Showing posts with label Photography. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Photography. Show all posts

Wednesday, August 19, 2009


© All rights reserved.

A man looking out of an open window never sees as much as the same man looking directly at a closed window. There is no object more deeply mysterious, no object more pregnant with suggestion, more insidiously sinister, in short more truly dazzling than a window lit up from within by even a single candle. What we can see out in the sunlight is always less interesting than what we can perceive taking place behind a pane of windowglass. In that pit, in that blackness or brightness, life is being lived, life is suffering, life is dreaming....

Above the wave-crests of the rooftops across the way I can see a middle-aged woman, face already wrinkled--a poor woman forever bending over something, who never seems to leave her room. From just her face and her dress, from practically nothing at all, I've re-created this woman's story, or rather her legend; and sometimes I weep while reciting it to myself.

Some poor old man would have sufficed just as well; I could with equal ease have invented a legend for him, too.
And so I go to bed with a certain pride, having lived and suffered for others than myself.
Of course, you may confront me with: "But are you sure your story is really the true and right one?" But what does it really matter what the reality outside myself is, as long as it has helped me to live, to feel that I am alive, to feel the very nature of the creature that I am.

Charles Baudelaire

via: rachmaninoff at flickr

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

If I Could Tell You

Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.

W.H. Auden

via: flickr

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

" the present we are always escaping from and falling back into, ... the waterwheel of days..."

Mere forgetfulness cannot remove it
Nor wishing bring it back, as long as it remains
The white precipitate of its dream
In the climate of sighs flung across our world,
A cloth over a birdcage. But it is certain that
What is beautiful seems so only in relation to a specific
Life, experienced or not, channeled into some form
Steeped in the nostalgia of a collective past.

"Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror," John Ashbery

via: tumblr

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

A Wish

So much rain
to make the mud again,
trees green
and flowers also.

The water which
ran up the sun
and down again,
it is the same.

A man of supple
yielding manner
might, too, discover
ways of water.

Robert Creeley
:photo via Matilde B.

Monday, March 16, 2009

A Dream Play

"Anything can happen, everything is possible and plausible. Time and space do not exist. Upon an insignificant background of real life events the imagination spins and weaves new patterns, a blend of memories, experiences, pure inventions, absurdities, and improvisations."

A Dream Play, August Strindberg
:photo via Matilda Iréne Linnéa

Saturday, March 14, 2009


"...if you ever wonder what you've done in your life, and everyone does wonder sooner or later, you have been God's grace to me, a miracle, something more than a miracle."
Marilynne Robinson (Gilead: A Novel)

:photo via diana:muse from flickr

Friday, March 13, 2009

Everything is Illuminated

"they say that people who live next to waterfalls don't hear the water. was terrible at first. We couldn't stand to be in the house for more than a few hours at a time. The first two weeks were filled with nights of intermittent sleep and quarreling for the sake of being heard over the water.
We fought so much just to remind ourselves that we were in love, and not in hate.
But the next weeks were a little better. It was possible to sleep a few good hours each night and eat in only mild discomfort. [We] still cursed the water, but less frequently, and with less fury. Her attacks on me also quieted. It's your fault, she would say. You wanted to live here.
Life continued, as life continues, and time passed, as time passes,
and after a little more than two months:
Do you hear that? I asked her one of the rare mornings we sat at the table together. Hear it? I put down my coffee and rose from my chair. You hear that thing?
What thing? she asked.
Exactly! I said, running outside to pump my fist at the waterfall. Exactly!
We danced, throwing handfuls of water in the air, hearing nothing at all. We alternated hugs of forgiveness and shouts of human triumph at the water. Who wins the day? Who wins the day, waterfall?
We do! We do!
And this is what living next to a waterfall is like.
Every widow wakes one morning, perhaps after years of pure and unwavering grieving, to realize she slept a good night's sleep and will be able to eat breakfast, and doesn't hear her husband's ghost all the time, but only some of the time.
Her grief is replaced with a useful sadness.
Every parent who loses a child finds a way to laugh again.
The timbre begins to fade. The edge dulls. The hurt lessens.
Every love is carved from loss.
Mine was. Yours is. Your great-great-great-grandchildren's will be.
But we learn to live in that love."
-everything is illuminated
jonathan safran foer
:Una Bella Vita
:photo via flickr

Thursday, March 12, 2009

"For need can blossom into all the compensation it requires."

To crave and to have are as like as a thing and its shadow. For when does a berry break upon the tongue as sweetly as when one longs to taste it, and when is the taste refracted into so many hues and savors of ripeness and earth, and when do our senses know any thing so utterly as when we lack it? And here again is a foreshadowing-the world will be made whole. For to wish for a hand on one's hair is all but to feel it. So whatever we may lose, very craving gives it back to us again. Though we dream and hardly know it, longing, like an angel, fosters us, smooths our hair, and brings us wild strawberries."

Marilynne Robinson (Housekeeping: A Novel)

:mille mathilde

Friday, February 20, 2009


And it was at that age...poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river
I don't know how or when,
no, they weren't voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street it called me,
from the branches of the night,
abruptly from the others,
among raging fires
or returning alone,
there it was, without a face,
and it touched me.

I didn't know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
something kicked in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
that fire,
and I wrote the first, faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
pure wisdom
of one who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
and open,
palpitating plantations
the darkness perforated,
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the overpowering night, the universe.

And I, tiny being,
drunk with the great starry
likeness, image of
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars.
My heart broke loose with the wind.
Pablo Neruda

:Roksana Mical photography
:via we heart it

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

From A Survivor

The pact that we made was the ordinary pact
of men & women in those days

I don't know who we thought we were
that our personalities
could resist the failures of the race

Lucky or unlucky, we thought of ourselves
as special

Your body is as vivid to me
as it ever was: even more

since my feeling for it is clearer;
I know what it could and could not do

It is no longer
the body of a god
or anything with power over my life

Next year it would have been 20 years
and you are wastefully dead
who might have made the leap
we talked, too late, of making

which I live now
not as a leap
but a succession of brief, amazing

each one making possible the next

Adrienne Rich


Saturday, January 10, 2009

"Nothing that is"

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is

Wallace Stevens

To read: Hibernation Blues.

:emilie79* Bancs publics, sans amoureux

Friday, January 9, 2009

Her Song Was Never a Nightingale

she stood on his balcony
he asked her if she was
in the movie.i do what i can
to survive she said, balancing
the candles glued in her hair.

he kissed her.a mouth filled
with paper stars. teeth for
the archeologists to find.

the sun was sliced orange
against the sky. a veiled lady
in the garden held shears.
off with their heads, she screamed
at the flowers.

Zoe Miller

© All rights reserved mllemathilde

Thursday, January 8, 2009

The Studio

In the end
it was an act of conscience
that ended it.
I fell in love with your colors
and you were entertained by my innocence.
It was only a moment and
seldom do I remember the smell of paints
and the warm, city night.
I was not the young girl you thought me to be.

K. Pilapovich

Friday, January 2, 2009

Somewhere I have never traveled

somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands