Mariella Frostrup: life after 50 | Life and style | The Guardian:
‘Better diet and general health mean we’re living longer and more youthfully,’ says Mariella.
"Hitting 50 is traumatic. Even as an agony aunt, regularly confronted with irrational human foibles, knowing that you have more years behind you than ahead can be the catalyst for extreme angst. I approached my landmark birthday eyes shut tight, hurtling headlong into the dark with my fingers crossed. Only this time, it really was dark. No matter how sanguine you are about our inevitable trek towards a terminal conclusion, hitting 50 is a shocker. A morbid sense of a life already half gone and the mourning of the many opportunities that had receded into the past made the idea of any “celebration” seem masochistic.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
Monday, February 16, 2015
Legendary dancer Retna, Cartier-Bresson.
Legendary dancer Retna, Cartier-Bresson's Indonesian influence | The Jakarta Post:
Ratna "Elie" Mohini (1904 Batavia – 1988 Paris) was a Javanese dancer who was the wife of the French photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson from 1937 to 1967.
She was born in Batavia under the name Carolina Jeanne de Souza-Ijke. Ratna was known as "Elie" to her friends.
Cartier-Bresson and Mohini divorced in 1967, after 30 years of marriage, and Cartier-Bresson then married the photographer Martine Franck in 1970.
Ratna "Elie" Mohini (1904 Batavia – 1988 Paris) was a Javanese dancer who was the wife of the French photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson from 1937 to 1967.
She was born in Batavia under the name Carolina Jeanne de Souza-Ijke. Ratna was known as "Elie" to her friends.
Cartier-Bresson and Mohini divorced in 1967, after 30 years of marriage, and Cartier-Bresson then married the photographer Martine Franck in 1970.
Love Through a Lens.
Henri Cartier-Bresson and Martine Franck: Love Through a Lens | TIME:
In a 2010 interview with Charlie Rose, photographer Martine Franck gave an insight into how she first got together with her husband, renowned Magnum founder Henri Cartier-Bresson: “Martine,” Bresson had apparently said to Franck, by way of showing his romantic interest, “I want to come and see your contact sheets.”
The feeling was obviously mutual. The two married in 1970, with Franck becoming his second wife. And while the Frenchman was 30 years her senior, they stayed together right up until his death in 2004. Franck died in 2012.
Theirs was a marriage of hearts and minds: Both were talented photographers and keen observers of the world. If Cartier-Bresson’s work was the result of what often seems like total immersion in a moment, Franck’s emerged from a quieter — some might argue a more detached — approach. He loved the streets, the vibrancy of the everyday; she liked working on the fringe — photographing communities on isolated Irish islands, for example — but also made portraits of creative giants like Marc Chagall and Seamus Heaney.
But it is through their elegant, often intimate, portraits of each other that we gain insight into a significant part of their relationship. And though Franck once told The Daily Telegraph that the two rarely discussed photography, the joy they must have felt at turning their lenses towards each other is readily evident in these portraits.
We see a poised shot of Franck in Venice as if waiting for a train, a smartly-dressed Cartier-Bresson sitting on a railing in Switzerland. Likewise, we catch a glimpse of Bresson after he has seemingly finished a self-portrait in Paris, and of Franck as she holds a cup to her mouth while reclining on a couch.
These beautiful images remind us that while, separately, the two were extraordinarily talented, understood together they were truly exceptional.
'via Blog this'
In a 2010 interview with Charlie Rose, photographer Martine Franck gave an insight into how she first got together with her husband, renowned Magnum founder Henri Cartier-Bresson: “Martine,” Bresson had apparently said to Franck, by way of showing his romantic interest, “I want to come and see your contact sheets.”
The feeling was obviously mutual. The two married in 1970, with Franck becoming his second wife. And while the Frenchman was 30 years her senior, they stayed together right up until his death in 2004. Franck died in 2012.
Theirs was a marriage of hearts and minds: Both were talented photographers and keen observers of the world. If Cartier-Bresson’s work was the result of what often seems like total immersion in a moment, Franck’s emerged from a quieter — some might argue a more detached — approach. He loved the streets, the vibrancy of the everyday; she liked working on the fringe — photographing communities on isolated Irish islands, for example — but also made portraits of creative giants like Marc Chagall and Seamus Heaney.
