What is an ideology?—it is a thing propelled by an absolute faith in its own prerogatives; in other words, its blind spot forbids it from seeing itself for what it is, and this is essential for it to go on preaching its faith.
Everything begins as I utter your name, yet it is a name that cannot be pronounced as it is not made of letters – it is an inner name, one that dwells inside the prayer, the music, the art, it is an inner vessel, to utter it is to feel an opening in the heart too immense to contain, a sky and a sea blooming inside.
Like wine in a cellar this art of touching her is something that has brewed for a lifetime within me; now and then it comes out as poetry, now and then when it cannot be contained and its flashes flood through my veins and its wave carries me to the wood where we always met in the deepest recesses of my memory.
I remember to come back to the future where we are and I complete the circle as I write to you know this love that is within me.
Contemplation has always had to battle against the values of the market, but in no age did these values reign absolute as they do today. They are upheld religiously — and therefore, invisibly — and have sneaked in to transform every institution and discipline, including that of philosophy, from the ground up. In addition to having made the life of man uninteresting and small, they have also made him increasingly stupid. Soon he will have to relearn his most basic skills — seeing, hearing, reading, thinking. They never allow him a moment’s rest as he is constantly pushed to perform and produce. They are the ultimate tyranny, seen by none, upheld by all.
When you remember, which comes first, the image or the feeling? I venture to say that it is the feeling that calls out the image and frames it, giving it its depth, hue and texture — it sears it, as though in fog. Many feelings remain after being uncoupled from their original images, and so they create images of their own. This is well known to all poets and artists.
What I find deeply disconcerting about science is its will to reduce everything it touches into the realm of knowledge — i.e. utilitarian — thus dispelling existence of every shade of mystery. In such an atmosphere that is deeply antagonistic to poetry I find myself suffocating and unable to tolerate life. The good news is that this endeavour of science is futile, in that it is impossible to reduce everything into the realm of knowledge; the unknown remains, and the shade of mystery cannot be dispelled; poetry cannot be vanquished. The bad news is that science may well destroy life and the world before coming to this conclusion and admitting its childish aspirations. The link between poetry, mystery, and ecology is unmistakable. It is what we hope will one day bring science to its senses, making it aware of its own limitations. Hopefully that day won’t be too long in the future.
The phrases of the book like twigs twist and turn in every direction, and soon I am walking a thick forest with no thought of return, to find a cabin in a sunlit clearing and live in it for a while.
But the book ends as every journey must, yet, leaving its forest, I carry it with me, feeling its sap of words flowing through my veins, and growing, silently, for many months and years new leaves of meaning.
We all coexist with the idea that the people we love might disappear at any moment, though this idea, in the every day life, only occupies the fringes of our minds. But when someone you love has cancer, the idea becomes central, and it moves to occupy the entire space. Managing your emotions while going through this is one of the hardest things a human being has to do.
The years move on, and the things which seemed so important become trivial; time and loss have a way of distilling life to its essence. The years move on, what remains now are the simple things that were there all along, waiting in the quiet. The years move on, and we start making friends with our own disappearance; how well can we dance the dance before saying goodbye?
Et je me suis endormi envahi d’une étrange chaleur, comme si la tête de la femme que j’aime reposait sur mon épaule, comme si le poème que j’avais lu le soir s’était allumé en moi, me réchauffant du dedans par une étrange lumière.
يقول العلماء أن أجسادنا مجبولة من غبار النجوم؛ المسك ويحن الغبار فينا الى أصله، فنتوهج قليلا أنا وأنت، ونشع بضوء أضاء الكون من ملايين السنين.
I kissed her wounds; I made love to her silence; I looked into her eyes, as into the endless sea; I felt her heartbeat, and I gave her my own.
La lumière des pensées se nourrit de la même nuit que celle des étoiles.
ما يربطهما أعمق من الليل، أوضح من النهار، أبدي كالزمن، متجدد أبدا كحقل ربيع، كخرير ماء الجدول؛ ما يربطهما أغنية أوسع من الحياة، أغنية تدور كالصوفي في قلب الله.
He attracted her slowly like spring lures the flower to unfold its petals one by one
You can take the wolf out of the forest, but you cannot take the forest out of the wolf.
Night falls and her skin fills with a soft glow, as though she had a moon living inside.
Your name makes a strange kind of flame as I whisper it into the darkness of the night