All unpublished books by César Vallejo, the stock of his unpublished emotion and, as I see it, the key to his being, the thing against itself.
His being, not the philosophy one can extract from his being, but the forcé that gives character to his poetry, that com- pelled me in 1962 to begin in earnest to seek to destroy the Against wedged in my own ñame, this Against, the cross on which he is nailed and at the same time, his crux, the point to tap if one seeks the man’s poetry.
In 1965 I went to Lima, Perú, feeling that I should complete my translation of his Human Poems on his native grounds. What ^mistake that was. At best, the ghost of Vallejo in Perú, and the ghost of Perú in Vallejo. A city and a country cured on the spit of repression and death, a body of poetry wrung hollow on repression and death yet, as Juan Larrea has pointed out, Vallejo did carry an archetype, as all great poets do, and his archetype was the in- fantile complex bequeathed to Perú by mother Spain, a coloni- zation without resolution, a complex that seeks to be reabsorbed, that searches out its own disperson, its death. Vallejo’s journey was from mother to Mother, Spain was his European center of gravity; it is as if he crawled there to deposit his gold.
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