People who become public figures at fifteen tend to spend the rest of their lives either trading on that moment or escaping it. María Sanhueza, at fifteen a spokesperson of Chile's 2006 Penguin Revolution, returned to hers twenty years on, only to dispute the usual account, which reads the school occupations too narrowly. What was being contested was the right to define words like education and student, and behind them an older idea of community that the official history had no vocabulary for. The writing she has made since, between Santiago, Beijing, Berlin, Paris, and Vienna, where she trained as a sinologist, takes the same dispute down to the level of the word. Her words come apart on the page. Dolorosas breaks open to expose oro, gold; the divine, lo di-Vino, turns out to contain wine. Spanish, German, French, Mapudungun, and Chinese move through the same pages, none made to yield to the others, and the refusal amounts to a claim: no single language, and no single system of knowledge, should be allowed to speak for the rest. Whether this is poetry or philosophy is a question she does not seem to think worth settling. Citing Neruda, María asks: ¿En qué idioma cae la lluvia sobre ciudades dol-Oro-sas?