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There are pieces of this and pieces of that, but none of it fits together. And yet, very strangely, at the limit of all this chaos, everything begins to fuse again. A pulverized apple and a pulverized orange are finally the same thing, aren’t they? You can’t tell the difference between a good dress and a bad dress if they’re both turn to shreds, can you? At a certain point, things disintegrate into muck, or dust, or scraps, and what you have is something new, some particle or agglomeration of matter that cannot be identified. It is a clump, a mote, a fragment of the world that as no place: a cipher of it-ness.
Paul Auster














Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.

(...)























(...)
Garlic and sapphires in the mud
Clot the bedded axle-tree.
The trilling wire in the blood
Sings below inveterate scars
Appeasing long forgotten wars.
The dance along the artery
The circulation of the lymph
Are figured in the drift of stars
Ascend to summer in the tree
We move above the moving tree
In light upon the figured leaf
And hear upon the sodden floor
Below, the boarhound and the boar
Pursue their pattern as before
But reconciled among the stars.
At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time













The inner freedom from the practical desire,
The release from action and suffering, release from the inner
And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded
By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,
Erhebung without motion, concentration
Without elimination, both a new world
And the old made explicit, understood
In the completion of its partial ecstasy,
The resolution of its partial horror.
Yet the enchainment of past and future
Woven in the weakness of the changing body,
Protects mankind from heaven and damnation
Which flesh cannot endure.
Time past and time future
Allow but a little consciousness.
To be conscious is not to be in time
But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,
The moment in the arbour where the rain beat,
The moment in the draughty church at smokefall
Be remembered; involved with past and future.


Only through time time is conquered.















































"If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles"
Mark Strand, The Monument








As they duel
TULLIUS Because victory (attacking) – is a melodrama, and defeat (attacking again) - is a melodrama (retreating under counter-attack from Publius). Retreat is a melodrama, and so is suicide. Time, Publius, is a great teacher of style... (attacking)
PUBLIUS So then, what (defending) is not melodrama?
TULLIUS For example... (attacking) fencing. (stepping back) This moving back and forth on stage. Like a pendulum. Anything that does not heighten the tone... is art. Anything that does not imitate life but just goes tick-tock ... anything that is monotonous... anything that does not crow like a rooster ... The more monotonous a things is, the closer it is to truth.
PUBLIUS (throwing down his sword)Touché! But in this way you could go on and on until the end of the world.
TULLIUS (continuing to slash at the air with his sword) And during. And after. And after the after and the after and the after... Until the first blood is drawn. Or the second blood is drawn. Until – the last – drop – of -blood...That–iswhy–people -fight- Uff...
Iosif Brodskij, Marbles 




























































...Nothing must stand
Between you and the shape you take
When the crust of shape has been destroyed.
You as you are? You are yourself.
It has been necessary to submit to vacancy in order to begin
again, to clear ground, to make space. I can allow nothing to be
received. Therein lies my triumph and my mediocrity. Nothing is
the destiny of everyone, it is our commonness made dumb. I am
passing it on. The Monument is a void, artless and everlasting.
What I was I am no longer: I speak for nothing, the nothing that
I am, the nothing that is this work. And you shall perpetuate me
not in the name of what I was, but in the name of what I am.

Mark Strand, The Monument