As if nothing but the real-infinite were That beyond our comprehension was the white ocean storm, I read, formulated somewhat differently, in a passage of Kant About this I have always known Also about the dark point in the storm About the great and the small I have been at the extremes, not just in… Continue reading Göran Sonnevi
Evenings I sit in the hostel kitchen, writing, with a pot of strong tea and a candle for comfort. The immense quiet is broken only by those snaps and creaks that inhabit old houses. I am partial to old things: old peeling doors, rusty gates, overgrown paths. Old things know how to relinquish the past;… Continue reading Janice D. Soderling
Now more than ever do I realize that I will never be content with a sedentary life, that I will always be haunted by thoughts of a sun-drenched elsewhere. ― Isabelle Eberhardt, The Nomad: The Diaries of Isabelle Eberhardt. (Interlink Pub Group; Trade Paperback Edition edition May 1, 2003) Originally published 1987.
Every sensitive person carries in himself old cities enclosed by ancient walls —Robert Walser. A German-speaking Swiss writer, Walser is understood to be the missing link between Kleist and Kafka. Confined to a sanatorium in Herisau, Switzerland, he used to write ‘micrograms’, (undecipherable short texts handwritten in a nano text-size) and take long walks. On… Continue reading Robert Walser