographicness.

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“Song of the Open Road” (8 of 15) by Walt Whitman [w/ Audio]

The efflux of the soul is happiness, here is
happiness,
I think it pervades the open air, waiting at
all times,
Now it flows unto us, we are rightly
charged.

Here rises the fluid and attaching character,
The fluid and attaching character is the
freshness and sweetness of man and
woman,
(The herbs of the morning sprout no fresher
and sweeter every day out of the roots of
themselves, than it sprouts fresh and
sweet continually out of itself.)

Toward the fluid and attaching character
exudes the sweat of the love of young and
old,
From it falls distill'd the charm that mocks
beauty and attainments,
Toward it heaves the shuddering longing
ache of contact.

Busy River [Haiku]

lazy kayakers
drift downstream as long-tailed
boats chug upstream.

The Cave [Free Verse]

Jagged window 
on the world:
All light and sound
deadened,
but from one opening --
The cave mouth.

From behind
nothing stirs,
nothing glows,
shadows are subsumed
by shadow.

Eyes and mind
frame the cave mouth,
making the mind
a cave within a cave:
layered silence
layered remoteness,
and all input of a single,
common source.

How many caves deep might
this thing go?

Grassy Bank [Haiku]

Autumn morn sunlight
brightens the grassy bank,
& throws long shadows.

DAILY PHOTO: Wat That Phoun, Vientiane

“Song of the Open Road” (7 of 15) by Walt Whitman [w/ Audio]

Here is the efflux of the soul,
The efflux of the soul comes from within
through embower'd gates, ever provoking
questions,
These yearnings why are they? these
thoughts in the darkness why are they?
Why are there men and women that while
they are nigh me the sunlight expands my
blood?
Why when they leave me do my pennants
of joy sink flat and lank?
Why are there trees I never walk under but
large and melodious thoughts descend
upon me?
(I think they hang there winter and summer
on those trees and always drop fruit as I
pass;)
What is it I interchange so suddenly with
strangers?
What with some driver as I ride on the seat
by his side?
What with some fisherman drawing his
seine by the shore as I walk by and pause?
What gives me to be free to a woman's and
man's good-will? what gives them to be
free to mine?

Chimpanzee [Lyric Poem]

Our closest relative, the Chimpanzee
Lacks our affinity to be fancy.
To them we are but pant-wearing buffoons
Who've lost all freedom to shoot the moon.