Thursday, July 21, 2011
Friday, July 8, 2011
I believe that most people have some degree of talent for something - forms, colors, words, sounds. Talent lies around in us like kindling waiting for a match, but some people, just as gifted as others, are less lucky. Fate never drops a match on them. The times are wrong, or their health is poor, or their energy low, or their obligations too many. Something.
Wallace Stegner, Crossing
Friday, July 1, 2011
Édouard Boubat, Paris, France, 1970. From Édouard Boubat: A Gentle Eye.
“I was running, as the silks rustled, through room after room without stopping, for I believed in the existence of a last door.”
|—||Czeslaw Milosz, from “City Without a Name” in New and Collected Poems, trans. Milosz, Robert Haas, Robert Pinsky, and Renata Gorczynski (via proustitute) |