“You too radiate light to other worlds seeking to know their creation.”
— Mei-mei Berssenbrugge, “Chaco and Olivia” from A Treatise on Stars

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“You too radiate light to other worlds seeking to know their creation.”
— Mei-mei Berssenbrugge, “Chaco and Olivia” from A Treatise on Stars
Nikolaos Gyzis
« Without writing, Rilke's letters suggest, we might fail to grasp what exactly happens and become numb to reality itself, we might accept the obvious and latent hierarchies around us and unwittingly acquiesce to unjust conditions, owing not to cowardice but to our failure to find meaningful expressions for them, and thus make them apparent to us.
His search for the "simple and quiet words," then, does not amount to quietism. [...] Rather, Rilke's sense that one's mere presence on this planet deserves affirmation fueled his commitment to search his experiences for a guide to life. For this reason, Rilke attempted to cast himself in words: he had an urgent need to testify to his life in this world. "How is it possible to live since the elements of this life remain completely ungraspable for us?" Rilke asks in another letter. To the daunting nature of life and its difficulties, Rilke's correspondence is itself an answer.
The longer I live, the more urgent it seems to me to endure and transcribe the whole dictation of existence up to its end, for it might just be the case that only the very last sentence contains that small and possibly inconscpicuous word through which everything we had struggled to learn and everything we had failed to understand will be transformed into magnificent sense.
To transcribe "the whole dictation of existence," Rilke renders intelligible to himself what seemed incomprehensible, enigmatic, unassimilable. He makes a dogged effort to capture every last little thing without deciding in advance its ultimate significance, between what may matter and what might leave but a smudge on the great scroll of being. [...]
What will you do, god, when I am dead? In losing me you lose your meaning... »
— Introduction to Rainer Maria Rilke's Letters on Life
Jean-Baptiste Monnoyer, Nature morte aux fleurs, lotussed edit.
Francisco Goya, Caprice
“What is erotic about reading (or writing) is the play of imagination called forth in the space between you and your object of knowledge. Poets and novelists, like lovers, touch that space to life with their metaphors and subterfuges. The edges of the space are the edges of the things you love, whose inconcinnities make your mind move.”
— Anne Carson, Eros the Bittersweet
“That perhaps is your task–to find the relation between things that seem incompatible yet have a mysterious affinity, to absorb every experience that comes your way fearlessly and saturate it completely so that your poem is a whole, not a fragment; to re-think human life into poetry and so give us tragedy again and comedy by means of characters not spun out at length in the novelist’s way, but condensed and synthesized in the poet’s way.”
— Virginia Woolf
“It is not true that the more you love, the better you understand; all that the action of love obtains from me is merely this wisdom: that the other is not to be known; his opacity is not the screen around a secret, but, instead, a kind of evidence in which the game of reality and appearance is done away with. I am then seized with that exaltation of loving someone unknown, someone who will remain so forever: a mystic impulse: I know what I do not know.”
— Roland Barthes, A Lover’s Discourse
Cy Twombly, Nine Discourses on Commodus, (oil paint, wax crayon, and lead pencil on canvas; painting cycle), 1963 [Guggenheim Bilbao Museoa, Bilbo. © Cy Twombly Foundation, New York, NY, Roma, and Gaeta]
“Perhaps the whole root of our trouble, the human trouble, is that we will sacrifice all the beauty of our lives, will imprison ourselves in totems, taboos, crosses, blood sacrifices, steeples, mosques, races, armies, flags, nations, in order to deny the fact of death, which is the only fact we have.”
— James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time
Max Ernst. Configuration. 1974.
Naum Gabo, spiral theme, 1941
Kometenbuch (1587).
“When I write, it’s everything that we don’t know we can be that is written out of me, without exclusions, without stipulation, and everything we will be calls us to the unflagging, intoxicating, unappeasable search for love. In one another we will never be lacking.”
— Hélène Cixous, “The Laugh of the Medusa”
A note exists between two notes of music, between two facts exists a fact, between two grains of sand no matter how close together there exists an interval of space, a sense that exists between senses — in the interstices of primordial matter is the line of mystery and fire that is the breathing of the world, and the continual breathing of the world is what we hear and call silence.
Clarice Lispector - 'The Passion According to G.H.'
Man and Woman beneath a Tree, 1893, Edouard Vuillard
Medium: oil,board
Words fall into the void, and in their oscillation, the hours shine until they recreate the space from which the unknown returns.
Ali Chumacero, from The Unexpected from Words at Rest