While sitting on a beach, I was admiring mushrooms growing on the side of a rock - these are moments of pure pleasure for me. When I start to feel a bit tired and worn out I play my violin outside the tavern door.
The street in front of my house has turned into a huge sea of mud. Out the window, through the rain, I watch a can stuck in the middle of the street. A peasant wearing a heavy black woolen cloak beats his oxen; the rain and the mud are too much for them.
(from ‘Conjieso que he vivido: Memorias’, Pablo Neruda)
The stone in your collection is pale, almost white. The movement of its architecture is erratic, like a tenth century bloodless conquest.
“What is perceptible to the eye, however, can be severely indistinct. Mario Estaban believes there is much less structure than vibrancy and hue, much less of well-ordered image composition as well. On the other hand, what one may care much more for is beauty, conceptually and intuitively” (page 482)
I was headed down a street at an angle toward the church, behind a rise in the hill that formed a sort of natural parapet where the fog had settled. I was about to sneeze when I fumbled for a box of matches.
The reasons for her excellence are the reasons why she most succeeds: excellent fashion and greatest antiquity. And it's not that her story itself is all that predictable or new. She is a hopeless Neo-Nazi who is forced to bask in a straits of transitory peace and plenty.
“There is a labored suffering from stiffness in our aesthetic ideas ever since Diodorus recorded linguistic ambition in his writing. The ordinary mind has been too much inured to diagnostic philosophy in an attempt to distinguish these questions from others.” (page 701)
In my neighborhood. I have kept my unfamiliar clothes I find myself in. They are at your disposal if you ever need something soothing and different to wear. Omens of my impending departure are in the air.
“Complexity or simplicity? Which is true viewed through the medium of art? Many works enlarge and extend themselves further towards the unexpected via patterns of both. But there often is a sense of stress from which the only relief is further, perhaps forced, participation.” (page 199)
Here’s what they say: his only job is to be an impartial witness. And I heard two American scientists in a muddled conversation about small children and setting them free, a conversation that inevitably happened. All I was bound to do was lead a charge against the hopeless and sultry in the extreme, and that seemed to me an ineffective monument to a lost epoch.
running the whole length of the horizon...