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Authors: Anne Carson
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at sea—
the desire to know.
He sat.
I think I can,
said Geryon.
Pardon? Nothing.
A passing waiter slapped the bill down onto a small metal
spike on the table.
Traffic was crashing past outside. Dawn had faded. The gas-white winter sky
came down like a gag on Buenos Aires.
Would you care to come and hear my talk? We could share a cab.
May I bring my camera?
XXIX. SLOPES
Click here for original version
Although a monster Geryon could be charming in company.
————
He made an attempt as they hurtled across Buenos Aires in a small taxi.
The two of them
were crushed into the back seat with their knees against their chests,
Geryon unpleasantly aware
of the yellowbeard’s thigh jolting against his own and of breath from the nipple.
He stared straight ahead.
The driver was out the window aiming a stream of rage at passing pedestrians
as the car shot across a red light.
He pounded the dashboard in joy and lit another cigarette, wheeling sharp left
to cut off a bicyclist
(who bounced onto the sidewalk and dove down a side street)
then veered diagonally in front
of three buses and halted shuddering behind another taxi. BLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK .
Argentine horns sound like cows.
More blasphemy out the window. The yellowbeard was chuckling.
How’s your Spanish?
he said to Geryon.
Not very good what about you?
Actually I am fairly fluent. I spent a year in Spain doing research.
Emotionlessness?
No, law codes. I was looking at the sociology of ancient law codes.
You are interested in justice?
I’m interested in how people decide what sounds like a law.
So what’s your favorite law code?
Hammurabi. Why? Neatness. For example? For example:
“The man who is caught
stealing during a fire shall be thrown into the fire.” Isn’t that good?—if
there were such a thing
as justice that’s what it ought to sound like—short. Clean. Rhythmical.
Like a houseboy.
Pardon? Nothing.
They had arrived at the University of Buenos Aires.
The yellowbeard and the taxi driver
denounced one another for a few moments, then a pittance was paid over
and the taxi rattled off.
What is this place?
said Geryon as they mounted the steps of a white concrete
warehouse covered with graffiti on the outside.
Inside it was colder than the winter air of the street. You could see your breath.
An abandoned cigarette factory,
said the yellowbeard.
Why is it so cold?
They can’t afford to heat it. The university’s broke.
The cavernous interior
was hung with banners.
Geryon photographed the yellowbeard beneath one that read
NIGHT ES SELBST ES
TALLER AUTOGESTIVO
JUEVES 18–21 HS
Then they made their way to a bare loft
called Faculty Lounge. No chairs. A long piece of brown paper nailed to the wall
had a list of names in pencil and pen.
Help Us Keep Track of Professors Detained or Disappeared,
read the yellowbeard.
Muy impressivo,
he said to a young man
standing nearby who merely looked at him. Geryon was trying to keep his eye
from resting on any one name.
Suppose it was the name of someone alive. In a room or in pain or waiting to die.
Once Geryon had gone
with his fourth-grade class to view a pair of beluga whales newly captured
from the upper rapids of the Churchill River.
Afterwards at night he would lie on his bed with his eyes open thinking of
the whales afloat
in the moonless tank where their tails touched the wall—as alive as he was
on their side
of the terrible slopes of time.
What is time made of?
Geryon said suddenly
turning to the yellowbeard who
looked at him surprised.
Time isn’t made of anything. It
the desire to know.
He sat.
I think I can,
said Geryon.
Pardon? Nothing.
A passing waiter slapped the bill down onto a small metal
spike on the table.
Traffic was crashing past outside. Dawn had faded. The gas-white winter sky
came down like a gag on Buenos Aires.
Would you care to come and hear my talk? We could share a cab.
May I bring my camera?
XXIX. SLOPES
Click here for original version
Although a monster Geryon could be charming in company.
————
He made an attempt as they hurtled across Buenos Aires in a small taxi.
The two of them
were crushed into the back seat with their knees against their chests,
Geryon unpleasantly aware
of the yellowbeard’s thigh jolting against his own and of breath from the nipple.
He stared straight ahead.
The driver was out the window aiming a stream of rage at passing pedestrians
as the car shot across a red light.
He pounded the dashboard in joy and lit another cigarette, wheeling sharp left
to cut off a bicyclist
(who bounced onto the sidewalk and dove down a side street)
then veered diagonally in front
of three buses and halted shuddering behind another taxi. BLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK .
Argentine horns sound like cows.
More blasphemy out the window. The yellowbeard was chuckling.
How’s your Spanish?
he said to Geryon.
Not very good what about you?
Actually I am fairly fluent. I spent a year in Spain doing research.
Emotionlessness?
No, law codes. I was looking at the sociology of ancient law codes.
You are interested in justice?
I’m interested in how people decide what sounds like a law.
So what’s your favorite law code?
Hammurabi. Why? Neatness. For example? For example:
“The man who is caught
stealing during a fire shall be thrown into the fire.” Isn’t that good?—if
there were such a thing
as justice that’s what it ought to sound like—short. Clean. Rhythmical.
Like a houseboy.
Pardon? Nothing.
They had arrived at the University of Buenos Aires.
The yellowbeard and the taxi driver
denounced one another for a few moments, then a pittance was paid over
and the taxi rattled off.
What is this place?
said Geryon as they mounted the steps of a white concrete
warehouse covered with graffiti on the outside.
Inside it was colder than the winter air of the street. You could see your breath.
An abandoned cigarette factory,
said the yellowbeard.
Why is it so cold?
They can’t afford to heat it. The university’s broke.
The cavernous interior
was hung with banners.
Geryon photographed the yellowbeard beneath one that read
NIGHT ES SELBST ES
TALLER AUTOGESTIVO
JUEVES 18–21 HS
Then they made their way to a bare loft
called Faculty Lounge. No chairs. A long piece of brown paper nailed to the wall
had a list of names in pencil and pen.
Help Us Keep Track of Professors Detained or Disappeared,
read the yellowbeard.
Muy impressivo,
he said to a young man
standing nearby who merely looked at him. Geryon was trying to keep his eye
from resting on any one name.
Suppose it was the name of someone alive. In a room or in pain or waiting to die.
Once Geryon had gone
with his fourth-grade class to view a pair of beluga whales newly captured
from the upper rapids of the Churchill River.
Afterwards at night he would lie on his bed with his eyes open thinking of
the whales afloat
in the moonless tank where their tails touched the wall—as alive as he was
on their side
of the terrible slopes of time.
What is time made of?
Geryon said suddenly
turning to the yellowbeard who
looked at him surprised.
Time isn’t made of anything. It
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