Ever since I was a child I have marveled at the horse’s intuition for finding its way to or from home, been in awe of the dog’s ability to use its nose to return to the point of departure, through wind and rain, through dark of night or light of day, no matter how far the journey, and admired the cat’s infallible facility for finding the path that will lead homeward after all its wanderings. Myself, I cannot say that I possess that invaluable ability by which most humans are able to find their bearings on highways and byways, in places they’ve been only once, or maybe never even seen before. I get hopelessly lost when I stray from my customary rounds. With no sense of direction, with none of that indispensable capacity for analysis, judgment and reckoning, I find that any place I'm not familiar with is unreachable; I cannot get there without some knowledgeable person who can either take me or guide me. A tragic victim of poor spatial orientation, I can neither travel to nor from anywhere, and I am unable to overcome this disability. I cannot do it, I cannot learn it, I cannot understand it, and a map reveals nothing as to my whereabouts. I have no internal compass nor do I have any knack for visualizing the cardinal points, since I have never understood where they are. All this, of course, simply fosters my predilection for immobility. To avoid living in a state of perplexity, I try not to stray from places that are familiar to me. There is little to draw me away from my neighborhood, and I try as much as possible not to allow my social life to extend beyond it. Nothing could be more alien to me than the spirit of adventure. I am always getting directions mixed up; what has always been on the right is situtated now on the left. And when it’s time to leave a place far from my home, I go and look for my car where it is not to be found, thus wasting an enormous amount of time on solving a problem that never should have been one to begin with.

As a child, I used to admire the horse’s clairvoyance which allowed it to find its way to its destination and back. And, whether it be night or day, under the storm or against the gale, I admired the dog’s sense of smell that allowed it to go back to its point of departure no matter how far away it wanders, or the cat’s infallibility in tracking its own route back home every single time after its forays. I possess neither those qualities nor that invaluable sense, which is common to most humans, for finding their way through streets and roads, places previously unknown to them or spots they may have visited just once. I hopelessly get lost whenever I wander off the beaten paths. I do not possess the gift of placement and am incapable of exercising abstraction, discernment or deliberation where most needed. Those places I do not frequent are therefore out of reach for me. I would never find my way there if I didn’t have someone in the know take me along or give me the right directions at each turn. Fatefully tied to my own poor perception, I know not how to get there or back, and I’m incapable of overcoming my handicap. I can’t learn, I won’t understand, and even a map is of no help to me when it comes to ascertaining my location. I have no inner compass or gift of representation. In terms of the four directions, I never know which way they are. All this, of course, feeds my propensity to immobility. Thus, in order to avoid a lifetime of meaningless wandering, I try not to stray far from familiar grounds. Few things compel me to leave my neighborhood and I try, within my possibilities, to limit my social life to it. Nothing is more foreign to me than the explorer's wanderlust. I get directions wrong and often picture to the left what has always been to the right. Finally, whenever I park my car far from home, I always end up looking for it on the wrong end of the street or parking lot, thus wasting a huge amount of time solving a problem that should have never been.

KOVADLOFF, Santiago. "Soliloquio del extraviado" ["Soliloquy of a Lost Man"] from "Una biografía de la lluvia" [A Biography of Rain]. Emecé ensayo, Buenos Aires (2004).

As a kid I was always amazed at the way horses always seemed to know which way to go, by day or by night, even in the worst of storms; and how dogs could follow their nose and retrace their steps all the way back to their starting point, however far they may have strayed; and the cat’s uncanny ability to always find his way home at the end of his wanderings. I am certainly not gifted with such instincts, nor do I possess that invaluable sense of direction which enables most people to navigate highways and byways to places where they have never even been, or have perhaps been only once. The second I venture outside of my normal surroundings I become hopelessly lost. Lacking all sense of direction and completely inept as far as abstract thought, judgment and much needed calculation are concerned, journeys to unfamiliar places are unthinkable for me unless someone else does the driving or I have some knowledgeable individual at hand to guide me. A prisoner of my poor self-perception, I lack the freedom to come and go at will, and am likewise incapable of overcoming my handicap. I can’t learn, can’t understand…I just can’t; maps mean nothing to me. I have no internal compass, nor any gift of intuition—I couldn’t distinguish north from south or east from west, even if my life depended on it. Of course, since I prefer to stay put, this all works out quite nicely. I never wander too far from my stomping grounds so as not to get lost. There isn’t much reason for me to leave my neighborhood anyway; I do what I can to keep my social life close to home. The adventurous spirit of the explorer has no place in me. I get my directions all mixed up, and am constantly surprised when things I always thought were on my right show up on my left. When I park my car away from home, I look for it in all the wrong places, and find myself confronted with a hugely time-consuming problem that should really never have even been a problem in the first place.

