Down Below by Leonora Carrington

Author:Leonora Carrington
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Fiction
ISBN: 9781681370613
Publisher: New York Review Books
Published: 2017-03-10T00:00:00+00:00

TUESDAY, 24 AUGUST 1943

I am afraid I am going to drift into fiction, truthful but incomplete, for lack of some details which I cannot conjure up today and which might have enlightened us. This morning, the idea of the egg came again to my mind and I thought that I could use it as a crystal to look at Madrid in those days of July and August 1940—for why should it not enclose my own experiences as well as the past and future history of the Universe? The egg is the macrocosm and the microcosm, the dividing line between the Big and the Small which makes it impossible to see the whole. To possess a telescope without its other essential half—the microscope—seems to me a symbol of the darkest incomprehension. The task of the right eye is to peer into the telescope, while the left eye peers into the microscope.

In Madrid, I had not yet known suffering “in its essence”; I wandered into the unknown with the abandon and courage of ignorance. When I gazed at posters in the streets, I saw not only the commercial and beneficent qualities of Mr. X’s canned goods but hermetic answers to my queries as well—when I read AZAMON COMPANY or IMPERIAL CHEMICALS, I also read CHEMISTRY AND ALCHEMY, a secret telegram addressed to myself in the guise of a manufacturer of agricultural machinery. When the telephone rang or fell silent, answering or refusing to answer me, it was the inner voice of the hypnotized people of Madrid (there is no symbol hidden here, I am speaking literally). When seated at a table with other people in the lobby of the Hotel Roma, I heard the vibrations of beings as clearly as voices—I understood from each particular vibration the attitude of each towards life, his degree of power, and his kindness or malevolence towards me. It was no longer necessary to translate noises, physical contacts, or sensations into rational terms or words. I understood every language in its particular domain: noises, sensations, colours, forms, etc., and every one found a twin correspondence in me and gave me a perfect answer. As I listened to the vibrations, with my back to the door, I knew perfectly whether Catherine, Michel, Van Ghent, or his son was entering the dining room. As I looked into eyes, I knew the masters and the slaves and the (few) free men.

I worshipped myself in such moments. I worshipped myself because I saw myself complete—I was all, all was in me; I rejoiced at seeing my eyes become miraculously solar systems, kindled by their own light; my movements, a vast and free dance, in which everything was ideally mirrored by every gesture, a limpid and faithful dance; my intestines, which vibrated in accord with Madrid’s painful digestion, satisfied me just as much. At that time, Madrid was singing “Los ojos verdes” (The Green Eyes), after a poem by, I think, Garcia Lorca. Green eyes had always been for me my brother’s,

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.