Reach and Grasp
When the self-examined life doesn't seem worth living
We have a plate of sweets to pass around.
Laddoo #1: Kinjal Sethia, fiction editor at TBLM, was awarded the Vijay Nambisan Poetry Fellowship 2025.
Laddoo #2: Kunjana Parashar, who is TBLM poetry team’s managing editor, has a new poetry collection, They Gather Around Me, the Animals. This had won the 2024 Barbara Stevens Poetry Book Award. Also, the ‘animals’ in the title do not refer to the other editors.
Laddoo #3: Punarvasu Joshi’s translation of Manoj Kumar Pandey’s ‘Badalta Hua Desh’ (Changing Country’) was shortlisted for the Armory Square 2025 Prize. We’d published Punarvasu’s translated short story (‘Nothingness’) in TBLM’s August 2023 issue.
Congratulations Kinjal, Kunjana and Punarvasu!
It’s such a sweet sweet thing isn’t it, to be recognised. Every true moment of recognition adds a bit of meaning to one’s existence, and since meaning is ultimately rooted in myth, so too are the ways in which we are recognised. Perhaps it is less well-known that every myth has a sibling who voices a conflicting truth. Thus, if there is the Emperor and his invisible clothes, then there is also his sibling who could never achieve nudity no matter how many layers she removed. If there is Narcissus who is reified by his reflection, then we have his sibling who requires the other’s gaze to be rendered visible. Who is more at peace? We are told to pity Narcissus, but isn’t he self-sufficient in his pride? Doesn’t he seek only to be left in solitude? In Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen has Elizabeth Bennett remark:
Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.
The writer’s ego is often a case of vanity masquerading as pride. To know what writers think of themselves, it is often enough to know what others think of them. Still, whether our actions in the world are connected to the world through pride or by vanity, at least there is a connection. However, for some writers like Karl Ove Knausgaard and Sylvia Plath, neither external or internal validation counts as recognition of the quality of their work, and by extension, themselves. At best, such recognition only serves as temporary parole from the hell that is oneself. Their sorrow is an existential one, and self-examination only serves to extend the incarceration.
Robert Browning’s poem ‘Andrea del Sarto’ (also called ‘The Faultless Painter’), a dramatic monologue published in his collection Men and Women (1855), is based on the Vasari’s account of the painter. Andrea del Sarto, whose painting of the Madonna graces this post, tells his wife, whom he suspects is waiting impatiently to go her lover, that everyone acknowledges his work is technically perfect, and unlike the case with Michelangelo or Raphael, his grasp precisely matches his reach.
At any rate 'tis easy, all of it!
No sketches first, no studies, that's long past:
I do what many dream of, all their lives,
—Dream? strive to do, and agonize to do,
And fail in doing.
But therein lies del Sarto’s existential sorrow. When grasp meets reach, there is no role for the divine and therefore his work is denied transcendence.
Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged.
There burns a truer light of God in them,
In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain,
Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to prompt
This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of mine.
Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know,
Reach many a time a heaven that's shut to me…
John Shearman’s two-volume study challenges Vasari’s description of Andrea del Sarto, and thereby Browning’s portrayal of Andrea del Sarto. It would seem the man was not the myth he has become. But even if it were all true, so what? Self-doubt, self-deprecation and self-loathing can turn performative, and as with all great performances, it can get hard to tell, perhaps even for the author, between persona and the person.
Which brings us to this post’s colophon. Maria Soledad Berdazaiza’s translation of Alfonisa Storni’s work reveals a writer struggling with existential self-doubt. The title of her essay — ‘Self-demolishment’ (Spanish: ‘Autodemolición’)— invites us to visit the ruins. She burned twice as bright than most, but lived only half as long. Perhaps it doesn’t matter that she doubted her talent, felt worthless, and felt her reach had never met her grasp. She lived. She loved. She wept and she wrote and now she will be read. Over to you, dear Reader.
Colophon: A Poem & An Essay
ALFONSINA STORNI
Translated from Spanish by: MARÍA SOLEDAD BERDAZAIZA
Poem: I’m Going to Sleep (Spanish: Voy a dormir)
Teeth of flowers, cap of dew,
hands of herbs, you, gentle nurse,
have ready for me the earthy sheets
and the quilt of weeded moss.
I’m going to sleep, my nurse, lay me down.
Place a lamp at my bedside;
a constellation; whichever you like;
they are all good; lower it a bit.
Leave me alone: can you hear the buds bursting...
a celestial foot rocks you from above
and a bird sketches out a few notes
to help you forget... Thank you. Oh, one last request:
if he calls again on the phone,
tell him not to insist, tell him I’ve gone out...
