Absence, the highest form of presence.
I love paintings the way the blind must love the sun: feeling it, breathing it in, hearing it pass through the trees, adoring it with regret and pain, knowing it through the skin, seeing it with the heart.
- Hélène Cixous, from The Last Painting or the Portrait of God.
I am not a princess and I am often ugly and I need very badly to be just me.
Anche lei aveva conosciuto la sofferenza, ma la indossava magnificamente.
Siamo la somma di tutti libri letti, tutte le canzoni ascoltate, tutti i film visti, tutte le persone incontrate.
Infinite vite racchiuse in un singolo istante corporeo.
Siamo la somma di tutti libri letti, tutte le canzoni ascoltate, tutti i film visti, tutte le persone incontrate.
Infinite vite racchiuse in un singolo istante corporeo.
C’è un piacere nei boschi senza sentieri, C’è un’estasi sulla spiaggia desolata, C’è vita, laddove nessuno s’intromette, Accanto al mar profondo, e alla musica del suo sciabordare: Non è ch’io ami di meno l’uomo, ma la Natura di più.
It’s about the quality of the worry…I have happier worries now than I used to.
Tutti aspettiamo qualcosa.
Una data, le vacanze, l’uscita di un film, un viaggio, un concerto, un bel voto, una soddisfazione, l’amore, un bacio, un abbraccio, la felicità.
Passiamo tutta la vita ad aspettare e nemmeno ce ne rendiamo conto.
violentwavesofemotion
“Wherever you are, I hope you’re listening. Kindness is easy, as you know perfectly well. Because with kindness, you’re not really giving anything. I’m talking about giving your soul to your fellow human beings—and not just to the ones you love. I’m talking about compassion. Compassion means “to suffer with”: to suffer because someone else is suffering, to endure with the other, or in place of the other. You have no idea what that even means.
I can finally speak my mind, because I’m not afraid of you anymore. You always functioned as a mirror for others; you changed according to what each person wanted from you. But you always came up short, your whole life. You were always telling me, “I give to you, I give you everything.” But you never gave me anything. I can’t remember a single thing you’ve ever given me, other than exhaustion—and that exhaustion came in perfect doses, just enough so I wouldn’t be completely destroyed, and would stay with you for exactly as long as you needed me.”
Margarita Karapanou, tr. by Karen Emmerich, from “Rien ne va Plus,”
