Only the ash trees have changed,
fully changed. The photo is the babiest maple who is almost there. The east ash I see out this window this moment, and it is a bristling orangen gold against a lavender sky. I pulled back the curtains as far as they would go, I pulled the blinds up and up, and now I want to take out all the glass to see it better. Why do I love colours with all my heart? I don't know.
2 comments:
I like the pics of nature you post (including pokeberry warpaint on fur).
Good question there. I have some months trying to find a translation of a book by Goethe about colour theory. However, is not needed to know why...
Borges introduced me to this quote of Chesterton:
Man knows that there are in the soul tints more bewildering, more numberless, and more nameless that the colors of an autumn forest... Yet he seriously believes that these things can every one of them, in all their tones and semi-tones, in all their blends and unions, be accurately represented by an arbitrary system of grunts and squeals. He believes that an ordinary civilized stockbroker can really produce out of his own inside noises which denote all the mysteries of memory and all the agonies of desire.
I always attached it, in particular, to literature in relation with the deepness of the soul, of course; but also by minimizing the power of the word, it relates to any other kind of art, by praising it. Chesterton loved painting and music: "Life exists for the love of music or beautiful things."
His distrust of the value of the word never deny him the privilege of being one of the best writers ever.
I love Chesterton and I love that quote, tints more bewildering. Thank you, C.
C II
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