the fact that most shots of andrei rublev could have been painted by brueghel
László Krasznahorkai — in Seiobo There Below
the narrator’s advice for the big white bird
Can strangle this deaf moonlight? For we
— Hart Crane — from “Voyages”
Are overtaken. Now no cry, no sword
Can fasten or deflect this tidal wedge,
Slow tyranny of moonlight, moonlight loved
my favorite ancient greek word:
εἰσαεὶ — forever, but the literal translation is ‘into the always’
Now I have only one thing left to do: nothing.
I don’t want any belongings, any memories.
No friends, no love.
Those are all traps.
Krzysztof Kieslowski — Three Colors: Blue
Flower-muscle that slowly opens back
the anemone to another meadow-dawn,
until her womb can feel the polyphonic
light of the sonorous heavens pouring down;
muscle of an infinite acceptance,
stretched within the silent blossom-star,
at times so overpowered with abundance
that sunset’s signal for response is bare-
ly able to return your too far hurled-
back petals for the darkness to revive:
you, strength and purpose of how many worlds!
We violent ones remain a little longer,
Ah but when, in which of all our lives,
shall we at last be open and receivers?
Rainer Maria Rilke — the fifth poem of the second part of The Sonnets to Orpheus trans. Stephen Mitchell
in a letter to Lou Andreas-Salomé, June 26, 1914
I am like the little anemone I once saw in the garden in Rome: it had opened so wide during the day that it could no longer close at night. It was terrifying to see it in the dark meadow, wide open, still taking everything in, into its calyx, which seemed as if it had been furiously torn back, with the much too vast night above it. And alongside, all its prudent sisters, each one closed around its small measure of profusion.
someone help me with Job — soon my notes will outnumber the pages of the original text
Sunset Strip billboard for Joni Mitchell’s Blue, released June 22, 1971.
What is insomnia?
The question is rhetorical. I know the answer only too well.
It is to count off and dread in the small hours the fateful harsh strokes of the chime. It is attempting with ineffectual magic to breathe smoothly. It is the burden of a body that abruptly shifts sides. It is shutting the eyelids down tight. It is a state like fever and is assuredly not watchfulness. It is saying over bits of paragraphs read years and years before. It is knowing how guilty you are to be lying awake when others are asleep. It is trying to sink into slumber and being unable to sink into slumber. It is the horror of going on being. It is the dubious daybreak.
What is longevity? It is the horror of existing in a human body whose faculties are in decline. It is insomnia measured by decades and not by metal hands. it is carrying the weight of seas and pyramids, of ancient libraries and dynasties, of the dawns that Adam saw. It is being well aware that I am bound to my flesh, to a voice I detest, to my name, to routinely remembering, to Castilian, over which I have no control, to feeling nostalgic for the Latin I do not know. It is trying to sink into death and being unable to sink into death. It is being and continuing to be." — Jorge Luis Borges — “Two Forms of Insomnia” trans. Alan S. Trueblood