28 октября 2014


There are among the works of Rodin hands, single,
small hands which, without belonging to a body, are
alive. Hands that rise, irritated and in wrath; hands
whose five bristling fingers seem to bark like the five
jaws of a dog of Hell. Hands that walk, sleeping
hands, and hands that are awaking; criminal hands,
tainted with hereditary disease; and hands that are
tired and will do no more, and have lain down in some
comer like sick animals that know no one can help
them. But hands are a complicated organism, a delta
into which many divergent streams of life rush together
in order to pour themselves into the great storm of
action. There is a history of hands; they have their
own culture, their particular beauty; one omcedes to
them the right of their own development, their own
needs, feelings, caprices and tendernesses. Rodin,
knowing through the education which he has given him-
self that die entire body consists of scenes of life, of a
life that may become in every detail individual and
great, has the power to give to any part of this vibrat-
ing surface the mdependence of a whole.

"The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge" R. Rilke

For poems aren't, as people think, feelings (one has those early enough) ;
they're experiences. To write a single line of verse one must see many
cities, people, things, one must know animals, one must feel birds
flying and know the movements flowers make as they open up in the
morning. One must be able to think back to roads in unfamiliar
regions, unexpected encounters, and partings which one saw coming long
before; one must be able to think back to those days in one's
childhood that are still unexplained, to one's parents whom one could
not help offending when they brought a delightful gift and one didn't
appreciate it (it was a delight for someone else), to those childhood
illnesses which arose so peculiarly and with so many profound and
difficult changes, to those days in peaceful and secluded rooms, and
to those mornings by the sea, to the sea anywhere, to seas, to nights
of travel that swept along high above, flying with the stars; and it's
still not enough, even when one's allowed to think of everything one
can. One must have memories of many nights of love--no two nights the
same — of the cries of women in labour and of pale, white, sleeping
women who have given birth and are now closing again. But one must
also have been with the dying, one must have sat in a room with the
dead with the window open and random noises coming in. And having
memories is still not enough. If there are a great many, one must be
able to forget them, and one must have the patience to wait until they
return. For the memories are not what's essential. It's only when they
become blood within us, become our nameless looks and signs that are
no longer distinguishable from ourselves—not until then does it
happen that, in a very rare moment, the first word of a verse rises in
their midst and goes forth from among them.

09 октября 2014

qoute i liked:
"As he proceeds from the bodies to
the faces it must seem to him as though he stepped from
a wind-swept distance into a room in which many men
are gathered. Here everything is crowded and dim
and the mood of an interior predominates under the
arches of the brow and in the shadows of the mouth.
Over the bodies there is always change, an ebb and
flood like the dashing of waves. The faces possess
an atmosphere like that of rooms in which many things
have happened, joyous and tragic incidents, experiences
deadening or full of expectation. No event has entirely
passed, none has taken the place of the other,
one has been placed beside the other and has remained
there and has withered like a flower in a glass. But
he who comes from the open out of the great wind
brings distance into the room."