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I SHALL FOREVER BE REPROBATED
BY THIS DAZZLED WORLD
THAT WILL NEVER COMPREHEND
THE ABSOLUTE BLISS
THAT YOU BESTOW UPON ME,
NUMENS THAT PROFOUNDLY MOAN.
Frühlingsnacht, S. 568/R. 256: Überm Garten durch die Lüfte, Robert Schumann, Franz Liszt.
Polyanthea: from the Greek πολυανθής, polyanthḗs, «of many flowers».
Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky was born 200 years ago, on the 11th of November of 2021, but it was not until 2 days ago, on the 9th of November of 2021, that I read one of his books, «White nights». Reading it made me feel again that magic exists in the world, even if it is tragic, because, somehow, what just happened in my life, was precisely what the book said.
As I finished reading it, I could not avoid shedding some tears, as I realised that I am the dreamer, trapped forever in the last page of this story.
My God! A whole minute of bliss! Is that really so little for the whole of a man’s life?White nights, Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky .
The 29th of October of 2021
Early Leives morning, fire on my mind
Wake up! You are tired, but it does not matter, a loud alarm is sounding in the hall. It is 3 am, but you are not dreaming, this is not an alcoholic hallucination. Walk swiftly and barefooted to the door, look at those kids that are photographing themselves dancing to the rhythm of the alarm.
—Put on your shoes, and run out of the building! It is the fire alarm!
You are not dreaming, this is not an alcoholic hallucination.Continue reading A Friday in Leuven
You were mine,
you didn’t love me then,
tea or coffee,
you said you loved me,
What am I gonna do?
I can’t say goodbye.
Look at us now,
centre of my little world.
The business of chicken
5 ante meridiem, the crowing of the cockerel wakes thee up, that electronic crowing that sounds every morning to take thee out of the wonderful world of dreams and bring thee back to this one, the world of labour, the world of feeling tired for hours, then having fun for a few more, and then falling exhausted into bed, until the digital cockerel crow again, and the cycle repeat itself.
Through thy mouth slips thy breakfast, so fast that thou canst not savour it, thou knowst that if thou dost not hurry thou shalt not arrive in time to the central market of the city, the other poultrymen will hoard the best produce and only the chickens at the bottom, the smashed ones, the ugly ones, the difficult to sell, will be left.Continue reading The daring poulterer 1
WHAT ARE THOSE DÉMODÉ BOOKS
THAT THOU LIKEST TO READ AND TO STUDY SO MUCH?
BECAUSE I WANT VERY MUCH TO ASK THEM SOMETHING:
HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE READ BY THEE?
HOW SPLENDID IS IT TO BE SUDDENLY
CHOSEN AND HELD BY THY HANDS,
CARESSED BY THY VERY SENSUAL FINGERS,
AND OGLED BY THY EYES, EVERYWHERE?
LINE BY LINE, LETTER BY LETTER
OH WHAT AUDACITY! ECSTATIC EUPHORIA!
HOW TO SURVIVE TO SUCH ENRAPTURING ALLURANCE?
HOW IS IT THAT IN THY WARM AND TENDER HANDS,
IN THE MIDST OF LECTURE —VERA VICTORIA!—,
THE BOOKS DO NOT SPONTANEOUSLY BURN, CONTENT?
The ideal of the renaissance was to be polymath, to learn from the world in all its aspects, and to enjoy it in the same way: to make music, to make poetry, to make mathematics, to make philosophy, all during the same life. The contemporary ideal of having money, of being financially independent, of drinking alcohol, of having a monotonous job, of wasting time doing silly things because one has not energy anymore because the work or the studies – which one does only to be able to obtain a job and money afterwards – have taken all energy away, is it better? Do you think we are better now?!