Friday, August 10, 2012

die Sehnsucht

-- In books people make declarations of love and hate, they express their innermost feelings in fine phrases; but in life there are no significant speeches. What can be spoken is regulated by what can be done: if it 'isn't done', it isn't said.

-- The presence of a person is so complete, his absence so final; there seemed to be nothing between the two extremes.

-- If I love you, what business is it of yours?

-- Or, Cocteau's endearing version of Goethe's phrase, "I love you: is that any business of yours?"

-- And again and again I have to remind myself that the whole art of life is to lean on people, to involve oneself with them quite fearlessly and yet -- when the props are kicked away -- remain leaning, as it were, on empty air. Like levitation.

-- My darling. . . . How long is a day in the dark? Or a week? . . . We die, we die rich with lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have entered and swum up like rivers. Fears we've hidden in -- like this wretched cave. I want all this marked on my body. We're the real countries. Not the boundaries drawn on maps, with the names of powerful men. I know you'll come and carry me out into the palace of winds. That's what I've always wanted -- to walk in such a place with you. With friends on Earth, without maps. 

Image: Chagall's Song of Solomon

No comments:

Post a Comment