Thursday, October 20, 2005
Nature is invisible to nature. In the countryside, our longing is the foreground object. We long for something big enough to hide in, without disappearing forever. We long for the silence in which we can finally hear the complete sound of our own name. Your spirit rushes toward these hills, like a child. You cannot call it back, without betraying the silence that brought you here. It is a love of lost things, your lost name, a silence which yields nothing until death.
In the country, nature is invisible, and our longings are the foreground object. In this picture, we long for the love of the sturdy people who kept this granary full. We long to love the boundary between lawn and flower bed, as keenly as the line between action and death. The peacefulness of the whole scene draws us in, and crushes us.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)