In words. In colour. In music. In art. In emotion. In description.
Something about the melancholia, rains and the accompanying wind undulates through the soul to engender a primeval oneness with all things around you.
I spent a lot of time this long weekend reading. Reading new material, leafing through old favourites and feeling deliciously alive. And at complete odds with that, I also felt bored enough to climb the walls. Since I haven't sorted out the dichotomy yet, I will wait for another post in which to discuss it. :-)
What follows are extracts from two books: a collection of short stories by Anais Nin called Under a Glass Bell and Ulysses by James Joyce. One is a well-thumbed favourite, the other is still being discovered.
These are two pieces of inexplicable beauty I thought I should like to share. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did... Do tell me if you did!
"...I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes. "
-- James Joyce, Ulysses.
The houseboat was tied to the foot of the stairs…. The shutters opened and closed in obedience to the gusts of wind and the heavy poles which kept the barge from touching the shore cracked with the strain like bones. A shiver passed along the houseboat asleep on the river, like a shiver of fever in a dream. The lights and shadows stopped waltzing. The nose of the houseboat plunged deeper and shook its chains. A moment of anguish: everything was slipping into anger again, as on earth. But no, the water dream persisted. Nothing was displaced. The nightmare might appear here, but the river knew the mystery of continuity. A fit of anger and only the surface erupted, leaving the deep flowing body of the dream intact.
--Houseboat - from Under a Glass Bell by Anais Nin.