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

Duende.

The duende, then, is a power, not a work. It is a struggle, not a thought. I have heard an old maestro of the guitar say, 'The duende is not in the throat; the duende climbs up inside you, from the soles of the feet.' Meaning this: it is not a question of ability, but of true, living style, of blood, of the most ancient culture, of spontaneous creation.

Everything that has black sounds in it, has duende.

This ‘mysterious power which everyone senses and no philosopher explains' is, in sum, the spirit of the earth, the same duende that scorched the heart of Nietzsche, who searched in vain for its external forms on the Rialto Bridge and in the music of Bizet, without knowing that the duende he was pursuing had leaped straight from the Greek mysteries to the dancers of Cadiz or the beheaded, Dionysian scream of Silverio's siguiriya.

Federico García Lorca

24.february: An art that envelop and reveal, that opens up and shows what is hidden behind the weil. Then the same struggle exists also today, as for thousands of years ago;
peoples desolateness in a world abonded by God, a world gone off the tracks because we are unable to interpret the signs.

Og tenk på det, aldri er man noe sted uten å være i et navn, uten å være i et område med et navn, på et fjell med et navn, i en by med et navn - alltid befinner man seg i et eller annet ord som er funnet på av andre, som man aldri har sett og som forlengst er glemt, et navn som en gang ble skrevet for første gang. Vi er alltid i ord.

Cees Nooteboom: Omvei Santiago