Self-Portrait

    Translated by Clare Cavanagh

    Between the computer， a pencil， and a typewriter

    half my day passes. One day it will be half a century.

    I live in strange cities and sometimes talk

    with strangers about matters strange to me.

    I listen to music a lot： Bach， Mahler， Chopin， Shostakovich.

    I see three elements in music： weakness， power， and pain.

    The fourth has no name.

    I read poets， living and dead， who teach me

    tenacity， faith， and pride. I try to understand

    the great philosophers——but usually catch just

    scraps of their precious thoughts.

    I like to take long walks on Paris streets

    and watch my fellow creatures， quickened by envy，

    anger， desire； to trace a silver coin

    passing from hand to hand as it slowly

    loses its round shape （the emperor's profile is erased）。

    Beside me trees expressing nothing

    but a green， indifferent perfection.

    Black birds pace the fields，

    waiting patiently like Spanish widows.

    I'm no longer young， but someone else is always older.

    I like deep sleep， when I cease to exist，

    and fast bike rides on country roads when poplars and houses

    dissolve like cumuli on sunny days.

    Sometimes in museums the paintings speak to me

    and irony suddenly vanishes.

    I love gazing at my wife's face.

    Every Sunday I call my father.

    Every other week I meet with friends，

    thus proving my fidelity.

    My country freed itself from one evil. I wish

    another liberation would follow.

    Could I help in this？ I don't know.

    I'm truly not a child of the ocean，

    as Antonio Machado wrote about himself，

    but a child of air， mint and cello

    and not all the ways of the high world

    cross paths with the life that——so far——

    belongs to me.