Come potevi pensare che ti avremmo ucciso?

Non lo sai che noi vorremmo ucciderti mille volte,

fino ai limiti dell'eternità, se l'eternità potesse avere dei limiti?


Saló o le 120 giornate di Sodoma, Pier Paolo Pasolini

Break, bleed, love. And a landscape of violence is shown to be dense like the eye drifting from the first pages of this book. Crac (2001) opens itself like a school of resentfulness and flows. Blows, crying, death… compose a representational code, which is strict and incisive, leading us to an ethos against the heteronormal law of humanity against itself.

  Clustered poems from an empathic memory with the ones who have suffered the horror, here they take the first person of a multiple or polyhedron singular: an I-others, the subject of others, and a subject that is no more or has never been, as it is “á estranxeira a carauta”.

   Mutilated bodies, cadaveric and hungry children “enfants terribles que sangran polo nariz” (terrible enfants who bleed through the nose) who rise against a perversely written story. That crown which falls, a repeated image here and in the closest contemporary poets: metonymies and dynasties that write sovereignty, desire and body, all in the same page.

   “Entón decidimos que o discurso era o único modo posível de revolución”. In doing so, those once defeated search redemption for vengeance of an absent love of equals of which tastes different. In Crac, that broken mouth is the one that talks, that European eye is the one that sees, and that bourgeois fag is the one who appears to feel. Hiroshima-Acra-Auschwitz. Other mouths have already done it before, other eyes and different other skins, it is right, but Gonzalo Hermo (Rianxo, 1987) breeds this pages, with the power of writing and beauty, a selective “memory” that aims beyond, to the common place of the wound and the mucosa, to the corporeal epicentre of being, and to the suffering, happening from the body: so decrepit, precarious, temporal.

   “Renuncio a unha escrita afectada” is one of the verses, and nothing promises as much as a first book that is opens this way. And promises, as we know, must be read at least twice and keep them in mind for the rest of our lives. Crac is exactly that, a liquid promise. It is a limit-book, like a wound, limbo or heaven, like that which is foreign, the fetish or the whore, like scratches or hunger. It is a river-book, like writing. It is a violin-book, bourgeois and dirty. All of these traits make up a, so to speak, Paris-book.


Paris, February 2014

Gonzalo Vázquez

Originally published in the 4th issue of Caravansari magazine