flowerville

Norah s'était tout simplement laissée aller vers ce refuge traditionnel des femmes qui n'ont aucun pouvoir. Elle avait ainsi fait sienne cette totale impuissance, cette passivité absolue. Ne faisant rien, elle avait revendiqué tout.
Carol Shields - Unless

I am at a stage of life when that strange anticipation in which, in the past (during youth, maturity, then the early phase of old age) there was a ceaseless, workaday awareness of life underpinning wakefulness and dream, has ceased for me. I no longer 'look forward' to anything. The 'waiting-for-Godot' demeanour has totally vanished from my life. One used to look forward to Pleasure, or Success, or Surprise, and somehow they always came along, Pleasure and Success and Surprise, in their good and their bad variants. But then a moment ensues when somehow nothing 'comes' any more, which is when Anticipation also ceases. For a while longer one awaited a sort of Vindication... but then one morning one awoke and grasped that there is no Vindication. All there is are facts. That is what I sense every day, and that is why I don't 'look forward' to anything. I am starting to grow old.
-- Sandor Marai

altitude iii

secretly

http://flowerville.livejournal.com/

And this thinking, fed by the present, works with the "thought fragments" it can wrest from the past and gather about itself. Like a pearl diver who descends to the bottom of the sea, not to excavate the bottom and bring it to light but to pry loose the rich and the strange, the pearls and the coral in the depths and to carry them to the surface, this thinking delves into the depths of the past - but not in order to resusciate it the way it was and to contribute to the renewal of extinct ages. What guides this thinking is the conviction that although the living is subject to the ruin of time, the process of decay is at the same time a process of crystallization, that in the depth of the sea, into which sinks and is dissolved what once was alive, some things "suffer a sea-change" and survive in new crystallized forms and shapes that remain immune to the elements, as though they waited only for the pearl diver who one day will come down to them and bring them up into the world of the living - as "thought fragments," as something "rich and strange," and perhaps even as everlasting as Urphänomene.
-- Arendt on Walter Benjamin

altitude ii (asa 25)

the tumbled sea

Thou canst not prove

IF thou would’st hear the Nameless, and wilt dive
Into the Temple-cave of thine own self,
There, brooding by the central altar, thou
May’st haply learn the Nameless hath a voice,
By which thou wilt abide, if thou be wise,
As if thou knewest, tho’ thou canst not know;
For Knowledge is the swallow on the lake
That sees and stirs the surface-shadow there
But never yet hath dipt into the abysm,
The Abysm of all Abysms, beneath, within
The blue of sky and sea, the green of earth,
And in the million-millionth of a grain
Which cleft and cleft again for evermore,
And ever vanishing, never vanishes,
To me, my son, more mystic than myself,
Or even than the Nameless is to me.
And when thou sendest thy free soul thro’ heaven,
Nor understandest bound nor boundlessness,
Thou seest the Nameless of the hundred names.
And if the Nameless should withdraw from all
Thy frailty counts most real, all thy world
Might vanish like thy shadow in the dark.

‘And since—from when this earth began—
The Nameless never came
Among us, never spake with man,
And never named the Name’—

Thou canst not prove the Nameless, O my son,
Nor canst thou prove the world thou movest in,
Thou canst not prove that thou art body alone,
Nor canst thou prove that thou art spirit alone,
Nor canst thou prove that thou art both in one:
Thou canst not prove thou art immortal, no
Nor yet that thou art mortal—nay my son,
Thou canst not prove that I, who speak with thee,
Am not thyself in converse with thyself,
For nothing worthy proving can be proven,
Nor yet disproven: wherefore thou be wise,
Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt,
And cling to Faith beyond the forms of Faith
She reels not in the storm of warring words,
She brightens at the clash of ‘Yes’ and ‘No’,
She sees the Best that glimmers thro’ the Worst,
She feels the Sun is hid but for a night,
She spies the summer thro’ the winter bud,
She tastes the fruit before the blossom falls,
She hears the lark within the songless egg,
She finds the fountain where they wail’d ‘Mirage’!

Alfred Lord Tennyson, from "The Ancient Sage"