February 17th, 2012

enogsin by nico

enogsin by nico


I add one further word to you, a question rather.
Does water flow in your country too? (I don’t remember whether you’ve told me so) and it gives chills too, if it is the real thing.
Do I love it? I don’t know. One feels so alone when it is cold. But quite otherwise when it is warm. Well then? How can I decide? How do you others decide, tell me, when you speak of it without disguise, with open heart?

I am writing to you from the end of the world. You must realize this. The trees often tremble. We collect the leaves. They have a ridiculous number of veins. But what for? There’s nothing between them and the tree any more, and we go off troubled.
Could not life continue on earth without wind? Or must everything tremble, always, always?
There are subterranean disturbances, too, in the house as well, like angers which might come to face you, like stern beings who would like to wrest confessions.
We see nothing, except what is so unimportant to see.
Nothing, and yet we tremble. Why?


I Am Writing To You From A Far Off Country (je vous écris d’un pays lointain plume précédé de lointain intérieur) by Henri Michaux , 1938



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