But it is through their elegant, often intimate, portraits of each other that we gain insight into a significant part of their relationship. And though Franck once told The Daily Telegraph that the two rarely discussed photography, the joy they must have felt at turning their lenses towards each other is readily evident in these portraits.
We see a poised shot of Franck in Venice as if waiting for a train, a smartly-dressed Cartier-Bresson sitting on a railing in Switzerland. Likewise, we catch a glimpse of Bresson after he has seemingly finished a self-portrait in Paris, and of Franck as she holds a cup to her mouth while reclining on a couch.
These beautiful images remind us that while, separately, the two were extraordinarily talented, understood together they were truly exceptional.
'via Blog this'
Balthus. /Бальтюс./
Balthasar Klossowski (or Kłossowski) de Rola (February 29, 1908 – February 18, 2001), best known as Balthus, was a Polish-French modern artist.
He is the second son of painter and art historian, Erich Klossowski (1875-1946), and Elizabeth Dorothea Spiro (1886-1969), called Baladine.
His older brother is the writer and artist Pierre Klossowski (1905-2001).
He is the second son of painter and art historian, Erich Klossowski (1875-1946), and Elizabeth Dorothea Spiro (1886-1969), called Baladine.
His older brother is the writer and artist Pierre Klossowski (1905-2001).
The Grand Chalet de Rossinière, in Switzerland where the painter lived with his wife and daughter until his death in 2001.
The chalet of Balthus, the painter. SWITZERLAND. Canton of Vaud. Rossiniere.
Today, this extraordinary and timeless place is both the family residence, as well as home to the Balthus Foundation.
Balthus with his daughter Harumi at Rossinière, 2000. SWITZERLAND. Canton of Vaud.
Swiss-born jewelry designer Harumi Klossowska—daughter to late Polish-French painter Balthus and Japanese artist Setsuko Ideta.
Countess Setsuko Klossowski de Rola, widow of Balthus.
In 1977, the artist Balthus purchased the Grand Chalet of Rossinière, one of the largest and oldest chalets in Switzerland, dating to 1754. He converted it into his studio and worked there until his death in 2001.
He and his wife, Setsuko Ideta, also a painter, have lived here for 20 years. Before that he lived in grand and conspicuously remote houses in France and Italy.
Comtesse Setsuko Klossowska de Rola; Rossinière; October 2004. Widow of Balthus.
Balthus with Setsuko, his second wife, Japanese.
In 1937 he married Antoinette de Watteville, who was from an old and influential aristocratic family from Bern. He had met her as early as 1924, and she was the model for the aforementioned La Toilette and for a series of portraits. Balthus had two children from this marriage, Thaddeus and Stanislas (Stash) Klossowski, who recently published books on their father, including the letters by their parents.
Balthus and Antoinette separated in 1947, he moving to Paris and she to Lausanne. He had a series of mistresses from among his models for some years.
In 1962, in a temple in Kyoto, he met Setsuko Ikeda, the second great love of his life; he was 54 and she, 19. She was a modern girl from an old family, a French student. She became his model within days and then his mistress, moving into his Villa Medici a few months later. They were married in a Shinto ceremony in Tokyo in 1967 after he had completed his divorce from Antoinette, with whom he maintained a deep friendship. He and Setsuko had one daughter, Harumi in 1973, now a jewelry designer. They had a son in 1969, Junio, who died of a rare genetic disease when he was two. Setsuko then had a miscarriage at five months pregnancy.
1. Balthus, Self-portrait (1940). 2. Antoinette de Watteville and Balthus, ca. 1937.
Painter Balthus in his atelier, 1998 -by Alvaro Canovas.
Cour de Rohan, Balthus, studio of the French artist Balthus in Paris.
Cour de Rohan, Balthus, studio of the French artist Balthus in Paris. The onetime home of the artist Balthus.
The onetime studio of the French artist Balthus in Paris’s Saint-Germain-des-Pres area is listing for roughly $9 million, according to listing agent Xavier Attal.
Located on the Cour de Rohan, a secluded courtyard that dates back to the 16th century, the home measures about 3,068 square feet and has four bedrooms and four bathrooms. The current owner, a Frenchman who now lives in New York, bought the property around 1999, said Mr. Attal.
Mr. Attal said the owner, who he declined to identify, renovated the home to create a mix between a New York loft and the French countryside.
Balthasar Klossowski, better known as the artist Balthus, is well-known for his controversial paintings of young women. He died in 2001 at the age of 92.
Sunday, February 15, 2015
Mariusz Wilk.
