Whether morality is moral is an open question.
The Reader (c.1890). Georges Croegaert (Belgian, Academic, 1848-1923). Oil.
In a richly decorated interior, a lady reads with pleasure one of a number of books and papers immediately available to her in a corner made for reading in comfort. Her current book is well read, as are others, as evidenced by the bent cover and rumpled pages. Her smile indicates her delight in the passage being read.
Thank you also very heartily for the Shakespeare. It will help me not to forget the little English I know, but above all it is so fine. I have begun to read the series of which I knew least, the series of the Kings: I have already read Richard II, Henry IV and half of Henry V. I read without wondering if the ideas of the people of those times were different from our own, or what would become of them if you just set them over against republican and socialist beliefs and so on. But what touches me, as in some novelists of our day, is that the voices of these people, which in Shakespeare’s case reach us from a distance of several centuries, do not seem unfamiliar to us. It is so much alive that you think you know them and see the thing.
at last you, will say (maybe without speaking)
(there are mountains
inside your skull
garden and chaos, ocean
and hurricane; certain
corners of rooms, portraits
of great-grandmothers, curtains
of a particular shade;
your deserts; your private
dinosaurs; the first
all i need to know:
just as it was
from the beginning.
Béla Iványi Grűnwald
Of all the things I am not very good at, living in the real world is perhaps the most outstanding.
“Please — consider me a dream.”
a book full
of human touches,
without loneliness, with men
― Pablo Neruda, Odes to Common Things
To my mind, the greatest reward and luxury of travel is to be able to experience everyday things as if for the first time, to be in a position in which almost nothing is so familiar it is taken for granted.
It was November—the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines. Anne roamed through the pineland alleys in the park and, as she said, let that great sweeping wind blow the fogs out of her soul.