[procedures on hosting seashell echoes into old books and stones]
[shared solitude at the trembling margin of things]
[shadows again, with dormant eyelashes]
One day perhaps, we will all achieve serenity and will not understand so much because we will have understood everything.
— Italo Calvino, The Path to the Spiders’ Nests
[telling each other whole inverted stories with the facts plucked from the air to quiet the room]
Let’s quietly enjoy the sun while it shines. After it has left the sky, let’s rest. When it returns, perhaps it won’t find us. But it could be that we’ll also return.
— Fernando Pessoa, from A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe
[where the contrast and its loneliness converse]
[for whoever is lonely there is a room with upside down chairs and dusty tables surrounded by books]
[forever and forever and forever]
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours Forever and forever and forever. ― Ezra Pound
[love in the time of insignificance]
Not by the hair? No, not by the hair. Why not by the hair? — Italo Calvino, Difficult Loves
[like children and horses]
Madly in love after so many years of sterile complicity, they enjoyed the miracle of loving each other as much at the table as in bed, and they grew to be so happy that even when they were two worn-out old people they kept on blooming like little children and playing together like dogs. — Gabriel Garcia Marquez, One hundred years of solitude
[couple en silence]
We all arrive by different streets, by unequal languages, at Silence. ― Pablo Neruda
[cycling the binoculars]
Never tire yourself more than necessary, even if you have to found a culture on the fatigue of your bones. ― Antonin Artaud
[la vie en deux, ou l'autre côté de la colline]
– Qu’est-ce que vous faites dans la vie, vous? – J’apprends des choses, dit Colin. Et j’aime Chloé. ― Boris Vian, L'Écume des jours
[collection-box of trumpet rhythms and the sound of their own steps]
[a new friendship with error delicately juxtaposed]
You are never destroyed by anyone except yourself.
— Friedrich Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols
I have nothing to say and I am saying it and that is poetry as I need it. ― John Cage
[strong lateral asymmetry connected both to handedness and language]
[two lines living off imagination moving space between them - pastose ochre for the middle tones]
[the empty cages form shadowy monologues to bury not agree; on the safe boundaries of asylum and the infinitist project of distant harmonics]
[the third one]
I and me are always too deeply in conversation.
― Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra
[hosting silken sentences and random notes exchanged in the most circuitous way, one logic and one non-logic]
["How many hours have passed since the middle of them?"]
[in the company of silent beings made of opaque panes which dripped water from their common edge]
[furniture in landscapes from image to image to the folds of the clothes]
Arriving at each new city, the traveler finds again a past of his that he did not know he had: the foreignness of what you no longer are or no longer possess lies in wait for you in foreign, unpossessed places.
― Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities
[the birth of the detail with self-portrait on the right]
Today each of you is the object of the other’s reading, one reads in the other the unwritten story. ― Italo Calvino, If on a Winter's Night a Traveler
[the risk is solitude, the pleasure to juggle about with infinity as a respectable boredom, for every axiom disproves the next with naive devotion]
[the brutality of courtyards]
"I live here between the inner and outer houses and have to suffer the brutality of the courtyards between." Else Lasker-Schüler
[quiet and lost, they hide behind secret corners and delicate fencings, as if landscapes and dreams had never existed]
[the Fold and the Unfold - untold story in green of Afterwords]
I am forever unfolding between two folds, and if to perceive means to unfold, then I am forever perceiving within folds.
—Gilles Deleuze, The Fold
[Forgotten voyages - detail]
my love, we’ll not lose even this one dream; as long as we live we will claim every minute of reality, but claim dreams as well: we will dream all the dreams.
— Pablo Neruda, Ode to a Village Movie Theatre
[the moving feast of Ellepar El]
We sometimes dream a moving dream / Of living simply, fervently, without a word.
— Arthur Rimbaud, from Selected Poems & Letters, “The Blacksmith”
[permanent rite of initiation]
"We are bare. We are stripped to the bone / and we swim in tandem and go up and up / the river, the identical river called Mine / and we enter together. No one’s alone."
Anne Sexton, in an excerpt from Eighteen Days Without You, featured in The Complete Poems: Anne Sexton