It fell completely silent. I felt like a diver who finds himself at the bottom of the ocean one minute and on solid ground the next, unable to hear whether the others are saying he’s dead or alive because he’s encapsulated in a silence as vast as if he’d brought the ocean up with him and it surrounded him now like a hue bell that no one could pass through without drowning. The fluttering plant curtains filtered the light that flickered over my eyelids as over a gray sandy bottom. I dozed off in this air that was dense and warm and green, and also poisonous, because she had already discovered me, and then, with the greatest silence, sprayed her poison in through the windows, a green poison that quickly stripped all the leaf-flesh off my human body, exposing my ribs, fluids, and reproductive system, causing me to cave in, collapse, crumble, almost vanish; yes, there was actually only a little dust remaining, and that could be easily brushed off the sheet before lying down, as if there were a little sand between the toes the evening before. I got up. A couple of drops fell from my crotch. They spread out and became a little gray spot on the sheet. A little head with ears.
Inger Christensen, Azorno, pp. 22-23 (translated from the Danish by Denise Newman)
Inger Christensen died last year. She wrote very many books. There are no interviews with her online.
January 4th, 2010 / 12:10 am