En la totalidad de la obra literaria de Octavio Paz, ¿Águila o sol? guarda un sitio preponderante. Escrito en prosa, este libro canta lo circunstancial y lo anecdótico, y al mismo tiempo hace renacer constantemente, mediante un alto sentido lírico, la sensualidad, la belleza, el reino secreto de la poseía.

"The poetry of Octavio Paz," wrote the critic Ramón Xirau, "does not hesitate between language and silence; it leads into the realm of silence where true language lives."

Mexican poet and essayist Octavio Paz (1914 –1998) is one of the most influential writers of the 20th century and one of the greatest Hispanic poets of all time. For any true lover of fiction or poetry, reading these prose poems is like striking literary gold, and that’s for sure. To provide a small sampling, here is a piece from the collection along with my brief comments. And below this one, my write-up on a second, much anthologized masterpiece:

MARVELS OF WILL
At precisely three o’clock don Pedro would arrive at our table, greet each customer, mumble to himself some indecipherable sentences, and silently take a seat. He would order a cup of coffee, light a cigarette, listen to the chatter, sip his coffee, pay the waiter, take his hat, grab his case, say good afternoon, and leave. And so it was every day.

What did don Pedro say upon sitting and rising, with serious face and hard eyes? He said:

“I hope you will die.”

Don Pedro repeated the phrase many times each day. Upon rising, upon completing his morning preparations, upon entering and leaving his house – at eight o’clock, at one, at two-thirty, at seven-forty – in the café, in the office, before and after every meal, when going to bed each night. He repeated it between his teeth or in a loud voice, alone or with others. Sometimes with only his eyes. Always with all his soul.

No one knew to whom he addressed these words. Everyone ignored the origin of his hate. When someone wanted to dig deeper into the story, don Pedro would turn his head with disdain and fall silent, modest. Perhaps it was a causeless hate, a pure hate. But the feeling nourished him, gave seriousness to his life, majesty to his years. Dressed in black, he seemed to be prematurely mourning for his victim.

One afternoon don Pedro arrived graver than usual. He sat down heavily, and, in the center of the silence that was created by his presence, he simply dropped these words:

“I killed him.”

Who and how? Some smiled, wanting to take the thing as a joke. Don Pedro’s look stopped them. All of us felt uncomfortable. That sense of the void of death was certain. Slowly thee group dispersed. Don Pedro remained alone, more serious than ever, a little withered, like a burnt-out star, but tranquil, without remorse.

He did not return the next day. He never returned. Did he die? Maybe he needed that life-giving hate. Maybe he still lives and now hates another. I examine my actions, and advise you to do the same. Perhaps you too have incurred the same obstinate, patient anger of those small myopic eyes. Have you ever thought how many – perhaps very close to you – watch you with the same eyes as don Pedro?

Several elements making this prose poem especially powerful:
• The repetition of don Pedro’s wishing someone's death coupled with the clockwork precision of his mundane, day to day routine;
• How in some uncanny way, don Pedro’s mysterious hatred gave a dark dignity and meaning to his life;
• The sinister quality of don Pedro prematurely mourning his victim by dressing in black;
• The simplicity of don Pedro’s words: “I killed him.”
• Don’s Pedro’s silence and lack of remorse;
• Don Pedro never returning after the day he made his pronouncement;
• The strong possibility don Pedro is now hating someone else with the same ferocity;
• How anger and hatred are very much part of our lives, either our own anger and hatred or the anger and hatred of others, particularly if their anger and hatred is directly against us. I certainly take Octavio’s advice and make it a practice to examine my actions to see if there are any additional ways I can avoid becoming the object of intense hatred;
• Similar to the smile of Lewis Carol’s Cheshire Cat, the image of don Pedro’s small, dark, burning eyes remains long after his face fades away.

MY LIFE WITH THE WAVE
This Octavia Paz lyrical, magical tale begins: “When I left the sea, a wave moved ahead of the others. She was tall and light. In spite of the shouts of the others who grabbed her by her floating clothes, she clutched my arm and went off with me leaping. I didn’t want to say anything to her, because it hurt me to shame her in front of her friends. Besides, the furious stares of the elders paralyzed me. When we got to town, I explained to her that it was impossible, that life in the city was not what she had been able to imagine with the ingenuity of a wave that had never left the sea.”

Sure, our narrator made it to town with his wave but what happens when he and his wave ride the train? What does the narrator say when the passengers call the conductor, the conductor calls the Inspector, the Inspector calls the police, the police calls the Captain and the Captain hauls him away as a prisoner?

And when he eventually returns home to his apartment and sees his wave, how does the wave explain how she came home all by herself? And how does the narrator’s subsequent life radically change? What new colors and shapes does his apartment take on and how in the world does he make love to her?

If you think you have issues with your significant other, just imagine if you had to deal with the ups and downs of a wave with all her little fishies. And speaking of imagination, you can rub yours against Octavio’s and see where you stand, not only with the salt water pages of this wave, but all the short story-like prose poems in the collection. Cowabunga!