KOVADLOFF, James. “Soliloquy of the Errant Wanderer” in A Biography of the Rain. Emece, Buenos Aires (2004).

As a child, I always admired the sixth sense that horses seemed to have, which enabled them to find their bearings at any stage of their journey, either during the day or at night and in wind or storm. I admired the powerful sense of smell which would take dogs back to their starting point no matter how far they had strayed from it. I admired the infallible accuracy with which cats would find their way back home after all their meanderings.
Alas, I have no such geographical accuracy; I lack that precious gift of perception common to most human beings who can orientate themselves on streets or highways, in unfamiliar places or in locations to which they have been only once before. I become hopelessly lost when I deviate from my usual circuits. Deprived of a sense of direction and unable to abstract, discern or calculate precisely where it is so crucial, places to which I do not regularly go are inaccessible to me, and I would never reach them if someone didn’t drive me or if I wasn’t guided by those that understand. I’m a prisoner of my poor perception; I don’t know how to get there, I don’t know how to get back and I’m incapable of overcoming my disadvantage. I can’t do it. I never learn, I never understand and a map of my location is totally meaningless to me. I don’t have an in-built compass nor any kind of knack for discerning my surroundings. And as for cardinal points, I have never even known where they are! All this of course, just compounds my natural inclination towards inactivity. To spare myself from a life spent wandering around baffled, I try not to stray from familiar settings. There is little need for me to leave my neighbourhood, and as far as possible I make sure my social life never takes me beyond its boundaries. There is absolutely nothing of the explorer spirit in me at all. I get directions mixed up and tend to situate on the left things that were always on the right. And if I’m far from home and leave the car parked, when I come to go home, I look for it in the wrong place, wasting a huge amount of time trying to solve a problem which should never have arisen in the first place.

As a child, I admired the sixth sense that horses have in finding their way to a place or back, and I admired the ability of dogs to scent the trail, by day or by night, through storm and gale, back to where they started from, however far they have roamed. Also cats, whose skill in finding the right direction home after their adventures is never-failing. I cannot do that; neither have I got that invaluable sense, possessed by most human beings, for finding my way round streets and paths or places never seen before, or which might have been visited but once. I get hopelessly lost when I stray from my usual haunts. Sadly lacking the gift of knowing where I am, incapable of deducing, discerning and calculating, just when this is so sorely needed, places unknown to me are beyond my grasp, and I could never go there unless driven by somebody else, or I did not let myself be guided by those who know. Bound by fate to my poor powers of perception, I know neither how to get there, nor how to come back, and I am unable to overcome my disability. I cannot do, I cannot learn, I cannot understand and maps are meaningless to me. I have no internal compass, nor any gift for picturing things in my mind, and, as for the cardinal points, I have never known where they are. All of this, of course, increases my propensity to stay put. In order not expose myself to being a perpetual stray, I try not to lose sight of familiar scenes. Few things call me out of my neighbourhood, and, as far as possible, I try to ensure that my social life does not stretch beyond this. An adventurer's spirit could not be further from mine. I mix up directions, and usually say that something is on the left, when it has always been on the right. When leaving the car parked far from home, I look for it wherever it is not to be found, thus losing a huge amount of time over a problem that should never have arisen in the first place.

As a child I admired the sixth sense with which a horse kept its bearings in its comings and goings, and the dog's keen sense of smell that always brought it back, by day or night and through wind and storm, to its starting point no matter how far it had roamed, and the cat's unfailing knack for finding the route that always led homewards when its prowling was done. I don't have that gift, nor do I have the invaluable facility common to most humans for orienting themselves on streets and roads or in places they have never seen before or have been at most only once. I become hopelessly lost when I stray from my well-beaten paths. Lacking a sense of location and incapable of the abstraction, discernment and calculation so sorely needed in this context, unfrequented locales are inaccessible to me and I would never get there if someone did not lead me or I did not submit to the guidance of those who understand. Dismally subject to my poor perception, I don't know if I'm coming or going and can't overcome my handicap. I am incapable of performing, learning or understanding and nothing gives me a clue as to my whereabouts. I have no internal compass and not the slightest talent for representation, and as far as the cardinal points are concerned I never learned where they are. Naturally all this contributes to my tendency toward immobility. So as not to expose myself to a wandering existence I try not to stray from my familiar haunts. Few things draw me out of my neighborhood and so far as possible I see to it that my social life never extends beyond it. Nothing is more foreign to my nature than the expeditionary spirit. I invert directions and have a way of placing on the left things that have been on the right since forever, and when I leave the car parked away from home and am ready to return I look for it on the wrong side and thus waste an enormous amount of time solving what should never have been a problem in the first place.

