He recalls his childhood, parents, grandparents, a mysterious woman’s ghost, books, moments of love, dark pages of history… Only when they are become the very blood within us, our every look and gesture, nameless and no longer distinguishable from our inmost self, only then, in the rarest of hours, can the first word of a poem arise in their midst and go out from among them. For it is not the memories in themselves that are of consequence. One has to be able to forget them, if there are a great many, and one must have great patience, to wait for their return. Malte Laurids Brigge recalls everything that can be recalled and writes his impressions down…Īnd it is not yet enough to have memories. There is a place within me of which I knew nothing. Why, I cannot say, but all things enter more deeply into me nor do the impressions remain at the level where they used to cease. The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge resembles a series of impressionistic paintings…
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |