Parole

 

"Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood                     
Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green one red."
— Macbeth (Act 2, Scene 2)

"Potrà mai l'oceano del grande Nettuno

lavare questo sangue dalle mie mani?

No, piuttosto questa mia mano arrosserà

la distesa innumerevole dei mari, facendo del verde un unico rosso." 

“Sono - le parole - quanto di più selvaggio, libero, irresponsabile esista…”

Le parole vanno difese, sono in via di estinzione, non perché non vengono più utilizzate ma perché masticate e rimasticate con violenza fino a far perdere loro identità, significato. L’anima delle parole fatica a respirare soffocata dagli abusi della contemporaneità. 

“… Solo un grande poeta sa che la parola “vermiglio” appartiene a “innumerevoli mari”….

Qui il testo completo della trasmissione:

https://www.libreriadelledonne.it/letture/virginia-woolf-alla-radio-larte-delle-parole/

"They are - the words - the most savage, free, irresponsible that exists..."

Words must be defended, they are in danger of extinction, not because they are no longer used but because they are chewed and rehashed with violence until they lose their identity, meaning. The soul of words struggles to breathe suffocated by the abuses of contemporaneity.

“... Only a great poet knows that the word "vermilion" belongs to "countless

Here the full text:

https://www.libreriadelledonne.it/letture/virginia-woolf-alla-radio-larte-delle-parole/

2 maggio 1886

 

Mediterranean

Oh, from the archipelagos,

There in the orange smell

Even the rubble carries themselves without tears and curse,

Flows in the northern gloom, fog and Niflheim,

Runes and lure whispers Mediterranean rhyme:

Finally, in the limitless, truth and whale are united, 

as in the ashes of roses, the pebble slumbers, titanium,

But yours is the walking, yours is the limit, the time, 

believe in the ages, don't ford're it too far,

From its half grief, heavy in roses and rubble, create the things duration -, 

it flows from the Mediterranean.

MAGGIO

Floating 

… And you feel then, 

even if they keep saying you can halt 

halfway or on the high seas, 

that there is no rest for us, 

but road, still road,

and always the journey 

to begin again.

Eugenio Montale 

 

Henri Michaux “ Passaggi”

 

Henri Michaux, Passages 1937 - 1963

A CERTAIN PHENOMENON CALLED MUSIC

The child, who has played with things for so long, with sand, with water, what will remain in him later of his power to play?

As an accomplished adult, the mammal no longer plays, or so little. In man, however, being with slow development, the game finely insinuated, having had time to become important, cunning to survive other than in tracks, and sometimes seeks and finds, in the midst of adult behaviour, a new playful organisation.

... There is what is called music.

It is also about waves, very small and to play with, not certainly by receiving them on wet feet but only, so tiny they are, in the deepest part of the ear that receives them vibrant and like a Secret. Invisible, they arrive in circular lines, which will soon surround it as if they came from everywhere, and in a huge tank keep it bathed.

These tiny waves relieve things, the unbearable "solid state" of the world, all the consequences of this state, its structures, its insluevable masses, its harsh laws.

They know how to do the night on the object, and on the beings when they have become like objects. They can disembody the flesh, abstract the concrete, de-problematise the situation. We breathe, we will relive, everything else forgotten, the good flood having returned to cover the earth that the geometry, the walls, the ugliness and the countless undesirable encumbered, which had been stuffed there and that it would have taken at least three wars and as many revolutions to eliminate, and not so well as this simple and prodigious cover will do.

Music, a wonder that surely preceded the fire. We needed it otherwise.