The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.
Thomas Moore, beautiful.
ReplyDeleteThe real story is beautiful - of a man who lived by his words, not mourning loss of corporeal beauty. For thousands of others it's painfully insuperable - Faulkner's love affair with a 20 years old girl, when he was fifty, or Salinger pitiful borrowing of a woman's youth.
ReplyDeleteLesser men, greater writers?
Who's to tell what happened in his dreams, in his unruly thoughts. I can't curse the longing.