The human stain

She said, and without revulsion or contempt
or condemnation. Not even with sadness.
That’s how it is—in her own dry way, that is all
Faunia was telling the girl feeding the snake:
we leave a stain, we leave a trail, we leave
our imprint. Impurity, cruelty, abuse, error,
excrement, semen—there’s no other way
to be here. Nothing to do with disobedience.
Nothing to do with grace or salvation or
redemption. It’s in everyone. Indwelling.
Inherent. Defining. The stain that is there
before its mark. Without the sign it is there.
The stain so intrinsic it doesn’t require a mark.
That stain that precedes disobedience, that
encompasses disobedience and perplexes all
explanation and understanding. It’s why all the
cleansing is a joke. A barbaric joke at that.
The fantasy of purity is appalling. It’s insane.
What is the quest to purify, if not more impurity?

Philip Roth, The Human Stain

*Donada por Omar Reyna vía mail.