Pale violet mists and the whiff of hagberries - Telegraph:
'On Solovky," concludes the Polish journalist Mariusz Wilk, "you can see Russia in miniature, as if on the palm of your hand." Deeply involved in the Soviet scene through his work as a Moscow-based correspondent, in 1991 Wilk left the news behind and shifted to a remote archipelago in the south of the White Sea. He wanted to settle among the glaciated wastelands of the far north "as if on a watchtower, and observe Russia and the world from here".
This slimmish volume distils the experience of several years spent huddled by the open door of the stove in a modest house on Herring Point. The book is not so much a narrative as a sequence of vignettes: Wilk crouched in the tundra hunting swans, Wilk sweating it out in the communal steam baths, Wilk operating as an accredited observer at the first elections. The story rises to a pleasing climax when he travels by yacht to Kanin Nos, where the White Sea enters the Arctic Ocean.
About 1,100 people live on the Solovetsky archipelago (the main island is Solovky) and Wilk reckons he met them all. The landscape is not beguiling. When the economy collapsed, the infrastructure went with it, and most inhabitants are unemployed and undernourished. Alcoholism, a leitmotif of this book, is endemic (who wouldn't drink under those circumstances, poor buggers). Gardens are fenced with barbed wire, sewers debouch into the sea and in summer the shores are thick with slime. Yet Wilk conjures a bleak kind of beauty. Pale violet mists curling through the larches, the whiff of hagberries, the taste of minced perch and salted boletus at the Maslenitsa Carnival: a deep empathy with landscape and people suffuses this unusual book.
Wilk offers a brisk description of the archipelagic topography, but it is the emotional topography of Solovetsky that compels him. The islands represent, variously, the soul of Russia, the spirit of exile and the notion of Orthodox holiness (an important monastic community was founded there in the 15th century). Wilk is drawn to Orthodoxy. The schism of the Russian Church, the event that Solzhenitsyn claims influenced the destiny of Russia more than the Bolshevik revolution, had its beginnings on Anzer Island on Solovetsky. One chapter touches on the traditional Russian antipathy towards Roman Catholicism. When a priest shows up from Warsaw to celebrate Mass for the Catholics who perished in the prototype labour camp on the islands, the Solovetsky community would not agree to a Catholic Mass in their church. The priest was obliged to observe the ritual in Wilk's living room. But Wilk's treatment of the religious theme is impressionistic rather than substantive.
For centuries the islands were a convenient dumping ground for undesirables. The monastic dungeons were deployed in turn as a political prison and then, in 1923, as a forerunner of the gulag. (Wilk includes a gripping section on the various castration sects that have flourished in Russia in general, and in the Solovetsky prisons in particular. Apparently it went on all the time, with women getting in on the act by chopping off their breasts.) The fragments of missiles still cradled in the tundra recall the iron hand of the military, who tested up there for decades.
Towards the end of the 1980s, the army moved out. According to Wilk, this heralded the worst phase of all. "The entire archipelago," he relates with relish, "was embraced by the central plan for development and urbanization in the style of Soviet gigantomania." This included the construction of a concrete ring road through the forest and a bakery capable of serving thousands of hungry men. All of this, never used or finished, lies in a state of decay.
Wilk (the surname means "wolf" in Polish, hence the book title) keeps himself between the lines, where an author should be. The people he met in his temporary adopted home thought he had been exiled because of his involvement with the Solidarity movement in Poland, but they seem to have accepted him in the end. His prose style is mannered to a degree. "Let us try and take a stroll, at our leisure, through the streets," he suggests, and even a "Phew!" makes an appearance at one especially low moment. The dominant lyricism is often clunky, partly, perhaps, as a function of translation, but also a result of images that don't quite work: "summer, on the islands, is short and sudden, like an ejaculation".
Despite the fact that Wilk is not the heir to Norman Lewis, as his publishers boldly suggest on the jacket, this is an extremely interesting and profoundly moving account of a shadowy, elemental terra incognita rarely revealed to Western observers. The photographs – 16 pages of black and white by Tomasz Kizny – are outstanding.
'via Blog this'
'On Solovky," concludes the Polish journalist Mariusz Wilk, "you can see Russia in miniature, as if on the palm of your hand." Deeply involved in the Soviet scene through his work as a Moscow-based correspondent, in 1991 Wilk left the news behind and shifted to a remote archipelago in the south of the White Sea. He wanted to settle among the glaciated wastelands of the far north "as if on a watchtower, and observe Russia and the world from here".
