We are about to enter the dressing rooms of writing. What will we find there where bibliographic citations mingle with family memories? What collage do foreign voices assemble when they encounter our own? How does one rehearse a tone? How does one revisit a poem written or read decades ago?
There are no luxuries here, only curiosity. At every step, as she traverses the days, time, the diarist finds herself facing the same questions with stubborn perseverance. 'You have to put in effort,' she tells us several times, and we don't know if she refers to reading, journal writing, this stage of life, or therapy. The essay places all elements, all blushes and mirrors, on the same level, horizontally, on the table. This way, her experiences, her journeys through the territory, the years, and the books become visible to us. A lurking and desiring vision of the world around her.
We are inside. It has been snowing since early in this book that allows us to enter the private chambers of writing in the life, work, libraries, family, friendships, and fantasies of Graciela Cros. Some poems, both her own and others', a box of reading and writing postcards, lectures, and an interview about what we do when we do what we do. At times, it seems like nothing will happen, but soon the letters rise again, restored from all flattery, to continue their task:
'Is it worth continuing? I do this with poems, they come again and again, knocking on the door, I don't open, only when I feel their intention is genuine, I let them in and write them.
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