They say I fake or liein everything I write.
No, its symply that
With me imagination
Feels - I don't use
The heart.
All I dream or go through,
All I fail or lose out
On, is like a terrace
Facing something else
Again. And that's the lovely
Thing.
It's why I write
Steeped in things not readily
At hand - free of emotions,
Serious about what isn't.
Feelings? That's the reader
Lot!
(1933 ?)
translated and edited by Edwin Honig and Susan M. Brown
2 Kommentare:
Ha.
Thanks!
I think the real reason that made me consider commenting on your blog is the fact that it's very hard for me to find people to talk to. And whenever I see a writer in the blogosphere or I sense that person is like-minded, I tend to think that we are going to send each other endless letters and that, in a way or another, I'll find some solace, I'll be able to understand a bit about myself by understanding the other.
I have this friend that I also met online a while ago, maybe one or two years. He is my Henry Miller. We talk and talk and talk and talk... Bad thing is that he is in Australia, but the good thing is that he understands me and sees me by what I am, this blob of anxiety and feelings hoping for release.
Maybe that's why I wrote you, because I heard echoes of myself in-between your sentences.
And, in a way or another, meeting people and finding interesting things to read is always a good activity.
Lemme get back to my translation. I still have 30 files to review and send. Today I'll die. I swear to you. I've been sitting in front of this monitor for... 10 hours and counting.
*grr...*
Okay for today? I hope so!
Well, I am going to leave you a feedback on this comment on your blogspot!
take care, A.
love
Ms Burden
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