Showing posts with label Bagheera's world. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bagheera's world. Show all posts
Thursday, 20 July 2017
Friday, 1 January 2016
What is essential is invisible to the eye
The little prince went away, to look again at the roses.
"You are not at all like my rose," he said. "As yet you are nothing. No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one. You are like my fox when I first knew him. He was only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But I have made him my friend, and now he is unique in all the world."
And the roses were very much embarrassed.
"You are beautiful, but you are empty," he went on. "One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passer-by would think that my rose looked just like you--the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or ever sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose.
And he went back to meet the fox.
"Goodbye," he said.
"Goodbye," said the fox. "And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."
"What is essential is invisible to the eye," the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.
Wednesday, 30 December 2015
Tuesday, 4 August 2015
Once upon a time in Athens, #16
Riga Palamidou St., 05.04.2015
This mural by Smart, N_Grams and Alex Martinez pays homage to Loukanikos, the dog that always stood with protesters and against the riot police during demonstrations in Athens, and has sadly passed away. The writing on the bottom right corner characteristically reads 'we suffered tear gas together.' When TIME chose 'the protester' as its Person of the Year 2011, it included Loukanikos; the mural makes reference to his portrait photograph by Peter Hapak.
Thursday, 15 January 2015
Tuesday, 6 January 2015
And now let's get on with the digging
Suddenly Badger said, "Doesn't this worry you just a tiny bit, Foxy?"
"Worry me?" said Mr. Fox. "What?"
"All this . . . this stealing."
Mr. Fox stopped digging and stared at Badger as though he had gone completely dotty. "My dear old furry frump," he said, "do you know anyone in the whole world who wouldn't swipe a few chickens if his children were starving to death?"
There was a short silence while Badger thought deeply about this.
"You are far too respectable," said Mr. Fox.
"There's nothing wrong with being respectable," Badger said.
"Look," said Mr. Fox, "Boggis and Bunce and Bean are out to kill us. You realize that, I hope?"
"I do, Foxy, I do indeed," said the gentle Badger.
"But we're not going to stoop to their level. We don't want to kill them."
"I should hope not, indeed," said Badger.
"We wouldn't dream of it," said Mr. Fox. "We shall simply take a little food here and there to keep us and our families alive. Right?"
"I suppose we'll have to," said Badger.
"If they want to be horrible, let them," said Mr. Fox. "We down here are decent peace-loving people."
Badger laid his head on one side and smiled at Mr. Fox. "Foxy," he said, "I love you."
"Thank you," said Mr. Fox. "And now let's get on with the digging."
Roald Dahl, Fantastic Mr. Fox, Illustrated by Quentin Blake, New York: Puffin Books, 1970/1998, pp. 58-60, original emphasis
Thursday, 1 January 2015
Friday, 24 October 2014
Wednesday, 16 April 2014
Thursday, 10 April 2014
The Cats Will Know, by Cesare Pavese
Rain will fall again
on your smooth pavement,
a light rain like
a breath or a step.
The breeze and the dawn
will flourish again
when you return,
as if beneath your step.
Between flowers and sills
the cats will know.
There will be other days,
there will be other voices.
You will smile alone.
The cats will know.
You will hear words
old and spent and useless
like costumes left over
from yesterday’s parties.
You too will make gestures.
You’ll answer with words—
face of springtime,
you too will make gestures.
The cats will know,
face of springtime;
and the light rain
and the hyacinth dawn
that wrench the heart of him
who hopes no more for you—
they are the sad smile
you smile by yourself.
There will be other days,
other voices and renewals.
Face of springtime,
we will suffer at daybreak.
Tuesday, 4 March 2014
Not with those tears in your eyes
A homeless man attends to a stray dog while the police swarms behind them; this photograph was taken by Petros Giannakouris (AP) during a protest outside the Greek finance ministry in Athens on
27.09.2011. And it reminded me of another dog: Constance, or the dog of tears, in José Saramago's Blindness and Seeing; the following excerpt is from the latter (London: Vintage, transl. Margaret Jull Costa, 2007, p. 251):
The dog had come closer and was almost touching the superintendent's knees with its nose. It was looking at him and its eyes were saying, I won't hurt you, don't be afraid, she wasn't when I found her on that other day. Then the superintendent slowly reached out his hand and touched the dog's head. He felt like crying and letting the tears course down his face, perhaps the marvel will be repeated. The doctor's wife put her book away in her bag and said, Let's go, Where, asked the superintendent, You'll have lunch with us, won't you, if you've nothing more important to do, Are you sure, About what, That you want to have me sitting at your table, Yes, I'm sure, And you're not afraid I might be tricking you, Not with those tears in your eyes, no.
