Karl Kraus, The world is still burning.

In the empires bereft of imagination, where man is dying of spiritual starvation while not feeling spiritual hunger, where pens are dipped in blood and swords in ink, that which is not thought must be done, but that which is only thought is inexpressible. Expect from me no word of my own. Nor should I be capable of saying anything new; for in the room where someone writes the noise is so great, and whether it comes from the animals, from children, or merely from mortars shall not be decided now. He who addresses deeds violates both word and deed and is twice despicable. This profession is not extinct. Those who now have nothing to say because it is the turn of deeds to speak, talk on. Let him who has something to say step forward and be silent!» Dette er poesi.

Je suis a Berlin. Tout seul. J’ecris. J’ecoute de la musique. Regarde les gens. Le ciel est bleu, mais il fait froid. Comme hiver, mais pas totalment. J’ai bu un café, un café noir, normal, extraordinaire. J’ai faim. Est-ce que je cantant ici, a Berlin, maintenant, aujourd’hui? Et aujourd'hui? Et aujourd'hui?

Liebe macht mich so wahnsinnig geistlos! At the toiletwall in a timeworn café in Prenzlauer Berg.

I must keep the fervency even if I am in a big city. I must live with all my senses open (even if that is a cliché).

sehnsucht=lengsel=yearning
wahrheit=sannhet=truth

Nietzsche: What then is truth? A moveable host of metaphors, metonymies and anthromorphisms: in short, a sum of human relations which have been poetically and rhetorically intensified, transferred, and embellished, and which, after long usage, seem to people to be fixed, canonical, and binding.

Truths are illusions which we have forgotten are illusions; they are metaphors which have become worn out and have been drained of sensuous force, coins which have lost their embossing and are now considered as metal and no longer as coins.

«The humanities teach us humanity. After the centuries-long christian night, the humanities give us back our beauty, our human beauty. That was what you forgot to say. That is what the Greeks teach us, Blanche, the right Greeks. Think about it.»

Coetzee: Elizabeth Costello

The struggle of people against power, is the struggle of memory against forgetting. (The words of Milan Kundera, in the voice of John Pilger).

Outside of the window the brownish grey building almost grow outwards, distinct and massive against the blue background which is the sky. Later I walked noch einmal about, the streets were grey from melting snow, grey from drain. To be away from home does something to me; I see the people, they pop-out and possess a potential depth I completely closed myself from in Trh, or in Norway. Everywhere I pass potential friends, and every one of them walk alone; human beings loose their mystical lustre when they enter into plural, if one can say that? Because they thereby close themselves in that unity wherein they circumvent, instead of in themselves? Because they thereby play a game, unrelentingly adapt, become something else and radiate this?

Cancíon del Jinete

Córdoba
Lejana y sola

Jaca negra, luna grande,
y aceitunas en mi alforja
Aunque sepa los caminos
yo nunca llegaré a Córdoba

Por el llano, por el viento
jaca negra, luna roja.
La muerte me está mirando
desde las torres de Córdoba.

¡Ay qué camino tan largo!
¡Ay mi jaca valerosa!
¡Ay, que la muerte me espera,
antes de llegar a Córdoba!

Córdoba.
Lejana y sola.

Federico Garcia Lorca