Feb 8, 2018
The nudity of a face is a bareness without any cultural ornament, an absolution, a detachment from its form in the midst of the production of its form.
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from India
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from Australia
seen from Türkiye
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Kazakhstan
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Spain
The nudity of a face is a bareness without any cultural ornament, an absolution, a detachment from its form in the midst of the production of its form.
Misschien beeld ik me jou in om de heel eenvoudige reden dat het leven onuitstaanbaar lijkt zonder verhaal.
and shopping will make sense again.
«O que fazemos com o conhecimento com que nos é insuportável viver? O que fazemos com as coisas que não queremos saber?»
Deborah Levy
Want dit was wel een der grootste deugden van de veerman: hij verstond als weinigen de kust van het luisteren. Zonder dat hij één woord gezegd had, voelde Siddharta hoe Vasudeva zijn woorden in zich opnam, niet sprak, zich openstelde en afwachtte, hoe niets hem ontging, hij op geen enkel woord met ongeduld wachtte, geen teken van lof of afkeuring liet blijken, alleen maar geduldig luisterde. Siddharta ondervond hoe goed het was om zich uit te spreken bij iemand die zo goed kon luisteren, in zo'n hart het eigen leven te doen verzinken, het eigen zoeken, het eigen lijden.
Ik moet geen onzin gaan denken, dacht hij. Geluk is iets wat in vele soorten bestaat en wie weet het te herkennen? Maar ik zou er wel wat van willen hebben in welke vorm ook, en betalen wat zij vroegen.
If the moon smiled, she would resemble you. You leave the same impression Of something beautiful, but annihilating. Both of you are great light borrowers. Her O-mouth grieves at the world; yours is unaffected, And your first gift is making stone out of everything. I wake to a mausoleum; you are here, Ticking your fingers on the marble table, looking for cigarettes, Spiteful as a woman, but not so nervous, And dying to say something unanswerable. The moon, too, abuses her subjects, But in the daytime she is ridiculous. Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, Arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity, White and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide. No day is safe from news of you, Walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.
De wereld is ons schip.