This slimmish volume distils the experience of several years spent huddled by the open door of the stove in a modest house on Herring Point. The book is not so much a narrative as a sequence of vignettes: Wilk crouched in the tundra hunting swans, Wilk sweating it out in the communal steam baths, Wilk operating as an accredited observer at the first elections. The story rises to a pleasing climax when he travels by yacht to Kanin Nos, where the White Sea enters the Arctic Ocean.
About 1,100 people live on the Solovetsky archipelago (the main island is Solovky) and Wilk reckons he met them all. The landscape is not beguiling. When the economy collapsed, the infrastructure went with it, and most inhabitants are unemployed and undernourished. Alcoholism, a leitmotif of this book, is endemic (who wouldn't drink under those circumstances, poor buggers). Gardens are fenced with barbed wire, sewers debouch into the sea and in summer the shores are thick with slime. Yet Wilk conjures a bleak kind of beauty. Pale violet mists curling through the larches, the whiff of hagberries, the taste of minced perch and salted boletus at the Maslenitsa Carnival: a deep empathy with landscape and people suffuses this unusual book.
Wilk offers a brisk description of the archipelagic topography, but it is the emotional topography of Solovetsky that compels him. The islands represent, variously, the soul of Russia, the spirit of exile and the notion of Orthodox holiness (an important monastic community was founded there in the 15th century). Wilk is drawn to Orthodoxy. The schism of the Russian Church, the event that Solzhenitsyn claims influenced the destiny of Russia more than the Bolshevik revolution, had its beginnings on Anzer Island on Solovetsky. One chapter touches on the traditional Russian antipathy towards Roman Catholicism. When a priest shows up from Warsaw to celebrate Mass for the Catholics who perished in the prototype labour camp on the islands, the Solovetsky community would not agree to a Catholic Mass in their church. The priest was obliged to observe the ritual in Wilk's living room. But Wilk's treatment of the religious theme is impressionistic rather than substantive.
For centuries the islands were a convenient dumping ground for undesirables. The monastic dungeons were deployed in turn as a political prison and then, in 1923, as a forerunner of the gulag. (Wilk includes a gripping section on the various castration sects that have flourished in Russia in general, and in the Solovetsky prisons in particular. Apparently it went on all the time, with women getting in on the act by chopping off their breasts.) The fragments of missiles still cradled in the tundra recall the iron hand of the military, who tested up there for decades.
Towards the end of the 1980s, the army moved out. According to Wilk, this heralded the worst phase of all. "The entire archipelago," he relates with relish, "was embraced by the central plan for development and urbanization in the style of Soviet gigantomania." This included the construction of a concrete ring road through the forest and a bakery capable of serving thousands of hungry men. All of this, never used or finished, lies in a state of decay.
Wilk (the surname means "wolf" in Polish, hence the book title) keeps himself between the lines, where an author should be. The people he met in his temporary adopted home thought he had been exiled because of his involvement with the Solidarity movement in Poland, but they seem to have accepted him in the end. His prose style is mannered to a degree. "Let us try and take a stroll, at our leisure, through the streets," he suggests, and even a "Phew!" makes an appearance at one especially low moment. The dominant lyricism is often clunky, partly, perhaps, as a function of translation, but also a result of images that don't quite work: "summer, on the islands, is short and sudden, like an ejaculation".
Despite the fact that Wilk is not the heir to Norman Lewis, as his publishers boldly suggest on the jacket, this is an extremely interesting and profoundly moving account of a shadowy, elemental terra incognita rarely revealed to Western observers. The photographs – 16 pages of black and white by Tomasz Kizny – are outstanding.
'via Blog this'
Писатель Мариуш Вильк.
Писатель Мариуш Вильк: польский изгнанник, его русская жена и его дом над озером Онего: Василий Голованов: Медведь. Первый Мужской журнал:
27.10.2011
автор: Василий Голованов
Поляки не любят Россию. Этим сегодня уже никого не удивишь. Это даже неинтересно обсуждать. Понятно, за что, понятно, что так будет уже всегда, и понятно, что это все-таки не трагедия. Для нас и для них. «Медведь» нашел поляка, не только добровольно переехавшего в Россию, но и сделавшего ее главной темой жизни – писателя Мариуша Вилька, отшельника и изгнанника.