Tuesday, 10 December 2013
Wednesday, 23 October 2013
![[Wikipedia]](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Little_Prince#/media/File:Littleprince.JPG){kind=link}
Saturday, 19 October 2013
Ella Mason And Her Eleven Cats, by Sylvia Plath
Old Ella Mason keeps cats, eleven at last count,
In her ramshackle house off Somerset Terrace;
People make queries
On seeing our neighbor's cat-haunt,
Saying: ‘Something's addled in a woman who accommodates
That many cats.’
Rum and red-faced as a water-melon, her voice
Long gone to wheeze and seed, Ella Mason
For no good reason
Plays hostess to Tabby, Tom and increase,
With cream and chicken-gut feasting the palates
Of finical cats.
Village stories go that in olden days
Ella flounced about, minx-thin and haughty,
A fashionable beauty,
Slaying the dandies with her emerald eyes;
Now, run to fat, she's a spinster whose door shuts
On all but cats.
Once we children sneaked over to spy Miss Mason
Napping in her kitchen paved with saucers.
On antimacassars
Table-top, cupboard shelf, cats lounged brazen,
One gruff-timbred purr rolling from furred throats:
Such stentorian cats!
With poke and giggle, ready to skedaddle,
We peered agog through the cobwebbed door
Straight into yellow glare
Of guardian cats crouched round their idol,
While Ella drowsed whiskered with sleek face, sly wits:
Sphinx-queen of cats.
‘Look! there she goes, Cat-Lady Mason!’
We snickered as she shambled down Somerset Terrace
To market for her dearies,
More mammoth and blowsy with every season;
‘Miss Ella's got loony from keeping in cahoots
With eleven cats.’
But now turned kinder with time, we mark Miss Mason
Blinking green-eyed and solitary
At girls who marry—
Demure ones, lithe ones, needing no lesson
That vain jades sulk single down bridal nights,
Accurst as wild-cats.
In her ramshackle house off Somerset Terrace;
People make queries
On seeing our neighbor's cat-haunt,
Saying: ‘Something's addled in a woman who accommodates
That many cats.’
Rum and red-faced as a water-melon, her voice
Long gone to wheeze and seed, Ella Mason
For no good reason
Plays hostess to Tabby, Tom and increase,
With cream and chicken-gut feasting the palates
Of finical cats.
Village stories go that in olden days
Ella flounced about, minx-thin and haughty,
A fashionable beauty,
Slaying the dandies with her emerald eyes;
Now, run to fat, she's a spinster whose door shuts
On all but cats.
Once we children sneaked over to spy Miss Mason
Napping in her kitchen paved with saucers.
On antimacassars
Table-top, cupboard shelf, cats lounged brazen,
One gruff-timbred purr rolling from furred throats:
Such stentorian cats!
With poke and giggle, ready to skedaddle,
We peered agog through the cobwebbed door
Straight into yellow glare
Of guardian cats crouched round their idol,
While Ella drowsed whiskered with sleek face, sly wits:
Sphinx-queen of cats.
‘Look! there she goes, Cat-Lady Mason!’
We snickered as she shambled down Somerset Terrace
To market for her dearies,
More mammoth and blowsy with every season;
‘Miss Ella's got loony from keeping in cahoots
With eleven cats.’
But now turned kinder with time, we mark Miss Mason
Blinking green-eyed and solitary
At girls who marry—
Demure ones, lithe ones, needing no lesson
That vain jades sulk single down bridal nights,
Accurst as wild-cats.
See also:
Tuesday, 23 July 2013
Only love can be as perfect as that
Many musicians share their lives with cats, but I suppose few can sing to them as exquisitely as Patti Smith does in the following video; this is an excerpt from Steven Sebring's documentary film Patti Smith: Dream of Life.
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