Essay: Self-demolishment (Spanish: Autodemolición)
Some extraordinary things had already happened to me in life; for instance: being a woman and having common sense; having common sense, and in spite of it, writing poetry; writing poetry and actually writing good poems. It had never, however, occurred to me that I’d dare to speak ill-mannered about myself, even just a little, attempting at my self-demolition, convinced that in life we should aim for the least effort, since there are always obliging friends already devoted to this task.
However, I have to confess that, eager to help them by virtue of social harmony, I wouldn't know where to begin. I shall speak first of the wrapping, the chest, the case, the glove, the tube, the sheath, the house -the body- where my astral soul is felinely preserved. ¡Oh! Despicable topic: height: 157 centimeters; cubic capacity: non-existent; a nose that protrudes violently into the sky; two slanting slate-blue eyes; a cloud of ash-blond hair that, wisely trimmed by a modest hairdresser for six pounds and having nothing else to do, sticks diligently to the skull; and a rather large foot (size 7).
Regarding the substance: soul, light, essence, absolute self, contained in rather light armour (note the deceiving foundation), I beg you not to come too close or I shall roar like a beast. But, if once familiar with it, you analyse this being, you will find the following curious proportions:
Instinct ..…………………………..……… 20 per cent
Fantasy and sentiment ………. 9 per cent
Heart ……………….………………………. 1 per cent
Sugar …………….…………………………. 70 per cent
Concerning my literary work, I cannot deny the common opinion (How could such a sugary creature contradict God’s word?) That is, that I’m a great poetess, but I’m full of horrible moles: I’m defective, dispersed and still waiting to pronounce her last word.
I don't deny having published a volume of poems back in 1916 -La inquietud del Rosal- a book as bad as it was innocent, written amidst commercial letters, in times when unpoetic demands forced me to spend nine hours in an office, unaware, alas!, of my own sacred flame and other paramount needs for someone wishing to publish a book. To give you an idea of how bad that book was, let me tell you that a good amount of highly favourable articles were written about it and just as the foam of hot milk rises, spills and falls -ineffable image- so my name descended from the fourth floor where I penned my verses to the bustling streets of Buenos Aires and other capital cities of the easy America.
Of the other five books, somewhat improved, I shall name their faults: From El Dulce Daño, the neglect of the form, extravagance and an excess of literary devices; in Irremediablemente, an overdose of sugar; in Languidez, an excessive sobriety; in Ocre, an overabundance of reasoning and an unfriendly irony; and in Poemas de Amor, only its brevity. But, what about the capital defects, you’ll wonder, the major defects? Here they are: lack of severity in the choice, complexity, rashness, mess, carelessness for the details and the fact of having won, with only one book, two prestigious prizes in cash, which my literate brother has not yet forgiven me.
As for my moral faults, I do not dare speak of them. Women have created them for me: they know them better than I do and, humble at last, I bear them without enjoying them. I could just add that I am profoundly stupid. And if anyone shall doubt it, I ask that they read this article two or three times.
——
ALFONSINA STORNI (1892–1938) was one of the most vital and defiant voices in Argentine literature. Her poetry explores themes such as gender, love, and eroticism with both intimacy and boldness. Her style is often associated with modernism and feminism, as she gave voice to women’s experiences in a deeply patriarchal society, as her own life was a challenge to social standard norms. The prose piece included here offers a glimpse into Storni’s self-perception — a stylized self-portrait — while the accompanying poem reveals the conciseness and sharpness of her late style.
MARÍA SOLEDAD BERDAZAIZ is an English<>Spanish literary translator, writer, and editor with a deep passion for reading and storytelling. With over a decade of experience in creative and editorial projects, she brings sensitivity, precision, and cultural insight to every text. She has translated works of fiction, poetry, and essays from English and Spanish, and her writing in publications such as The Bombay Literary Magazine and Mamagazine (Madrid). She is also the co-founder of Hoja en Blanco and the Editorial Director of LIMINAL Fanzine, two projects exploring language, migration, and identity. She blogs at: lamaga-interplanetaria.blogspot.com.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:
Banner image: Madonna of the Harpies (Italian: Madonna delle Arpie, 1517). Andrea del Sarto. Oil on wood. 208 cm × 178 cm (82 in × 70 in). Location: Galleria Uffizi, Florence.
This is a time-travel painting, since the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus is posed between St. Francis of Assisi on the left and St. John the Evangelist on the right. To add to the confusion, the pedestal displays creatures long thought to be harpies, but were probably just the artist’s conception of social media.
Michelangelo also painted the Madonna, the Doni Tondo or Doni Madonna, now reposing in the Uffizi. It’s his only surviving panel painting. So did Raphael. His oil painting Madonna del Prato was completed in 1504-1505 and now hangs in the Vienna Belvedere. If you can’t go to Florence and Vienna to compare the three works, take our word for it: the prize goes to Andrea del Sarto, sensa errori.
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