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#Youtube

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Ghassan Zaqtan, "The Stranger’s Song," translated by Fady Joudah

In strange countries dew was crying at the door and roadsides drove colts to death

The place with its ten attributes was clean, reward on earth was where each time ends

And lovers and evangelists and what saints leave behind of prayers and breads were with me

What will lure you away from me?

Your morning, that bird of slow talk tossed its rituals to dusk, and some sleep in the heart was heading to its countryside to sleep

And something of life on the back of the hand was narrating forgetting

If only you knew that the faces that went would remain in threads of air, if only you knew that the paths would each have a voice, tobacco would have the taste of a wish, and newcomers would have the mirrors of absence

He saw and desired and it was done

The secret was done so lift your air your house visitors are a bunch of tempters their attributes are in the book

Your lover’s window has not slept or overlooked you

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Paul Celan, Psalm

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If we meet each other in Hell, it’s not Hell.

Geoffrey Hill, from Broken Hierarchies: Poems 1952-2012 (Oxford University Press, 2014)

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I have only my intermittent life in your thoughts to live Which is like thinking in another language. Everything depends on whether somebody reminds you of me.

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Auguste Rodin, A Hand in Bronze

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Cixous, Stigmata

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“Oppression is particularly pleasant for those who make their profession from conceiving its rationality, who in no way have to experience it in their bodies, but who, their windows firmly closed to the cries of torture and revolt, decipher the rose of reason in the cross of tortured bodies. Everywhere below that there is oppression, there is resistance.”

— Jacques Rancière, The Intellectual and His People (2012)

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Eric Fischl, Hysterics of Love, 1997

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PIER PAOLO PASOLINI I WORK ALL DAY. . .

I work all day like a monk and at night wander about like an alley cat looking for love. . . I'll propose to the Church that I be made a saint. In fact I respond to mystification with mildness. I watch the lynch mob as through a camera-eye. With the calm courage of a scientist, I watch myself being massacred. I seem to feel hate and yet I write verses full of painstaking love. I study treachery as a fatal phenomenon, almost as if I were not its object. I pity the young fascists, and the old ones, whom I consider forms of the most horrible evil, I oppose only with the violence of reason. Passive as a bird that sees all, in flight, and carries in its heart, rising in the sky, an unforgiving conscience.

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Goethe, The Maxims and Reflections

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Francisco Goya 1812-1819

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seferis

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"You remember people’s voices better than their faces. There is something indicative, spontaneous, about a voice. Given the face, you do not think of the voice; given the voice – which is nothing – you tend to make a person out of it, and you search for a face." (Pavese)

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