Sarduy & Eggers

Cobra and Maitreya, by Severo Sarduy, Translated by Suzanne Jill Levine. Dalkey Archive Press
What is the What, by Dave Eggers, McSweeney's Publishing

In Cobra, by Severo Sarduy, the main character is called, well, Cobra. He may be a transvestite, or maybe transgender[ed], or neither, but one thing seems almost certain: he/she/it lives in Amsterdam. Cobra seems to have a foot that is mechanical, though nothing is certain.

Herzog's Green Cobra, only now being released in North America, features Klaus Kinski, obviously, playing a terribly insane, oversexed, white master among South Americans and Africans.

And, just now, into my study has walked a human-size raccoon. He greets me and seems kind, despite the threatening teeth. I welcome him, mostly because he will provide warmth for the next few hours. It remains to be seen how long he can stay seated in the uncomfortable wicker chair I have set in the corner, the one covered in the elegant Oaxaca weaving, meant to be worn as a skirt by women in the Mixtec region. His breathing is distracting, perhaps because, as he has just informed me, he is suffering from an uneven heartbeat, wrought, as it is, by the insertion of an extraneous valve into one of the chambers of his heart. I tell him that these procedures are quite common nowadays. He seems tired, worn out. Perhaps the raccoon is simply echoing my own state of mind. Perhaps not. It's hard to say.

*

David Egger’s What is the What, could be considered one, if not the greatest contemporary expression of our condition as nomads. Perhaps, it is the journey itself which sums up our existence, condemned as we are to wander, sometimes in an apocalyptic world, other times, in a world ruled by magic and chance. Regardless, the journey is the what, and it defines us.

Raccoon has risen from the chair and is enveloping me in his furry presence. The mechanical fingers which finish his right arm are touching my centre now, the place where my legs meet the chair I am sitting on. I feel a quiver and with it, the certainty that I may not be dying inside. He is cruel in the manner of his distance, obsessively building walls between us, so that the journey to his more southern location often feels daunting, almost impossible; so many are the hurdles I will have to leap over to reach him. I may never get there, what with the eye that watches from the window constantly delaying the train that crosses these nights. I know that I am the crystallized flower between the sharp teeth of this animal. Such are my thoughts as I sign off on this day’s events.