The whole skin has this delightful sensitivity; it feels the sun, it feels the wind running inside one's garment, it feels water closing on it as one slips under - the catch in the breath, like a wave held back, the glow that releases one's entire cosmos, running to the ends of the body as the spent wave runs out upon the sand. This plunge into the cold water of a mountain pool seems for a brief moment to disintegrate the very self; it is not to be borne: one is lost: stricken: annihilated. Then life pours back.
| Nan Shepherd
Phrases came. Visions came. Beautiful pictures. Beautiful phrases. But what she wished to get hold of was that very jar on the nerves, the thing itself before it has been made anything.
∆ Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse (Albatross Publishers, May 12, 2017)
Color is the sound an object makes in response to light. Objects don't speak unless spoken to. An object does not have a color, it makes a color (the way a bell makes a sound). Sound is molecular motion. Color, too, is molecular motion. Color is the selective absorption and emission of light on the surface of an object. As an untouched drum makes no sound, an object in total darkness has no color.
A photograph full of muted but complicated color is similar to a full orchestra playing a quiet passage: powerful resources used to create a subtle effect. With my eyes I begin to hear what I see.
Now time curves back. We almost touch.
∆ Michael Ryan, from Consider a Move, A Difficult Grace: On Poets, Poetry, and Writing (University of Georgia Press, 2000)
Light and wind are running
over the headed grass
as though the hill had
melted and now flowed.
∆ June Wind
by Wendell Berry
We usually think of hauntings as traces from the past; but the future also haunts us with its hints of hope and danger, and its promises or threats of transformation. Especially in times of great social and technological change, we feel the imminence of the future in the form of gaps and leaps in temporal progression, and shifts in the horizon of what is unthinkable. Of course it is impossible to know what changes the future will bring; but the signs of this impossibility - the intimations of instability, the shifts of perspective, and the incipient breaks in continuity - are themselves altogether real. They are part of the conjuncture, part of what shapes the present. If the past persists in the present, then futurity insists in the present, defamiliarizing what we take for granted.
We look at the world once, in childhood. The rest is memory.
∆ Louise Glück, from Nostos, Meadowlands