“A human being is never what he is but the self he seeks.”
― Octavio Paz ( )

"The poetry of Octavio Paz," wrote the critic Ramón Xirau, "does not hesitate between language and silence; it leads into the realm of silence where true language lives."

Mexican poet and essayist Octavio Paz (1914 –1998) is one of the most influential writers of the 20th century and one of the greatest Hispanic poets of all time. For any true lover of fiction or poetry, reading these prose poems is like striking literary gold, and that’s for sure. To provide a small sampling, here is a piece from the collection along with my brief comments. And below this one, my write-up on a second, much anthologized masterpiece:

MARVELS OF WILL by Octavio Paz
At precisely three o’clock don Pedro would arrive at our table, greet each customer, mumble to himself some indecipherable sentences, and silently take a seat. He would order a cup of coffee, light a cigarette, listen to the chatter, sip his coffee, pay the waiter, take his hat, grab his case, say good afternoon, and leave. And so it was every day.

What did don Pedro say upon sitting and rising, with serious face and hard eyes? He said:

“I hope you will die.”

Don Pedro repeated the phrase many times each day. Upon rising, upon completing his morning preparations, upon entering and leaving his house – at eight o’clock, at one, at two-thirty, at seven-forty – in the café, in the office, before and after every meal, when going to bed each night. He repeated it between his teeth or in a loud voice, alone or with others. Sometimes with only his eyes. Always with all his soul.

No one knew to whom he addressed these words. Everyone ignored the origin of his hate. When someone wanted to dig deeper into the story, don Pedro would turn his head with disdain and fall silent, modest. Perhaps it was a causeless hate, a pure hate. But the feeling nourished him, gave seriousness to his life, majesty to his years. Dressed in black, he seemed to be prematurely mourning for his victim.

One afternoon don Pedro arrived graver than usual. He sat down heavily, and, in the center of the silence that was created by his presence, he simply dropped these words:

“I killed him.”

Who and how? Some smiled, wanting to take the thing as a joke. Don Pedro’s look stopped them. All of us felt uncomfortable. That sense of the void of death was certain. Slowly thee group dispersed. Don Pedro remained alone, more serious than ever, a little withered, like a burnt-out star, but tranquil, without remorse.

He did not return the next day. He never returned. Did he die? Maybe he needed that life-giving hate. Maybe he still lives and now hates another. I examine my actions, and advise you to do the same. Perhaps you too have incurred the same obstinate, patient anger of those small myopic eyes. Have you ever thought how many – perhaps very close to you – watch you with the same eyes as don Pedro?

Several elements making this prose poem especially powerful:
• The repetition of don Pedro’s wishing someone's death coupled with the clockwork precision of his mundane, day to day routine;
• How in some uncanny way, don Pedro’s mysterious hatred gave a dark dignity and meaning to his life;
• The sinister quality of don Pedro prematurely mourning his victim by dressing in black;
• The simplicity of don Pedro’s words: “I killed him.”
• Don’s Pedro’s silence and lack of remorse;
• Don Pedro never returning after the day he made his pronouncement;
• The strong possibility don Pedro is now hating someone else with the same ferocity;
• How anger and hatred are very much part of our lives, either our own anger and hatred or the anger and hatred of others, particularly if their anger and hatred is directly against us. I certainly take Octavio’s advice and make it a practice to examine my actions to see if there are any additional ways I can avoid becoming the object of intense hatred;
• Similar to the smile of Lewis Carol’s Cheshire Cat, the image of don Pedro’s small, dark, burning eyes remains long after his face fades away.

MY LIFE WITH THE WAVE
This Octavia Paz lyrical, magical tale begins: “When I left the sea, a wave moved ahead of the others. She was tall and light. In spite of the shouts of the others who grabbed her by her floating clothes, she clutched my arm and went off with me leaping. I didn’t want to say anything to her, because it hurt me to shame her in front of her friends. Besides, the furious stares of the elders paralyzed me. When we got to town, I explained to her that it was impossible, that life in the city was not what she had been able to imagine with the ingenuity of a wave that had never left the sea.”

Sure, our narrator made it to town with his wave but what happens when he and his wave ride the train? What does the narrator say when the passengers call the conductor, the conductor calls the Inspector, the Inspector calls the police, the police calls the Captain and the Captain hauls him away as a prisoner?

And when he eventually returns home to his apartment and sees his wave, how does the wave explain how she came home all by herself? And how does the narrator’s subsequent life radically change? What new colors and shapes does his apartment take on and how in the world does he make love to her?

If you think you have issues with your significant other, just imagine if you had to deal with the ups and downs of a wave with all her little fishies. And speaking of imagination, you can rub yours against Octavio’s and see where you stand, not only with the salt water pages of this wave, but all the short story-like prose poems in the collection. Cowabunga!


“A human being is never what he is but the self he seeks.”
― Octavio Paz ( )

En la totalidad de la obra literaria de Octavio Paz, ¿Águila o sol? guarda un sitio preponderante. Escrito en prosa, este libro canta lo circunstancial y lo anecdótico, y al mismo tiempo hace renacer constantemente, mediante un alto sentido lírico, la sensibilidad, la belleza, el reino secreto de la poesía.