René Char (1907 - 1988)
The flower is in the flame. The flame is in the storm (La fleur est dans la flamme. La flamme est dans la tempête), N/D
Surely one ought to know the character of the person with whom one might spend all one’s life; being a novelist, let him try to discover what sort of person she was. When he was with her he could not analyse her qualities, because he seemed to know them instinctively, but when he was away from her it sometimes seemed to him that he did not know her at all. She was young, but she was also old; she had little self-confidence, and yet she was a good judge of people. She was happy; but what made her happy? If they were alone and the excitement had worn off, and they had to deal with the ordinary facts of the day, what would happen? Casting his eye upon his own character, two things appeared to him: that he was very unpunctual, and that he disliked answering notes. As far as he knew Rachel was inclined to be punctual, but he could not remember that he had ever seen her with a pen in her hand. Let him next imagine a dinner-party, say at the Crooms, and Wilson, who had taken her down, talking about the state of the Liberal party. She would say—of course she was absolutely ignorant of politics. Nevertheless she was intelligent certainly, and honest too. Her temper was uncertain—that he had noticed—and she was not domestic, and she was not easy, and she was not quiet, or beautiful, except in some dresses in some lights. But the great gift she had was that she understood what was said to her; there had never been any one like her for talking to. You could say anything—you could say everything, and yet she was never servile. Here he pulled himself up, for it seemed to him suddenly that he knew less about her than about any one. All these thoughts had occurred to him many times already; often had he tried to argue and reason; and again he had reached the old state of doubt. He did not know her, and he did not know what she felt, or whether they could live together, or whether he wanted to marry her, and yet he was in love with her.
Lotus / Koi - artwork and tattoo by Wang
Il trillo del Diavolo
The Devil’s trill
Insultando o fado e a sorte
e a fortuna desigual,
a quem morrer sabe, a morte
nem é morte, nem é mal.
Enfio o rosto nos peitos-ninhos de guachos, e, por baixo deles, corre o rio do meu pranto. Sinto que os outros me cinzelam ambíguo - todos, até meu pai! - quando dentro de mim a visão de mundo é clara, absorvente: gosto de coisas bonitas, pessoas inteligentes, livros, música e cores. Não consigo tolerar certas pessoas, mas suporto-as, sabendo que fazem parte dos caminhos que preciso vencer. Sei que, às vezes, jogo-me em águas turvas, lamacentas, mas é para apreender o sentido da vida. São as que tenho para chegar à margem e subir para caminhos que me levem ao mais distante. Quero partir como os igarapés, não ficar preso à margem vendo flores e luas passarem. Necessito saber, preciso que respondam minhas perguntas antes que se tornem acusações, ou espreitas que me envergonhem.
Photographed by Massimo Merlini