27.10.2011
автор: Василий Голованов
Поляки не любят Россию. Этим сегодня уже никого не удивишь. Это даже неинтересно обсуждать. Понятно, за что, понятно, что так будет уже всегда, и понятно, что это все-таки не трагедия. Для нас и для них. «Медведь» нашел поляка, не только добровольно переехавшего в Россию, но и сделавшего ее главной темой жизни – писателя Мариуша Вилька, отшельника и изгнанника.
Friday, February 13, 2015
Mozart’s Magnificent Love Letter to His Wife.
Mozart’s Magnificent Love Letter to His Wife | Brain Pickings:
Dearest little Wife of my heart!
If only I had a letter from you, everything would be all right…
Dearest, I have no doubt that I shall get something going here, but it won’t be easy as you and some of our friends think. — It is true, I am known and respected here; but, well — No — let us just see what happens. — In any case, I do prefer to play it safe, that why I would like to conclude this deal with H… because I would get some money into my possession without having to pay any out; all I would have to do then is work, and I shall be only too happy to do that for my little wife.
After a getting a few more practical matters out of the way, Mozart fully surrenders to the poetical:
I get all excited like a child when I think about being with you again — If people could see into my heart I should almost feel ashamed. Everything is cold to me — ice-cold. — If you were here with me, maybe I would find the courtesies people are showing me more enjoyable, — but as it is, it’s all so empty — adieu — my dear — I am Forever
your Mozart who loves you
with his entire soul.
But even lovelier than the signature is the part that comes after it. Mozart violates in the most endearing of ways Lewis Carroll’s rule about postscript and writes:
PS. — while I was writing the last page, tear after tear fell on the paper. But I must cheer up — catch — An astonishing number of kisses are flying about — The deuce! — I see a whole crowd of them. Ha! Ha!… I have just caught three — They are delicious… I kiss you millions of times.
Complement this gem from Love Letters of Great Men with other masterworks of the genre, including the exquisite letters of Vladimir Nabokov to his wife Véra, Violet Trefusis to Vita Sackville-West, Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf, Frida Kahlo to Diego Rivera, Oscar Wilde to Bosie, and Franz Kafka to Felice Bauer.
'via Blog this'
Dearest little Wife of my heart!
If only I had a letter from you, everything would be all right…
Dearest, I have no doubt that I shall get something going here, but it won’t be easy as you and some of our friends think. — It is true, I am known and respected here; but, well — No — let us just see what happens. — In any case, I do prefer to play it safe, that why I would like to conclude this deal with H… because I would get some money into my possession without having to pay any out; all I would have to do then is work, and I shall be only too happy to do that for my little wife.
After a getting a few more practical matters out of the way, Mozart fully surrenders to the poetical:
I get all excited like a child when I think about being with you again — If people could see into my heart I should almost feel ashamed. Everything is cold to me — ice-cold. — If you were here with me, maybe I would find the courtesies people are showing me more enjoyable, — but as it is, it’s all so empty — adieu — my dear — I am Forever
your Mozart who loves you
with his entire soul.
But even lovelier than the signature is the part that comes after it. Mozart violates in the most endearing of ways Lewis Carroll’s rule about postscript and writes:
PS. — while I was writing the last page, tear after tear fell on the paper. But I must cheer up — catch — An astonishing number of kisses are flying about — The deuce! — I see a whole crowd of them. Ha! Ha!… I have just caught three — They are delicious… I kiss you millions of times.
Complement this gem from Love Letters of Great Men with other masterworks of the genre, including the exquisite letters of Vladimir Nabokov to his wife Véra, Violet Trefusis to Vita Sackville-West, Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf, Frida Kahlo to Diego Rivera, Oscar Wilde to Bosie, and Franz Kafka to Felice Bauer.
'via Blog this'
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
Andrew Hozier-Byrne.
Hozier & Annie Lennox Take the Grammys Audience to Church With Their Incredible Performance at Grammy Awards 2015!
Take Me To Church
Andrew Hozier-Byrne, songwriter (Hozier)
Take Me To Church
Andrew Hozier-Byrne, songwriter (Hozier)
Fernando Pessoa.
Fernando Pessoa - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia:
"Nothing had ever obliged him to do anything. He had spent his childhood alone. He never joined any group. He never pursued a course of study. He never belonged to a crowd. The circumstances of his life were marked by that strange but rather common phenomenon – perhaps, in fact, it’s true for all lives – of being tailored to the image and likeness of his instincts, which tended towards inertia and withdrawal."
