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Raúl Zurita

"(...) I started writing very young, but it was while studying engineering, I realized that poetry was to be my passion, the only sense of a hypothetical full, and many more possible losses. However, it still did not know much. I wrote in 1969 some of the short poems that are in the beginning of the book Purgatory and in 1972 another poem called "green areas" and which I think is the most perfect and anguish I've done. Engineering returned to fall headlong into the ship's hold Maipo on the morning of September 11, 1973. When I left there the world was completely broken. Asylum and I thought the worst. Paradoxically that beat save my life, and was absolutely committed suicide, but to see how people killed in the streets, as myself and as I was beaten at that moment was, again, killing many, suicide seemed to me absolutely ridiculous, horribly ridiculous, frivolous. My psychological conditions and físicas eran insostenibles: una vez me bajaron de un bus solo por mi aspecto. Fue la humillación y el poema. Recordé esa frase de la mejilla de Cristo y me quemé la mía, respondiendo a la bofetada, lo hice solo, en un baño con un fierro que quemé al rojo en el fuego del calentador de agua. (...) más tarde comprendí que con ese acto absolutamente solitario, autodestructivo, había comenzado algo. Así se inició en verdad mi poesía, quemándome la cara y me propuse una obra que concluiría, si acaso, con el vislumbre colectivo de la felicidad. Fue en mayo de 1975, imagine todo el trayecto, las escrituras en el cielo y en el desierto, incluso los títulos: Purgatorio, Anteparaíso, and La Vida Nueva. That's it, my poetry is from one cheek burned to the verse written forever in the desert of Atacama "or pain or fear" (measuring four kilometers and can be seen from above, with the Cerro La Vida Nueva in 1993. I have not been in that sense, a spontaneous poet. I have lived more than twenty years obsessed with an idea: the glimpse of happiness. All I've done has to do with it, with the strength and the life (and defeat). ( ...) It strikes me all the good that I read, but I can only mourn the dead beauty with some famous: Michelangelo, Dante, Whitman, Neruda, Homer and more: Nietzsche (who hate from the bottom of my heart, but makes me mourn), Dostoevsky. These big names give me strength, make me explode with happiness and fulfillment. Some celebrities of modern times but left me completely indifferent, starting with Borges. I love Vallejo of Spain away from me this chalice, how I would ever achieve that total simplicity and certainty. But the only way to access something that's the moral work. "