When all’s said, and done, if civilisation drowns the last colour to go will be gold – the light on a glass, the prow of a gondola, the name on a rosewood piano as silence engulfs it. And first to return to a waterlogged world, the rivers slipping out to sea, the cities steaming, will be gold, one dip from Bellini’s brush, feathers of angels, Cinquecente nativities, and all that follows. (more…)
In the foreground we see time and life swept in a race toward the left hand side of the picture…
That does not keep me from having a terrible need of — shall I say the word — religion. Then…
Puisque les plus heureux ont des douleurs sans nombre, Puisque le sol est froid, puisque les cieux sont lourds, Puisque…
Thou still unravished bride of quietness, Thou foster child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express…