Arrivee de toujours, qui t'en ira partout.
“I write, I extend my hand; without my knowing it, this is already a prayer, […] it is in this modest, all-powerful way that I begin to save what is lost.”— Hélène Cixous, from “Quelle heure est-il ou la porte (celle qu’on ne passe pas),” trans. Catherine A.F. MacGillivray in Stigmata
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Yes, our human time is finite:
That much is obvious.
But I can hear
The infinite knocking
At the door
Of almost every word.And when they open,
Each of them opens
Into a world.—Gregory Orr, from Concerning the Book That Is the Body of the Beloved
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“And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.”— Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
“I have become aware: nature breathes, smells, listens, feels in all its parts; it adds to itself, couples itself, falls to pieces, and finds itself. I see myself evaporate and breathe forth more and more strongly; the oscillations of my astral light become swifter, sharper, simpler.”— Egon Schiele, from a diary entry written c. September 1911 (via
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