When I was a child, I used to admire the horse´s instinctive sense of direction. Whether coming or going, it always seemed to find its way. I would marvel at the nose of the dog which, day or night, rain or shine, faithfully returned its owner - however far it had wandered - to the very spot from which it had set off. And I never ceased to be amazed at the extraordinary ability of the cat, whose unerring judgement would, without fail, lead it safely home after a spell on the prowl. A sense of direction is something most human beings take for granted. They use it to guide them when roaming in unfamiliar places. I, however, rank among the minority who were not blessed with such a skill. I was favoured instead with a distinct lack of a sense of place which, combined with an acute inability to be abstract, discerning and logical when I most need to be, leaves unfamiliar areas regrettably out of reach. In fact, I would never arrive at such destinations at all were it not for more sensible people driving me or guiding me to them. I surrender myself body and soul to an abyss of bewilderment, and, as a consequence, render myself incapable of coming and going as I please. What´s more, I seem to be completely powerless to defy this puzzling affliction. I cannot, will not, don´t learn, won´t comprehend. And nothing, absolutely nothing, in my surroundings offers me any hint of a mental map to suggest my present location to me. You see, I have no inner compass and have never had an inkling where the cardinal points might be. All this, naturally, inclines me towards the quiet life. In order to avoid spending my time getting lost, I endeavour not to venture too far from my habitual surroundings. Very little can tempt me out of my neighbourhood and I try, as far as is possible, to ensure that my social life keeps me well within these self-imposed confines. Indeed, nothing could be further from my nature than a sense of adventure. For north and south are one and the same to me, left and right, but abstract ideas. And if I leave my car parked somewhere far from home, I will inevitably end up searching for it high and low, in all the most unlikely places, and consequently squander an outrageously inordinate length of time resolving something which should never, ever, have been a problem in the first place.

As a child I admired the horse’s clairvoyance for orienting itself in its goings and comings; I admired the dog’s nose for returning, by night or by day, or in the midst of a gale, to whence it departed no matter how far it strayed, or the cat’s infallible accuracy for always finding its way home after its adventures. I do not have these, nor do I have the invaluable sense common to the majority of humans for orienting themselves on streets and routes, or in places they have never seen or have scarcely been only once. I myself get hopelessly lost when I stray from my habitual circuits. Deprived of the gift of orientation, incapable of abstracting, discerning and calculating where it is so necessary, places I don’t frequent are unreachable for me, and I would never arrive if someone did not take me or if I did not let myself be guided by people who know. Fatally subject to my poor perception, I don’t know how to go or how to get back, and I’m incapable of overcoming my handicap. I cannot, I do not learn, I do not understand, and a map tells me nothing about my location. I have no internal compass, no gift whatsoever for representation, and as far as the cardinal points are concerned, I never learned where they were. All of this, of course, favors my tendency toward immobility. To avoid the risk of living lost, I try not to stray from familiar scenarios. Little can draw me outside of my neighborhood and, as far as possible, I try to make sure that my social life never extends beyond it. Nothing could be more alien to me than the spirit of the explorer. I invert directions and tend to situate on the left what has always been on the right; if I leave my car parked far from my house, when I want to return, I look for it on the side where it’s not, wasting enormous amounts of time solving something that should never have been a problem to begin with.

KOVADLOFF, Santiago. “Soliloquy of a lost person” in A Biography of the Rain. Emecé ensayo, Buenos Aires (2004).

As a child, I always admired the clarity of purpose with which horses orientated themselves on their journeys outward or home, whether it was day or night, stormy or wind-ridden. Similarly, I admired the sense of smell that allowed dogs to come back to the same place, however far they had strayed, or the infallible ability of cats to always find a way home after their wanderings. I don’t share this invaluable sense of direction that most humans have to steer themselves around streets and paths, often just as comfortable in unknown places as in those they have only seen once. I get hopelessly lost when I stray from my usual routes. Deprived of the ability of knowing exactly where I am, incapable of abstracting, discerning and calculating when it really matters, the places I have never been to are unreachable and I would never get to them if no one took me there or I didn’t let myself be led by others who knew better. Fatally bound to my poor sense of perception, I am unable to go, unable to return, and incapable of overcoming my handicap. I can’t get around, I can’t learn, I don’t understand and not even maps can show me where I am. I don’t have an internal compass or a skill for visualisation and I have never known my north from south. All this, of course, pushes me towards staying put. In order to avoid spending my life permanently lost, I try not to stray too far from familiar pastures. Rarely do I leave my neighbourhood and I try to make sure my social life doesn’t take me beyond it either. I am as far from having a spirit of exploration as you can get. I mix up directions and often remember on the left side things that have never left the right, and when I leave my car parked a long way from home, I try to look for it on the wrong side of the street and in this way waste a lot of time taking care of a problem that should never have existed in the first place.

