In this instance he would go inside himself to the land where he and his sister had grown up, where he, rather, they had already begun to prepare for their children. The invisible generation still waiting to appear, they were to tend all the familiar things.
But inside it was not the kind of place he could look at or walk past--instead it was a blue coil reverberating with a chill tone. This was forgiveness. He might've had a field of hearts to share this choice, all for naught. He spent those moments, that evening, choking on the one he had.
On the one page there is a poem for Jesus Christ. Opposite it a poem for Beethoven. For Christ pathetic love, for Beethoven rapture. It is salvageable--from the disguise of commitment in the former, disappointment.
From the opposite, the latter, an ecstasy owing to bluest sound, and no commitment at all.
None of these classifications is satisfactory by itself. In practice, every library is started from a combination of these modes of classification, whose relative weighting, resistance to change, obsolescence and persistence give every library a unique personality.
There are certain paintings by the artist, Ingres, at which we must not be allowed to look. Draft and pass a law. We have in the course of the wannest propriety been incentivized: Dear girl you are pure violet sugar.
Constantine P. Cavafy, Come Back, 1912, Greek. Come back often and take hold of me, sensation that I love, come back and take hold of me -- when the body's memory revives and an old longing again passes through the blood, when lips and skin remember and hands feel as though they touch again.
Come back often, take hold of me in the night when lips and skin remember...
The hill is replete--rich in fact, With two features.
There is the slope--it descends,
And there is the crown. It adheres to the unknown.
even the obscurest struggle is flatly obvious, but in it, and in spite of its aspect and tone, there is grand fulfillment to be had. We are in the world as children to blissfully forget its rugged aspect and tone; we are finally adults to appreciate it.
What parade you march, may it be made of cropped memories, corrosive batterings. What parade you march, might it endure you and never you and the rain it: Dubious flowers and of perfect colors bleeding their fortunate ways across your grasping hands. Those too, in the parade you march.