Citations sur The complete autobiography (10)
In my struggle to get my writing done I realised the obvious fact that the only certainty about writing and trying to be a write is that it has to be done, not dreamed of or planned and never written, or talked about (the ego eventually falls apart like a soaked sponge) but simply written; it's a dreary awful fact that writing is like any other work with the marvellous exception of the presence of the Mirror City and the constant journeys either of oneself or of the Envoy from Mirror City.
I always knew that the ’outward’ Dad was not the ´Inward’ Dad, and I felt pity for his inability to ally feelings with the right words instead of with words and actions seized in panic from an outer space of being human. There was such waste in his continued mockery.
What had we done to her, each of us, day after day, year after year, that we had washed away her evidence of self, all her own furniture from her own room, and crowded it with ourselves and our lives; or perhaps it was not a room but a garden that we cleared to plant ourselves deeply there, and now that we were removed, all her own blossoms had sprung up…
I was in hiding. I was grieving. I didn't want anyone to 'see,' for since I had been in hospital, I had found that people didn't only 'see,' they searched carefully.
I was an ordinary grey-feathered bird that spent its life flashing one or two crimson feathers at the world, adapting the feathers to suit the time of life. In my childhood I had displayed number riddles, memorizing long passages of verse and prose, mathematical answers; now, to suit the occasion, I wore my schizophrenic fancy dress.
My family appeared like tired ghosts trying to come to life for the occasion.
Some memories have been diluted, mostly by the storms that followed or were given; the colour of those memories has been washed away, their shape is gone
Although I had no means of knowing if other students lived in such innocence, I have since learned that many, in timidity and shyness and ignorance, lived as bizarre a life as I. I have heard of others who made detours along the bush-covered Town Belt to dispose of sanitary towels; and of one woman who spent her first week in a student hostel in darkness because she was too timid to ask for light bulb to be replaced, and she had no money to buy one. Our lives were frail, full of agonies of embarrassment and regret, of misunderstood communication and strong with the intense feeling of wonder at the torrent of ideas released by books, music, art, other people; it was a time of finding shelter among the mightily capitalled abstractions of Love, Life, Time, Age, Youth, Imagination.
I wrote in my diary, ’Dear Mr Ardenue, They think I’m going to be a schoolteacher, but I’m going to be a poet.‘
I remember a gray day when I stood by the gate and listened to the wind in the telegraph wires. I had my first conscious feeling of an outside sadness, or it seemed to come from outside, from the sound of the wind moaning in the wires. I looked up and down the white dusty road and saw no-one. The wind was blowing from place to place past us, and I was there, in between, listening. I felt a burden of sadness and loneliness as if something had happened or begun and I knew about it. I don't think I had yet though of myself as a person looking out at the world; until then, I felt I was the world. In listening to the wind and its sad song, I knew I was listening to a sadness that had no relation to me, which belonged to the world.
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Loup, où es-tu ?
Pour commencer, je vous propose un conte musical. Composé par Sergueï Prokofiev (1891-1953) il est destiné à faire connaître aux enfants les instruments de l'orchestre. Le jeune héros vit à la campagne avec son grand-père. Un jour, il laisse la porte du jardin ouverte : un canard profite de l'occasion pour aller nager dans la mare toute proche. Il se querelle avec un oiseau. À ce moment, un chat s'approche ; l'oiseau s'envole pour se réfugier dans un arbre. Le grand-père ramène le garçon à la maison en bougonnant et referme la porte car le loup pourrait surgir. C'est ce qui arrive sitôt la porte fermée : l'oiseau et le chat s'échappent dans les arbres mais le canard, pataud et se dandinant, est avalé par le loup. Dès que le grand-père est endormi, le garçon part chasser le loup..... Allez vite écouter
Pierre et le loup
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Thèmes :
littérature française
, littérature anglaise
, littérature allemande
, musique
, fablesCréer un quiz sur ce livre125 lecteurs ont répondu