KOVADLOFF, SANTIAGO. “Soliloquy of a Lost Soul” in A Biography of the Rain. Emecé ensayo, Buenos Aires (2004).

From childhood I marvelled at the horse’s innate ability to find its way to and fro, be it day or night, in a storm or in a gale force wind, and admired the instinct dogs have to return to the place they leave however far they move from it, or the unerring skill of the cat, after its adventures, to always make its way back home. I do not have this, and nor do I have this invaluable common sense shared by the majority of human beings to find their way around the streets and on the roads or in places previously unseen as well as those places barely visited once. I become irrevocably lost when I move beyond my usual environs. Lacking a sense of location, incapable of abstracting, distinguishing and calculating where it is so necessary, those places that are unfamiliar to me are inaccessible and I would never reach any of them if there were no-one to take me there or to advise me. Dreadfully hampered by my poor perception, I do not know how to go or how to get back and I am powerless to overcome this incapacity. I am unable to learn or understand and a map tells me nothing of my whereabouts. I have no internal compass, nor any talent for visualisation, and as for the points of a compass, I’ve never known where they are. Clearly, all of this encourages my static tendencies. To save myself from living like a stray, I try not to distance myself from familiar settings. Rarely am I required to venture from my neighbourhood and, as far as possible, I try to keep my social life within its boundaries. Nothing could be more alien to me than the expeditionary spirit. I confuse directions and usually place to the left what has always been to the right and leaving the car parked when away from home, the inclination is always to look for it on the wrong side and this is how an enormous amount of time is wasted in solving something which ought never to have become a problem.




“Soliloquy of the lost man” from A Biography of Rain. KOVADLOFF, Santiago. Emecé ensayo, Buenos Aires (2004

As a boy I admired the horse’s clairvoyance for getting his bearings whether outward or homeward bound and, by day or night, no matter the storm or the gale, the dog’s nose for returning to whence he came however far away he has ventured, and the infallible skill of the cat to find the way which, despite his meanderings, would always lead him home. I don’t have it, nor do I possess that invaluable sense common to the majority of humankind for finding one’s way around streets and routes or unfamiliar places or indeed those one has seen but once. I get hopelessly lost when I stray from my beaten track. Lacking the gift of orientation, incapable of abstraction, of discrimination and calculation where they are most needed, the places I don’t frequent are out of bounds to me and I would never get there were it not for some kind soul to drive me or if I didn’t let myself be guided by those who understand. Fatally at the mercy of my poor perception, I know neither how to get there, nor how to get back and I am incapable of overcoming my disability. I cannot, I don’t learn, I don’t understand and nothing gives me so much as an inkling as to my whereabouts. I have no internal compass, no gift for illustration, and as for the cardinal points, well I never knew where they were. All this, of course, favors my tendency to immobility. So as not to expose myself to a life of lostness, I try not to get too far away from familiar settings. Little lures me outside my neighborhood and I try as far as possible to keep my social life within its bounds. There is nothing so alien to me as a spirit of adventure. I turn addresses around and often put on the left something that has always been on the right, and when I’m away from home and park my car, I look for it everywhere except where it is and loose an enormous amount of time resolving what should never have been a problem in the first place.

As a child, I admired horses’ ability to orient themselves–whether coming or going, in the daytime or in the night season, and though in the middle of the worst storms. I admired dogs’ skillfulness in finding their way back to where they started, no matter how far they stray, using only their noses; cats’ unfailing ability to find a path home following their adventures. I am bereft of this skill, as well as of the invaluable faculty that most humans possess that allows them to find their bearings when traveling in uncharted territory, or in places where they have only been once before. I get hopelessly lost whenever I deviate from my usual routes. Being deprived of the gift of self-location, and incapable of the abstract thought and mental calculation that are so essential in these situations, places other than those I frequent are to me unattainable, and I would never be able to find them, unless someone drove me, or I followed the lead of those in the know. Terminally bound by my weak perception, I don’t know how to get anywhere, nor how to return, and I am helpless to overcome my limitation. I simply can’t: I’m unable to learn, I don’t understand, and a map tells me nothing about where I am. I’ve neither an internal compass nor the skill of visualization, and as for the cardinal directions–I never could tell you where they were. Clearly, all of this reinforces my tendency to stay in one place. To save myself from being perpetually lost, I do my best to keep the familiar in sight. Few things take me outside my neighborhood, and I do my utmost to ensure that my social life remains within it. I am the polar opposite of the expeditionary spirit. I mix up directions and place on the left what is and has always been on the right. When I park my car far from home, I go looking for it in all the wrong places, and waste an incredible amount of time solving what should never have been a problem in the first place.