Book//mark – Op Oloop | Juan Filloy, 1934

“Op Oloop was entirely incapable of any impromptu act that might violate the pre-established norms
of his routine; even such a trivial, graphical act such as addressing an envelope he’d already begun
while still within the allotted time.”

“Skepticism was a drug for him. Life’s vicissitudes had taught him never to be caught without it.
A most useful drug, it magically invigorated his heart, transforming opprobrium into piety and
ignominy into tolerance.”

“On the avenue, dark and tree-lined, shop windows began to blink on.”

“Perhaps he was probing the enigma of why men fall in love with their dreams, which are then
so destroyed by harsh realities that their dreamers become cuckolded by their own illusions.
Perhaps…”

“Whenever the mind tries to ascend into realms of new and sublime abstraction, matter persists
and confines it in the cellar of habit.”

“Routines are unyielding. They take hold like lice.”

“As has already been stated: some people’s brains border their anal regions. Thus, their senses
are dulled, and the psychopathological pestilence is such that the intrepid scholar-explorer
inevitably butts up against a dead end.”

“It’s distressing when intellect can’t detect its own defects.”

“The man of method may channel all his spiritual currents towards productive ends, be relentless
in his suppression of predilection and propensity, but when accident upsets the flow of his life,
he finds himself drowning in a sea of tedium, hatred, and rage.”

“Each man must administer his hatred cautiously. Mine is equitable. I distribute it evenly among
those who are frozen in the past and those who perspire in the present. Because while the former
are hemorrhoidal in their sensibility, the latter are constipated in the brain. And they complement
each other by both betraying the law of life that demands the immediate defecation of all useless
detritus, be it antiquated illusion or contemporary cowardice.”

“Thus, being the only begotten son of method and resolve, Op Oloop was the most perfect of
human machines, the most notable object of self-discipline that Buenos Aires had ever seen.
When everything in life from the important universal phenomena to one’s own trivial, individual
failures has been recorded and anotated since puberty, it’s fair to say that one’s system of
classification will have been honed, condensed to their most perfect quintessence. Or else deified
into a great, overarching, methodological hierarchy. Method’s very greatness, of course, is
revealed in its sovereignty over the trivial!”

“When life is as ordered as a mathematical equation, you can’t just skip a digit whenever you like it.”

“His tragedy lies in numbers: in being all method and no style. His esprit de geometrie forces a
square peg into a round hole, as it were. He wants to chart and graph it all ! But the sentimental
beings who inhabit our souls can’t be organized into numerical series, coordinates, formulas.
We’ve heard his heart explode. Perfection, shot to pieces !.”

“The miracle of love has plotted the definitive sabotage of my spirit. I note intolerable obstacles,
steel traps that make my psychological gears slip and destroy the harmonious mechanics of my
system. It’s deplorable.”

“Oh no, cherie ! They’ll never be able to abelardize us ! Our union is incoercible. It can’t be touched
by vulgarity. If any difficulties arise, our mutual trust will overcome them. I’m nothing like Abelard.
No one can abelardize me ! And they’ll certainly never manage to abelardize us !.”

“Circles are absolutely vital.”

“Erik choked back the insult he’d been on the verge of uttering. Judging by his expression,
it was viler than a castor-oil purgative.”

“A sudden and unforseen swinging of his head alarmed all present. He seemed to be
trying to scare off a flock of vampires biting into his brain.”

“A doctor? For me? Why? Because I’m laughing? Ha, ha, ha! Now hear this: I laugh out ouf an
inner obligation!… to vent the ill humors of my growing solitude, which thrives on the imbecility
of my fellow men!… Ha, ha, ha! I don’t need any doctor! No one can chase away the demon on
the duty in my mouth!… Ha,ha,ha! The demon confiscating my thoughts!… Ha,ha,ha! The demon
jumping on my tongue… in my ear… in my larynx.”

“My personality is built on reflection, but I can no longer see myself.”

“His leap was exact, mathematical. The initial arc – head tucked between taut
arms that spread out gradually like wings – was as graceful as a swan dive.”

 Juan Filloy, Op Oloop, 1934