I really enjoyed the vibe of this post, even though my Spanish is basically non-existent. That line about the sewing machine and the umbrella on a dissecting table is wild. It is such a strange image but it actually makes a lot of sense when you think about how random life is.

Since I had to run this through an AI translator just to understand the brilliance of Lautréamont's history, I figured I would drop the English version here in the comments. I know there are plenty of English readers on Hive who would probably miss out on this poetic exercise otherwise. It saves everyone else the manual labour of opening a new tab to translate it!

English Translation (AI Assisted):

180 years ago (April 4, 1846), one of the most influential writers of 20th-century literature was born in Montevideo (Uruguay), although he was born in the 19th, as his work was not recognized at the time. I am referring to Isidore Ducasse, better known by his pseudonym: Count of Lautréamont.
Thanks to the Nicaraguan poet Rubén Darío, in 1893, he began to be known in America. His expressions about him are key: “He lived unfortunate and died mad. He wrote a book that would be unique if Rimbaud's prose did not exist; a diabolical and strange book, mocking and howling, cruel and painful; a book in which the groans of pain and the sinister bells of Madness are heard at the same time.”
Poetic Exercise: The Beauty of Chance
“Beautiful as the fortuitous encounter on a dissecting table, of a sewing machine and an umbrella.”
We are that diversity, perhaps that dislocation.
Also the necessary chance or the random necessity.
We are the monstrosity of the moment, its epiphany.
The stubborn lottery of consciousness,
the tender horror of uncreated beauty.
We are this dissection of the soul
sewn, sometimes cooked, on the altar of ignorance,
while we watch the rain pass
dragging our desires away.