Hilma af Klint knew and didn’t know who she was. She had an inkling. She was she. Perhaps the spirit of things that split from her in her paintings was already part of her, a possessed essence. Or perhaps it took time—because making a thing is not about solving it all in one piece. It’s about setting on a path of forgiveness for an eternity, for a time past your own.
Exile is sometimes better than staying behind or not getting out: but only sometimes.
Because nothing is secure. Exile is a jealous state. What you achieve is precisely what you have no wish to share, and it is in the drawing of lines around you and your compatriots that the least attractive aspects of being in exile emerge: an exaggerated sense of group solidarity, and a passionate hostility to outsiders, even those who may in fact be in the same predicament as you.
Apollinaire often aspires to that free-flowing, multidimensional simultaneity, conferring on the poet and reader an aspect of ubiquitous divinity. ... His poetry exteriorizes an inner universe where observations, memories, and aspirations mingle easily with characters and scenarios gleaned from constant reading and the perusal of offbeat sources, usually retained because they correspond in some way to his own experience or preoccupations. Life and legends coalesce and frontiers between the known and the possible disappear to create a highly infectious poetic view of reality, enhanced by imagination.
I’m a feminist so I believe in inhabiting contradictions. I believe in making contradictions productive, not in having to choose one side or the other side. As opposed to choosing either or, choosing both.