shadow journal : max richter / tilda swinton

How enduring, how we need durability.
The sky before sunrise is soaked with light.
Rosy colour tints buildings, bridges, and the Seine.

I was here when she with whom I walk wasn’t born yet, and the cities on a distant plain stood intact, before they rose in the air with the dust of sepulchral brick, and the people who lived there didn’t know.

Only this moment, at dawn, is real to me.
The bygone lives are like my own past life, uncertain.
I cast a spell on the city, asking it to last.

Tilda Swinton reading Czseslaw Milosz, from Richter’s The Blue Notebooks

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Turn Turn Turn (Ecclesiastes / Pete Seeger)

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, a time to reap that which is planted;
A time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to refrain from embracing and time to embrace;
A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

A time to love, a time of peace, I declare it’s not too late.

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W G Sebald
The moral backbone of literature is about that whole question of memory. To my mind it seems clear that those who have no memory have the much greater chance to lead happy lives. But it is something you cannot possibly escape: your psychological make-up is such that you are inclined to look back over your shoulder. Memory, even if you repress it, will come back at you and it will shape your life. Without memories there wouldn’t be any writing: the specific weight an image or phrase needs to get across to the reader can only come from things remembered – not from yesterday but from a long time ago.