“The year just ended brought victories to all of us on earth: victories out in space and along its routes. During the year, all men wanted to fly. We have all traveled like cosmonauts in our dreams. The conquest of space belongs to all of us, whether it was North Americans or Soviets who were the first to draw a nimbus around the moon and eat the first New Year's grapes on the moon.” (from ‘Conjieso que he vivido: Memorias’, Pablo Neruda)
Me: “Why is a penny worth friendship and humor?”
You: “Why do you think?”
Me: “Because my fingers fly as I argue.”
You: “Ok. And how does that feel?”
Me: “It feels like bruising my shin.”
You: “Does it distort your expression?”
Me: “Who could ask for better?”
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)
running the whole length of the horizon...