“It is sometimes said that scientists are unromantic, that their passion to figure out robs the world of beauty and mystery. But is it not stirring to understand how the world actually works — that white light is made of colors, that color is the way we perceive the wavelengths of light, that transparent air reflects light, that in so doing it discriminates among the waves, and that the sky is blue for the same reason that the sunset is red? It does no harm to the romance of the sunset to know a little bit about it.”—Carl Sagan
“My soul is impatient with itself, as with a bothersome child; its restlessness keeps growing and is forever the same. Everything interests me, but nothing holds me. I attend to everything, dreaming all the while…”—Fernando Pessoa (The Book of Disquiet)
“I’ve always rejected being understood. To be understood is to prostitute oneself. I prefer to be taken seriously for what I’m not, remaining humanly unknown, with naturalness and all due respect.”—Fernando Pessoa (The Book of Disquiet)
If you could be happy, really happy, for just a while, but you knew from the start that it would end in sadness, and bring pain afterwards, would you choose to have that happiness or would you avoid it?
Ahh, I would choose happiness, although, it’s always fleeting..
I tend to find happiness in the infinite. Science, mathematics, music and poetry makes me happy. Nature, snow, light, dark, silence, the ocean: that’s happiness to me.
In the beginning the sound of holes, and the weight of treason and light paper streamers. and a hundred-fold, and below; and the girls with thickening braids, wet paper maps, brought round at last to see the slick animal caught in the rain. and the deluge; and the dark; and the story past the window..
and the window
and the stutter
and the thought was insubstantial, and stained; and the hands were limpid, and sought; and the children scattered in front of the wagon like increasing wind. and the pen that drew your name, and the one that would not; and a child with a small box of crayons, not yet opened; and the positioning of fingers and wrists..
and my hand was a token of yours
and the trees, pulled backwards.
The numbing of love lost hums blackbirds into hypnosis.
I tucked my teeth into the creases of your hand,
Asked you to hide them until I was ready to eat again.
In the sockets of our eyes, we hide gold wedding bands.
We stuff our mouths with chocolate as we cross the border.
In Morocco, women carry hot coals in their bare hands.
Searching for water, they make fires along the way.
Loving a boy at seventeen is different.
I loved him so hard my spine slid through my back.
Who will remember your fingers?
Their winged life? They flew
With the light in your look.
At the piano, stomping out hits from the forties,
They performed an incidental clowning
Routine of their own, deadpan puppets.
You were only concerned to get them to the keys.
But as you talked, as your eyes signalled
The strobes of your elation,
They flared, flicked balletic aerobatics.
I thought of birds in some tropical sexual
Play of display, leaping and somersaulting,
Doing strange things in the air, and dropping to the dust.
Those dancers of your excess!
With such deft, practical touches—-so accurate.
Thinking their own thoughts caressed like lightning
The lipstick into your mouth corners.
Trim conductors of your expertise,
Cavorting at your typewriter,
Possessed by infant spirit, puckish,
Who, whatever they did, danced or mimed it
In a weightless largesse of espressivo.
I remember your fingers. And your daughter’s
Fingers remember your fingers
In everything they do.
Her fingers obey and honour your fingers,
The Lares and Penates of our house.
“She is our moon, our tidal pull. She is the rich deep beneath the sea, the buried treasure, the expression in the owl’s eye, the perfume in the wild rose. She is what the water says when it moves.”—Patricia A. McKillip
“I also painted a study of a seascape, nothing but a bit of sand, sea, sky, grey and lonely — sometime[s] I feel a need for that silence — where there’s nothing but the grey sea — with an occasional seabird. But otherwise, no other voice than the murmur of the waves.”—Vincent van Gogh, from a letter to his brother Theo, 17 September 1882 (source)
“dark waters and deep oceans. water pachyderms and deep resounding bellies. otherworldly songs and echoes. if you find the heartbeat of a whale you will hear it sigh. thunderous longing. consumed universes, spit and hanged in the sky. look at them turn turn turn and get swallowed again. lie here in cavernous darkness, let the waves cover you. sleep, dear, sleep, there is much to learn in the abdomen of the world.”—(via silentsouls)
“During the winter, much of Yakutia experiences a temperature inversion which results in an unusual phenomena. When the temperature dips below minus 53° Celsius, you can often hear a soft whooshing noise like the sound of grain being poured. It is caused by vapour in one’s own breath turning to ice crystals in the cold, dry air. The local Yakut people call this sound ‘The Whisper of the Stars.’”—Jonathan Safran Foer
“You don’t know it, but I often wake up at night,
I lie for a long time in the dark,
and I listen to you sleeping next to me, as a dog does,
on the shore of slow water from which shadows
and reflections rise, silent butterflies.
Last night you spoke in your sleep,
almost whining, talking of a wall
too high to climb down, towards the sea
seen only by you, distant and gleaming.
Playfully I whispered, Just calm down,
it isn’t all that high, we could make it.
whether down below there was sand to land on,
or black rock.
Sand, I answered, sand. And in your dream
maybe we dove together.”—Fabio Pusterla