This is not really in line with our typical postings that are categorically original, but I can't help myself. If you have never read the poetic works of the master craftsman of language that is Pablo Neruda (all two of you that actually read this), run, don't walk to your nearest library, half-price book store, or black market vendor of literary merch and read some of his "verses of pastry which melt into milk and sugar in the mouth, air and water to drink, the bites and kisses of love," to use his own words (Sweetness, Always). Read that one. And then read the rest. And then try to catch your breath. Even if you don't, trust me, you'll die happy having been so moved by his unmatched workings of thoughts and images.
Robert Bly said it well in my Riverside Anthology of Literature when he asserted, "Compared to him, most American poets resemble blind men moving gingerly along the ground from tree to tree, from house to house, feeling each thing for a long time, and then calling out 'House!' when we already know it is a house."
I would commit myself to the Spanish language solely to experience the works of Neruda in their truest form. Actually, I am learning Spanish now, although it's my least favorite class. The professor is lame. But that's beside the point. The point is that it just might be worth it thanks to my dude, Pablo.
So yeah, it's possible everyone already knew how grand he is already and I sound really ignorant right now, but it doesn't even matter. I love him. I want to travel back in time and have his Chilean, beautiful, communist babies. Maybe you will too, if you don't already.
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