But enough of phenomenology; it is nothing more than the solitary, endless monologue of consciousness, a hard-core autism that no real cat would ever importune.
At times like this you desperately need Art. You seek to reconnect with your spiritual illusions, and you wish fervently that something might rescue you from your biological destiny, so that all poetry and grandeur will not be cast out from the world.
And I wonder how well I myself can see.
I had a brief glimpse of a frail, mature man carrying a ravaged child in his arms...
God appeases our animal fears and the unbearable prospect that someday all our pleasures will cease.
Degustare e’ un atto di piacere, raccontare questo piacere e’ un fatto artistico, ma l’unica vera opera d’arte, in definitiva, e’ il banchetto di un’altro.
I barboni non sono mica tutti socialisti, e la poverta’ non rende per niente rivoluzionari.
Tutti pensano che i bambini non sanno niente. Viene da chiedersi se i grandi sono stati mai bambini.
In our world, that’s the way you live your grown-up life: you must constantly rebuild your identity as an adult, the way it’s been put together it is wobbly, ephemeral, and fragile, it cloaks despair and, when you’re alone in front of the mirror, it tells you the lies you need to believe.
We can be friends. We can be anything we want to be.
As always, I am saved by the inability of living creatures to believe anything that might cause the walls of their little mental assumptions to crumble.
Talent consists not in inventing shapes but in causing those that were invisible to emerge.
With the exception of love, friendship and the beauty of art, I don’t see much else that can nurture human life.
People think that children don’t know anything. It’s enough to make you wonder if grownups were ever children once upon a time.
Life has meaning and we grown-ups know what it is is the universal lie that everyone is supposed to believe. Once you become an adult and you realize that’s not true, it’s too late.
I may know that the world is an ugly place, I still don’t want to see it.
As a child I often wondered whether I would be allowed to live such moments- to inhabit the slow, majestic ballet of the snowflakes, to be released at last from the dreary frenzy of time. Is that what it feels to be naked? All one’s clothes are gone, yet one’s mind is overladen with finery.
As far as I can see, only psychoanalysis can compete with Christians in their love of drawn-out suffering.
Because beauty consits of it’s own passing, just as we reach for it. It’s the ephemeral configuration of things in the moment, when you can see both their movement and their death.
Just as teardrops, when they are large and round and compassionate, can leave a long strand washed clean of discord, the summer rain as it washes away the motionless dust can bring to a person’s soul something like endless breathing.