Thrown out in a glittering arc
as clear as the winterbourne,
the jug of Murphy's I threw back
goes hissing of the stone.
Whatever I do with all the black
is my business alone.
Don Paterson, Nil Nil
quinta-feira, 31 de julho de 2014
quinta-feira, 13 de março de 2014
'Noise has one advantage, it drowns out words.' And suddendly he realized that all his life he had done nothing but talk, write, lecture, concoct sentences, search for formulations and ammend them, so in the end no words were precise, their meanings were obliterated, their content lost, they turn into trash, chaff, dust, sand; prowling through his brain, tearing at his head, they were his insomnia, his illness. And what he yearned for at that moment, vaguely but with all his might, was unbounded music, absolute sound, a pleasant and happy all-encompassing, over-powering, window-rattling din to engulf, once and for all, the pain, the futility, the vanity of words. Music was the negation of sentences, music was the anti-word!
Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Michael Henry Heim (transl.), Faber & Faber, 1995, p. 90.