Non-time imposes on time the tyranny of its spatiality: in every life there is a north and a south, and the orient and the occident. At the extreme limit or, at the least, at the crossroads, as one’s eyes fly over the seasons, there is the unequal struggle of life and death, of fervor and… Continue reading Aimé Césaire
It is such a secret place, the land of tears. — Antoine De Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince. Published by Reynal & Hitchcock (U.S.), Gallimard (France),1943 (U.S.: English & French), (France, French, 1945).
Most writers waste people’s time with too many words. I’m trying to reduce everything down to the minimum. My last work will be a blank piece of paper. — Samuel Beckett
we reread letters the dead once sent and imagine different answers everything becomes clear once it is too late there is not enough thread of regret left to string the shards of our night — Amina Saïd, from “The Mothers.” Poems Without Borders: July 2011 issue. Translated from French by Marilyn Hacker.
The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh. ― Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot. (Grove Press; 1 edition, May 17, 2011) Originally published 1952. Premiered 5 January 1953 at theThéâtre de Babylone, Paris France.
In the streets of the town goes my love. Small matter where she moves in divided time. She is no longer my love, anyone may speak with her. She remembers no longer: who exactly loved her? She seeks her equal in glances, pledging. The space she traverses is my faithfulness. She traces a hope and… Continue reading René Char
You alone became the outer surface of my life, the side I never see, and you will be that, the unknown part of me, until I die. — Marguerite Duras, Emily L. (Pantheon, 1989)
