Friday, 25 November 2011 @09:32
"We can pick up a conversation, like a piece of knitting or half-finished embroidery, after a silence of months."
Our friendship. A long, warm, cuddly scarf. A sweater. When I touch it, I feel how old it is, frayed, threadbare. How visible, when I’ve mended it. But how softer and warmer as the years pass by.
I’ve read this sentence by chance, waiting for a friend at Nopi’s, in London: it was an article on the Independent on Sunday. And isn’t a good friendship really like an old mended sweater, a scarf?
Friday, 18 November 2011 @07:32
"I wait for your letters now: a fleet of strange cargo
with news of changing borders, a heart’s small
journeys. They’re like the relics of a saint.
Opening the dry white papers is kissing a bone"
And how I love them, in my cell phone, all of your messages, bony little pieces of you.
Friday, 11 November 2011 @08:01
"Le coeur a ses prisons que l’intelligence n’ouvre pas".
Et moi. La prisonnière.
Friday, 4 November 2011 @10:13
"He talked mainly about all the drugs he was on, their uses and contradictions. Saying their names seemed to calm him, as though he were uttering incantations: lorazepam, diazepam, chlorpromazine, chlordiazepoxide, haloperidol."
Contemporary magic: Valium, Prozac… A chemical spell to get through life, an attempt to charm and tame life’s monsters and shadows. Sometimes it works.
(I just loved Eugenides' new book, "The Marriage Plot". Mainly because I so loved Madeleine, who graduates worrying how she'll survive; hasn't she read too many Jane Austen and Edith Wharton? Yes, it's a book about the Incurably Romantic. Eugenides opens his book stealing a La Rochefoucauld quote: "People would never fall in love if they hadn't heard love talked about". And I wonder if romanticism isn't, nowadays, another spell, a spell we don't want to break)
Tuesday, 1 November 2011 @11:36
The dead are always looking down on us, they say,
while we are putting on our shoes or making a sandwich,
they are looking down through the glass-bottom boats of heaven
as they row themselves slowly through eternity.
They watch the tops of our heads moving below on earth,
and when we lie down in a field or on a couch,
drugged perhaps by the hum of a warm afternoon,
they think we are looking back at them,
which makes them lift their oars and fall silent
and wait, like parents, for us to close our eyes.
But today, at least today, we want to look back, hug them back, one last time, together, again.
Yes, I write. Yes, I believe in the magic of words. That’s why you’ll find me here, every Friday: Lisa “globish”!
I believe in the magic of words, and I believe Piazza Unità in Trieste, where I was born, is the most romantic square in the world. (And yes, it’s in Italy, proudly facing the sea). I love roses in every form. And, of course, I do love my blog, expecially now that I can carry it around on my iPhone.