The year's doors open
like those of language,
toward the unknown.
Last night you told me

                                tomorrow
we shall have to think up signs,
sketch a landscape, fabricate a plan
on the double page
of day and paper

                   from 'January First', translated by Elizabeth Bishop

When Octavio Paz (1914-1998) died, Mexico lost a tribe of writers. He was many poets, from
the surrealist disciple of André Breton to the admiring imitator of Alexander Pope;
now a radical experimentalist, now an autobiographer and confessional writer. A social
critic, his work went through several phases of integrity. Unlike Orwell, he had a highly
developed interest in the erotic, and devised verse and prose styles for dealing with it.
He was a philosopher, translator, essayist and a brilliant editor, urgently alive in and to
his time. He never stood, or wished to stand, on his dignity, and that was his authentic
dignity.

As a young Marxist he went to Yucatan to help organise schools for the sisal workers'
children, and then to Spain in 1937, sponsored by Pablo Neruda. Spain began to unravel his
illusions.'What we wanted we wanted without innocence,' a poem confesses. He made contrary
marks on history. Acting against the excesses of his own government in 1968, at the time of
the Olympic Massacre in Mexico City, he renounced his ambassadorship in New Delhi and became
a focus of opposition. Twenty years before, he published and analysed news of the Soviet
labour camps, turning left-leaning Latin American writers virulently against him.

European by inclination, he brought unanticipated forms and tonalities into Spanish. He
could write a poetry of argument when he wished, though his most popular work is enactive.
He was Voltaire and de Sade.