“I can feel your eyes, voyaging away, distant as that autumn,
Grey beret, voice of a bird, heart of a huntress–
Where all my deep agony migrated,
Where my happy kisses fell like embers.
The skies from shipboard. Fields from the hills.
Your memory is of light, of smoke, of a still pool.”
- excerpt from “Poem” by Pablo Neruda, translated by Kenneth Rexroth
“We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.”
- Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin
There is a voice that doesn’t use words. Listen.
- Rumi
“I shall remember this hour of peace: the strawberries, the bowl of milk, your faces in the dusk. I shall remember our words, and shall bear this memory between my hands as carefully as a bowl of fresh milk.”
- from The Seventh Seal by Ingmar Bergman
Graphite on paper, 2018.
“April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.”
- T.S. Eliot, excerpt from The Waste Land