I’ve never felt the premonitions of an alien age. And I’m not even going to finish this excellent chicken! But I am forever stained by rain from a sky of moldy linen, renewed and refitted through my own mental verbiage.
'Many years ago, Anne and our youngest dog, Seth, traveled by camel through the Egyptian desert. It was July, very hot, and almost every morning, she would go out with Seth to see if any sunflowers were blooming.
“As far as technical influences can be traced in the early drawings of Claude Debussy, they are a significant influence on the late-period landscape paintings of Henri Lelour, an artist who succeeded in changing the character of landscape art as we know it today.” (page 901)
I started with a question involving human behavior and she tried to find an answer. Then I said “Google it”. I thought my question was profoundly interesting: Why do yellow-striped South American ducklings limit their horizons by minute attention to weevils and broken biscuits? She touched me and I recoiled. Our hardships in life had marked my shyness and her surprise as milky throbs of silent acceptance.
“We splashed around happily, washing, cleansing off the heaviness of our long ride. We felt refreshed, born again, baptized, when we set out at dawn on the final kilometers that would take me away from the shadows hovering over my country. We left on our horses, singing, with a new air filling our lungs, a breath that drove us on to the great highway of the world waiting for me.” (from ‘Conjieso que he vivido: Memorias’, Pablo Neruda)
“Art is central to the individual human soul. Ultimately, there are no varying values intrinsically - only one equal value. There is variance in power to comprehend, but this may be more easily hindered than helped by the emergence of constituent experimentation.” (page 321)
She moved down the tiled stairs slowly, with a heavy heart. We had just finished an excellent chicken, and I was carrying memories of pure sunlight. Her slender grace was undisturbed by the assault-crews and archers approaching us.
Empty shallow-bosomed shadows moved along a wall. A woman passed a headland of rock with telephone wire wound around her hand. Her expression was wrapped in a teal cloud of mist. After a pause, I called to her.
“Some hours later, the community of writers and friends had gone into action in Argentina, Chile, and several other countries. They took me from my cell, carried me to the infirmary, returned my belongings, and set me free. I was about to leave the prison, when one of the uniformed guards came up to me and put a sheet of paper in my hands. It was a poem he had dedicated to me, written in crude verse, filled with careless slips, innocent like all popular art. I imagine few poets have received a poetic homage from the men assigned to guard them.” (from ‘Conjieso que he vivido: Memorias’, Pablo Neruda)
For example, she said there’s no such thing as a tangerine-scented wind. When I argued the point, and then a delicious wind presented itself, she lay prostrate in the middle of the road for fifteen minutes.
running the whole length of the horizon...