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“Song”, Adrienne Rich

You’re wondering if I’m lonely;
OK then, yes, I’m lonely
as a plane rides lonely and level
on its radio beam, aiming
across the Rockies
for the blue-strung aisles
of an airfield on the ocean

You want to ask, am I lonely?
Well, of course, lonely
as a woman driving across country
day after day, leaving behind
mile after mile
little towns she might have stopped
and lived and died in, lonely

If I’m lonely
it must be the loneliness
of waking first, of breathing
dawn’s first cold breath on the city
of being the one awake
in a house wrapped in sleep

If I’m lonely
it’s with the rowboat ice-fast on the shore
in the last red light of the year
that knows what it is, that knows it’s neither
ice nor mud nor winter light
but wood, with a gift for burning

Levels of Life

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Een van mijn favoriete auteurs, Julian Barnes, heeft een nieuw boek uitgebracht: Levels of Life. Maar 118 pagina’s lang, een prachtige omslag, en opgedragen aan zijn in 2008 overleden vrouw, Pat Kavanagh. Helaas heb ik hem nog niet uit, maar dit fragment wilde ik toch even online zetten:

“So why do we constantly aspire to love? Because love is the meeting point of truth and magic. Truth, as in photography; magic, as in ballooning.” (37)