Fernando Pessoa, from the Preface of
The Book of Disquiet, tr. by Richard Zenith.
The Book of Disquiet - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia:
Поэзия .ру - Ирина Фещенко-Скворцова - Fernando Pessoa. Книга беспокойства. Отрывки.:
Отрывки.
Перевод посвящается Марии Lopes-Pereira (Курчатовой), без которой он был бы недостоин оригинала.
1.
Мы хорошо понимаем, что все творения рук человеческих должны быть несовершенными, что наименее верным из наших размышлений и созерцаний эстетического характера всегда будет то, что легло на бумагу. Но всё несовершенно, даже самый прекрасный закат, такой великолепный, что кажется, не может быть ничего чудеснее его, даже лёгкий бриз, навевающий нам сны, даже он мог бы принести ещё более спокойный умиротворённый сон. Вот так и мы, одинаково созерцающие горы и статуи, читающие наши дни, как бы читали книги, размышляющие обо всём, всё забирающие внутрь себя, чтобы переработать там, мы превращаем эти впечатления в описания и анализы, которые, однажды вышедшие из-под нашего пера, становятся чужими, отчуждёнными от нас, как спокойствие вечера. Я вовсе не придерживаюсь концепции пессимистов, как Виньи, для которого жизнь – это тюрьма, где узники плетут солому, чтобы развлечься. Быть пессимистом – значит воспринимать любое событие как трагическое. А подобная установка является преувеличением, лишним беспокойством. Конечно, у нас нет чёткого представления о ценности их, когда мы создаём наши творения. Да, конечно, мы создаём их для развлечения, но этот процесс несравним с плетением соломы заключённым, стремящимся забыть о собственной судьбе, но скорее с вышиванием подушки девушкой, только для развлечения, более ни для чего.
"Nothing had ever obliged him to do anything. He had spent his childhood alone. He never joined any group. He never pursued a course of study. He never belonged to a crowd. The circumstances of his life were marked by that strange but rather common phenomenon – perhaps, in fact, it’s true for all lives – of being tailored to the image and likeness of his instincts, which tended towards inertia and withdrawal."
Fernando Pessoa, from the Preface of
The Book of Disquiet, tr. by Richard Zenith.
The Book of Disquiet - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia:
Поэзия .ру - Ирина Фещенко-Скворцова - Fernando Pessoa. Книга беспокойства. Отрывки.:
Отрывки.
Перевод посвящается Марии Lopes-Pereira (Курчатовой), без которой он был бы недостоин оригинала.
1.
Мы хорошо понимаем, что все творения рук человеческих должны быть несовершенными, что наименее верным из наших размышлений и созерцаний эстетического характера всегда будет то, что легло на бумагу. Но всё несовершенно, даже самый прекрасный закат, такой великолепный, что кажется, не может быть ничего чудеснее его, даже лёгкий бриз, навевающий нам сны, даже он мог бы принести ещё более спокойный умиротворённый сон. Вот так и мы, одинаково созерцающие горы и статуи, читающие наши дни, как бы читали книги, размышляющие обо всём, всё забирающие внутрь себя, чтобы переработать там, мы превращаем эти впечатления в описания и анализы, которые, однажды вышедшие из-под нашего пера, становятся чужими, отчуждёнными от нас, как спокойствие вечера. Я вовсе не придерживаюсь концепции пессимистов, как Виньи, для которого жизнь – это тюрьма, где узники плетут солому, чтобы развлечься. Быть пессимистом – значит воспринимать любое событие как трагическое. А подобная установка является преувеличением, лишним беспокойством. Конечно, у нас нет чёткого представления о ценности их, когда мы создаём наши творения. Да, конечно, мы создаём их для развлечения, но этот процесс несравним с плетением соломы заключённым, стремящимся забыть о собственной судьбе, но скорее с вышиванием подушки девушкой, только для развлечения, более ни для чего.
И пусть вращается прекрасный мир.
Цитаты из книги "И пусть вращается прекрасный мир". Колум Маккэнн.:
"Глория как-то сказала Джеслин, что человек в точности знает, откуда он родом, если знает, где хочет быть похоронен."
"Глория как-то сказала Джеслин, что человек в точности знает, откуда он родом, если знает, где хочет быть похоронен."
 |
| (Photo: Brian Schulmaat / New York Times) |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
